4. CAT IN THE DARK

1

THE CAT crouched in darkness beneath the library desk, her tabby stripes mingled with the shadows, her green eyes flashing light, her tail switching impatiently as she watched the last patrons linger around the circulation counter. Did humanshaveto dawdle, wasting their time and hers? Whatwasit about closing hour that made people so incredibly slow?

Above her the library windows were black, and out in the night the oaks’ ancient branches twisted against the glass, the moon’s rising light reflecting along their limbs and picking out the rooftops beyond. The time was nine-fifteen. Time to turn out the lights. Time to leave these hallowed rooms to her. Would people never leave? She was so irritated she almost shouted at them to get lost, that this was her turf now.

Beyond the table and chair legs, out past the open door, the library’s front garden glowed waxen in the moonlight, the spider lilies as ghostly pale as the white reaching fingers of a dead man. Three women moved out into the garden along the stone path, beneath the oak trees’ dark shelter, heading toward the street; behind them, Mavity Flowers hurried out toting her heavy book bag, her white maid’s uniform as bright as moonstruck snow, her gray, wiry hair ruffled by the sea wind. Her white polyester skirt was deeply wrinkled in the rear from sitting for nearly an hour delving through the romance novels, choosing half a dozen unlikely dreams in which to lose herself. Dulcie imagined Mavity hastening home to her tiny cottage, making herself a cup of tea, getting comfy, maybe slipping into her bathrobe and putting her feet up for an evening’s read-for a few hours’ escape and pleasure after scrubbing and vacuuming all day in other people’s houses.

Mavity was a dear friend of Dulcie’s housemate; she and Wilma had known each other since elementary school, more than fifty years. Wilma was the tall one, strong and self-sufficient, while Mavity was such a small person, so wrinkled and frail-looking that people treated her as if she should be watched over-even if she did work ashard as a woman half her age. Mavity wasn’t a cat lover, but she and Dulcie were friends. She always stroked Dulcie and talked to her when she stopped by Wilma’s; Mavity told Dulcie she was beautiful, that her chocolate-dark stripes were as lovely as mink, that Dulcie was a very special cat.

But the little lady had no idea how special. The truth would have terrified her. The notion that Dulcie had read (and found tedious) most of the stories that she, herself, was toting home tonight, would have shaken Mavity Flowers right down to her scruffy white oxfords.

Through the open front door, Dulcie watched Mavity hurry to the corner and turn beneath the yellow glow of the streetlamp to disappear down the dark side street into a tunnel of blackness beneath a double row of densely massed eucalyptus trees. But within the library, seven patrons still lingered.

And from the media room at the back, four more dawdlers appeared, their feet scuffing along inches from Dulcie’s nose-silk-clad ankles in stilted high heels, a boy’s bony bare feet in leather sandals, a child’s little white shoes and lace-ruffled white socks following Mama’s worn loafers. And all of them as slow as cockroaches in molasses, stopping to examine the shelved books and flip through the racked magazines. Dulcie, hunching against the carpet, sighed and closed her eyes. Dawdling was acat’sprerogative, humans didn’t have the talent. Only a cat could perform that slow, malingering dance, thehalf-in-half-out-the-doorroutine, with the required insolence and grace.

She was not often so rude in her assessment of human frailties. During the daytime hours, she was a model of feline amenity, endlessly obliging to the library patrons, purring for them and smiling when the old folks and children petted and fussed over her, and she truly loved them. Being official library cat was deeply rewarding. And at home with Wilma she considered herself beautifully laid-back; she and Wilma had a lovely life together. But when night fell, when the dark winds shook the oaks and pines and rattled the eucalyptus leaves, her patina of civilization gave way and the ancient wildness rose in her, primitive passions took her-and a powerful and insatiable curiosity drove her. Now, eager to get on with her own agenda, she was stifled not only by lingering humans but was put off far more by the too-watchful gaze of the head librarian.

Jingling her keys, Freda Brackett paced before the circulation desk as sour-faced as a bad-tempered possum and as impatient for people to leave as was Dulcie herself-though for far different reasons. Freda couldn’t wait to be free of the books and their related routines for a few hours, while Dulcie couldn’t wait to get at the thousands of volumes, as eager as a child waiting to be alone in the candy store.

Freda had held the position of head librarian for two months. During that time, she had wasted not an ounce of love on the library and its contents, on the patrons, or on anyone or anything connected with the job. But what could you expect of a political appointee?

The favorite niece of a city council member, Freda had been selected over several more desirable applicants among the library’s own staff. Having come to Molena Point from a large and businesslike city library, she ran this small, cozy establishment in the same way. Her only objective was to streamline operations until the Molena Point Library functioned as coldly and impersonally as the institution she had abandoned. In just two months the woman’s rigid rules had eaten away at the warm, small-village atmosphere like a rat demolishing last night’s cake.

She discouraged the villagers from using the library as a meeting place, and she tried to deter any friendliness among the staff. Certainly she disapproved of librarians being friends with the patrons-an impossibility in a small town. Her rules prevented staff from performing special favors for any patron and she even disapproved of helping with book selection and research, the two main reasons for library service.

And as for Dulcie, an official library cat was an abomination. A cat on the premises was as inappropriate and unsanitary as a dog turd on Freda’s supper plate.

But a political appointee didn’t have to care about the job, they were in it only for the money or prestige. If they loved their work they would have excelled at it and thus been hired on their own merits. Political appointees were, in Dulcie’s opinion, always bad news. Just last summer a police detective who was handed hisjob by the mayor created near disaster in the village when he botched a murder investigation.

Dulcie smiled, licking her whiskers.

Detective Marritt hadn’t lasted long, thanks to some quick paw-work. She and Joe Grey, moving fast, had uncovered evidence so incriminating that the real killer had been indicted, and Detective Marritt had been fired-out on the street. A little feline intervention had made him look like mouse dirt.

She wished they could do the same number on Freda.

Behind the circulation desk, Dulcie’s housemate, Wilma Getz, moved back and forth arranging books on the reserve shelf, her long, silver hair bound back with a turquoise clip, her white turtleneck sweater and black blazer setting off to advantage her slim, faded jeans. The two women were about the same age, but Wilma had remained lithe and fresh, while Freda looked dried-up and sharp-angled and sour-and her clothes always smelled of mothballs. Dulcie, watching the two women, did not expect what was coming.

“Get your cat, Wilma. You are to take it home with you tonight.”

“She’s all right inside-she’ll go out later through her cat door.”

“You will take it home with you. I don’t want it here at night. There’s too much possibility of damage. Animals have no place in a library. You are fortunate that, so far, I have allowed it to remain during the day.”

Wilma laid aside the books she was arranging and fixed Freda with a level look.“Dulcie is not a destructive cat. Her manners, as you should have observed, are impeccable.”

“No cat can be trusted. You have no way to know what it might do. You will take it home with you.”

Dulcie, peering from the shadows, dug her claws hard into the carpet-she’d like to tear it to shreds. Or tear Freda to shreds, flay her like a cornered rat. She imagined Freda as a hunting trophy, the woman’s head mounted over the circulation desk like the deer head over Morrie’s Bar.

Wilma picked up her purse.“Dulcie has a right to be here. Sheisthe library cat. She was appointed by the mayor and she is of great value to us. Have you forgotten that her presence has doubled the children’s book circulation?”

“That is such a ridiculous notion. The library is a center for sophisticated research tools, Ms. Getz. It is not a petting zoo.”

“This is a small village library, Freda. It is geared to patrons who want to spend a few pleasant hours.”

“Even if that were its purpose, what does that have to do with acat?”

“Our patrons like having a little cat to pet and to talk to.” Wilma gave Freda a gentle smile. “You’ve seen the statistics. Dulcie has brought in patrons who never came to the library before, and who are now regulars.”

“Ms. Getz, the city hired me to run a library, not an animal shelter. There is absolutely no precedent for?”

“You know quite well there is precedent. Do you think the libraries that keep a cat are run by idiots? There are library cats all across the country, and every one of them is credited with large increases in circulation. Do you think the librarians in El Centro and Hayward and Hood River, in Niagara Falls, Fort Worth, and in a dozen other states would bother to keep a library cat if the cat did not perform a valuable service?”

“Very likely those libraries have a mouse problem and were forced to keep a cat. You are truly paranoid about this foolishness. I would hope your reference work is of a more scholarly?”

Wilma folded her hands loosely in front of her, a gesture Dulcie knew well when Wilma longed to punch someone.“Why don’tyoudoyourresearch, Freda? Library cats date at least as far back as the eighteen-hundreds, not only here but in England and Italy. There have been nonfiction books published on the library cat, a videotape is now being produced, and at least one thesis has been written on the subject-to say nothing of the Library Cat Society, which is anationalorganization of librarians and library cat supporters.”

Beneath the reference desk, Dulcie smiled. Wilma hadn’t spent thirty years putting down pushy federal parolees for nothing.

“Since Dulcie came,” Wilma reminded Freda, “our children’s reading program has grown so popular we’ve had to start three new groups-because of Dulcie. She draws out the shy children, and when new children come in to pet her, very often they discover a brand-new love for books. And they adore having her with them during story hour, snuggling among the cushions.”

Dulcie wanted to cheer, to do a little cat-dance to thank Wilma-but as Freda turned away, the expression on the woman’s face made Dulcie back deeper under the desk, an icy shiver passing over her.

If she had been an ordinary cat, Wilma would take her away for her own safety, because who knew what Freda might do? How could an ordinary cat fathom the lengths Freda Brackett might go to, to get rid of her?

But Dulcie was not ordinary. She was quite aware of the woman’s malice and, despite Wilma’s worries, she knew how to keep out of Freda’s way.

Freda, turning her back on Wilma, motioned her assistant to put out the lights. Bernine Sage hurried out from the book stacks, heading for the electrical switches behind the circulation desk, her smoothly coiled red hair gleaming in the overhead light, her slim black suit describing exactly Bernine’s businesslike attitude. She was not a librarian but a computer expert and a bookkeeper-a perfect choice as Freda’s assistant, to bring the backward village institution into the twenty-first century. Bernine, during the exchange between Freda and Wilma, had stood in the shadows as alert as an armed guard ready to support her superior.

Bernine and Wilma had known each other for many years; Bernine was, as far as she could be, Wilma’s friend. But friendship ended where her bread was buttered.

Dulcie’s own relationship with Bernine was one of a fear far more complicated than her wariness of Freda Brackett. Bernine Sage had acquired her dislike of cats in an unusual way, and she knew too much about certain kinds of cats. If she got started on Celtic history and the ancient, speaking cats, andbegan spilling her theories to Freda and quoting mythology, she could set Ms. Brackett off in a frightening new direction. A real witch-hunt-cat hunt-focused on her; though she was neither witch nor witch’s cat, Dulcie thought demurely.

But what shewascould be no less terrifying to an unsympathetic and unimaginative human.

Now, as Bernine threw the switches for the overhead lights, the library rooms dimmed to a soft glow where a few desk lamps still burned, and the last patrons headed out. But Wilma glanced across the room to Dulcie, her message as clear as if she had spoken: She would not take Dulcie home-she would not give in to Freda. But her look implored Dulcie to go on out and let the woman cool down. Her gaze said clearly that she wouldn’t sleep unless she knew Dulcie was safe.

Within the shadows, Dulcie blinked her eyes slowly, trying to look compliant, trying to ease her friend.

But she had no intention of leaving. Crouched on the carpet, her tail switching, she waited impatiently as Freda and Bernine, and then Wilma, moved toward the door. Bernine paused to throw the last switch, and the desk lamps went dark, casting the room into blackness. For an instant Dulcie was blind, but before the dead bolt slid home her night vision kicked in and the darkness turned transparent, the tables and chairs reemerged, and across the book-lined walls, the blowing shadows of the oaks swam and shivered.

Alone. At last she was alone.

Trotting out from beneath the desk, she leaped to its top and spun, chasing her tail, then flew to the floor again and hit the carpet running, racing through the reading rooms under tables and desks, tearing through moonlight and shadow. Around her, the darkened rooms seemed larger, as if the daytime walls had melted away into wind-tossed space. Leaping to a bookshelf, she pawed down a claw-marked volume. With a soft thud it hit the carpet.

Carrying it in her teeth, she sprang to a table where the moon’s light shone brightest. Pawing the book open, she soon was wandering Africa, prowling the open grasslands, her nostrils filled with the sharp scent of wildebeest and antelope, and around her the African night reeled away to mountains so tall they vanished among the stars. Feasting on gazelle, she raced across grassy plains so vast that if Molena Point were set down there, it would seem only a child’s toy village. Roaring and chuffing, she was a leopard padding among clay huts terrifying sleeping humans, leaving gigantic pawprints in the dust for unlucky hunters to follow. And when at last she was overwhelmed by Africa’s immense spaces, she turned to the close, confining alleys of tenth-century England, to tales of narrow medieval streets.

But too soon those tales turned dark. Hecate wooed her. Evil beckoned to her. She blundered into stories of witches in cat-form and of cat familiars. Medieval humans stalked her, folk terrified by the sight of a cat and wanting only to kill it. Trapped by that era of cruelty, she was sucked down into darkness, unable to shake the bloody and horror-ridden images. These stories were nothing like the gentler, Celtic dramas that she liked to browse through when ancient peoples, taking cat-form, wandered down to a netherworld beneath the soft green hills, when the magical race that was kin to both man and cat could take the shape of either. When that ancient tribe of speaking cats to which she and Joe belonged-and of which they might be nearly the last survivors-had been understood and loved by the Celts. Unable to rid herself of the darker visions, she backed away from the open book, slashing at the offending volume, almost bereft of her reason.

Then she whirled away to crouch at the edge of the table, shocked at her own loss of control.

What am I doing? There is nothing here, only stories. Words on a page, nothing more. That evil time is gone, ages gone. Why am I crouching here trembling like a terrified hunk of cat fur? What set me off like that, to nearly lose myself?Shivering, she felt almost as if someone had fixed dark thoughts on her. Lashing her tail, disgusted by her pointless fear, by her sudden failure of spirit, she leaped to the floor and fled through Wilma’s office and out her cat door into the night, into the soft and welcoming night, into Molena Point’s safe and moonlit night.

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IN THE BEDROOM of the white Cape Cod cottage, moonlight shone through the open windows and a fitful breeze fingered across the bed, teasing the ears of the tomcat who slept curled in the blankets, his muscular body gleaming as sleek as gray velvet. Beside him on the double bed, his human housemate snored softly, clutching the pillow for warmth, unaware that Joe Grey had clawed away the covers into a comfortable and exclusive nest. Clyde, naked and chilled, was too deep in sleep to wake and retrieve the blankets, but Joe Grey stirred as the breeze quickened, his white paws flexed and his nose lifted, catching an elusive scent.

He woke fully, staring toward the open window, drawing his lips back in a grimace at the stink he detected on the cool night air.

Tomcat.

The smell that came to him on the ocean breeze was the rank odor of an unknown tom-a stranger in the village.

Joe might not encounter a village torn for months, but he knew each one, knew what routes he favored and which pals he hung out with, by the scent marks left on storefronts and tree trunks, aromas as individual as hand-lettered placards stating name and residence. He knew the smell of every cat in Molena Point, but this one was exotic and foreign.

Joe tolerated the regular village toms, because how could he not? Without some degree of civility, life would degenerate into a succession of endless and meaningless battles. One restrained oneself until the prize was greatest, until a queen in heat ruled the night-then it was war, bloody and decisive.

But no amount of civilized restraint among the village toms left room for strangers on their turf.

This could be a stray from the wharf who had decided to prowl among the shops, or maybe some tourist’s cat; whatever the case, he didn’t like the intruder’s belligerent, testosterone-heavy message. The beast’s odor reeked of insolence and of a bold and dark malaise-a hotly aggressive, sour aroma. The cat smelled like trouble.

In the moon’s glow, the cottage bedroom was lent a charm not apparent in the daytime. A plain room, it was suited to a simple bachelor’s spartan tastes, comfortable but shabby, the pine dresser and pine nightstand sturdily made and ugly, the ladder-back chair old and scarred. But now, in the moonlight, the unadorned white walls were enlivened by the shifting shadows of the oak trees that spread just outside the window, their knotted patterns softening the room’s stark lines and offering a sense of mystery and depth. And beside the bed, a thick, ruby-toned Persian rug added a single touch of luxury, gleaming like jewels in the moonlight-a tender and extravagant gift from one of Clyde’s former lovers.

Pawing free of the confining bedcovers, Joe Grey walked heavily across the bed and across Clyde’s stomach and dropped down to the thick, soft rug. Clyde, grunting, raised up and glared at him.

“Why the hell do you do that? You’re heavy as a damned moose!”

Joe smiled and dug his claws into the rug’s silky pile.

Clyde’s black hair was wild from sleep, his cheeks dark with a day’s growth of stubble. A line of black grease streaked his forehead, residue from the innards of some ailing Rolls Royce or Mercedes.

“You have the whole damned bed to walk on. Can’t you show a little consideration? I don’t walk on your stomach.”

Joe dug his claws deeper into the Persian weave, his yellow eyes sly with amusement.“You work out, you’re always bragging about your great stomach muscles-you shouldn’t even feel my featherweight. Anyway, you were snoring so loud, so deep under, that a Great Dane on your stomach shouldn’t have waked you.”

“Get the hell out of here. Go on out and hunt, let me get some sleep. Go roll in warm blood or whatever you do at night.”

“For your information, I’m going straight to the library. What more sedate and respectable destination could one possibly?”

“Can it, Joe. Of course you’re going to the library-but only to get Dulcie. Then off to murder some helpless animal, attack some innocent little mouse or cute, cuddly rabbit. Look at you-that killer expression plastered all over your furry face.”

“Rabbits are not cuddly. A rabbit can be as vicious as a bullterrier-their claws are incredibly sharp. And what gives you the slightest clue to Dulcie’s and my plans for the evening? You’re suddenly an authority on the behavior offelis domesticus?”

Clyde doubled the pillow behind his head.“I don’t have to be an authority to smell the blood on your breath when you come stomping in at dawn.”

“I don’t come in here at dawn. I go directly to the kitchen, minding my own business.”

“And trailing muddy pawprints all over the kitchen table. Can’t you wash like a normal cat? You get so much mud on the morning paper, who can read it?”

“I have no trouble reading it. Though why anyone would waste more than five minutes on that rag is hard to understand.”

Clyde picked up the clock, which he kept facedown on the night table. The luminous dial said twelve thirty-three.“It’s late, Joe. Get on out of here. Save your sarcasm for Dulcie. Some of us have to get up in the morning, go to work to support the indigent members of the household.”

“I can support myself very nicely, thank you. I let you think otherwise simply to make you feel needed, to let you think you perform some useful function in the world.”

Padding across the oak floor, Joe pawed open the bedroom door.“So go to sleep. Sleep your life away.” Giving Clyde a last, narrow glare, he left the room. Behind him, he heard Clyde groan and pound his pillow and roll over.

Trotting down the hall and through the living room, brushing past his own tattered, hair-matted easy chair, he slipped out through his cat door. He supposed he should feel sorry for Clyde. How could a mere human, with inferior human senses, appreciate the glory of the moonlit night that surrounded him as he headed across the village?

To his right, above the village roofs, the Molena Point hills rose round and silvered like the pale, humped backs of grazing beasts. All around him, the shop windows gleamed with lunar light, and as he crossed Ocean Avenue with its eucalyptus-shaded median, the trees’ narrow leaves, long and polished, reflected the moon’s glow like silver fish hung from the branches-thousands, millions of bright fish. No human, with inferior human eyesight, could appreciate such a night. No human, with dull human hearing and minimal sense of smell, could enjoy any of the glories of the natural world as vividly as did a cat. Clyde, poor pitiful biped, didn’t have a clue.

Trotting up the moon-whitened sidewalk, he caught again the scent of the vagrant torn and followed it on the shifting wind, watching for any stealthy movement in the tangled shadows. But then, hurrying past the softly lit shops and galleries, he lost that sour odor; now, passing a block of real estate offices and little cafes, sniffing at the doors and at the oversized flower pots that stood along the curb, he smelled only dog urine and the markings of the cats he knew. The torn had, somewhere behind him, taken a different route.

Approaching Dulcie’s cat door, which had been cut at the back of the library into Wilma’s office, he startled at a sound within-and the door flap exploded out and Dulcie shot through nearly on top of him, her green eyes wildly blazing.

She froze, staring at him. She said no word. She lashed her tail and spun away again, racing for the nearest tree and up it, swarming up to the roofs.

Puzzled and concerned, he followed her.

Was she simply moon-maddened, wild with the pull of the full moon? Or had something frightened her in the library’s dark rooms?

With Dulcie, who knew? His lady’s moods could explode as crazily as moths flung in a windstorm.

At least he hadn’t scented the strange torn around her door, he thought with relief as he gained the moonlit peaks.

Already she had disappeared. But her scent was there, warm and sweet, leading away into dense blackness between a tangle of vent pipes that rose from a roof as silvered and flat as a frozen pond. Slipping between the slashing shadows, he galloped past a dozen east-facing windows that reflected a dozen pale moons. Rearing up to look across the roofs for her, peering beneath overhangs and around dormers, he softly called to her. He spoke her name half a dozen times before he grew uneasy, began to worry that the torn had found her first.

Most toms wouldn’t harm a female, but there was always the nasty-tempered beast who liked to hurt a lady more than he liked to love her, the unusual, twisted male who fed on fear and pain-beasts little different from a similarly warped human. Except there were far fewer such cats than men.

Not that Dulcie couldn’t take care of herself. There wasn’t a dog in Molena Point who would tangle with his lady. But despite Dulcie’s temper and her swift claws, Joe searched with growing concern, hurrying along the peaks and watching the shadows and calling. Beneath the moon’s shifting light he could see nothing alive but the darting bats that skimmed the rooftops sucking up bugs and squeaking their shrill radar cries.

Suddenly the tom’s scent hit him strong, clinging to the wall of a little, one-room penthouse.

Sniffing at the window, Joe could smell where the cat had rubbed his cheek along the glass, arrogantly marking this territory as if it were his own.

Peering in through the dusty pane, he studied the old desk stacked with papers and catalogs and the shelves behind, crammed with books and ledgers. What had the torn seen in there of interest?

Beyond the desk a spiral staircase led down to the bookstore below. Maybe this cat, like Dulcie and like Joe himself, found a bookstore inviting; certainly bookstores had a warm coziness, and they always smelled safe.

Maybe the cat had taken up residence there; maybe the two young women who kept the shop had adopted him, picked him up on the highway or at the animal pound. How would they know that Molena Point already had enough tomcats? And why would they care? Why would a human care about the delicate balance of territory necessary to the village males?

A nudge against his flank spun him around crouched to attack.

Dulcie bounced aside laughing, her green eyes flashing. Cuffing his face, she raced to the edge of the roof and dropped off, plummeting down into the concrete canyon-he heard her claws catch on an awning.

Crouching on the rain gutter, he looked down where she clung in the swaying canvas, her eyes blazing. Lashing her tail, she leaped up past him to the roof again and sped away. He burst after her and they fled along the rooftops laughing with human voices.

“You can’t escape?”

“No scruffy torn can catch me?”

“No hoyden queen can outrunthistomcat, baby.”

“Try me.” She laughed, scorching away into the dark and twisted shadows. And who was to hear them? Below, the village slept. No one would hear them laughing and talking-no one, seeing them racing across the rooftops, would connect two cats with human voices. Wildly they fled across the peaks, leaping from shingled hip to dormer and up the winding stairs of the courthouse tower, swiftly up to its high, open lookout.

On the small circular terrace beneath the tower’s conical roof they trotted along the top of the brick rail, looking down at the world spread all below them, at a vast mosaic stained to silver and black. Nothing moved there, only the cloud shadows slipping across and the little bats jittering and darting on the fitful wind.

But then as they padded along the rail, stepping around the outside of the tower’s four pillars on a narrow row of bricks, something stirred below them.

In the sea of darkness an inky patch shifted suddenly and slunk out of the shadows.

He stood staring up at them, black and bold among the rooftops. A huge beast. Black as sin. The biggest tomcat Joe had ever seen-broad of shoulder, wide of head, solid as a panther. He moved with the grace of a panther, swaggering across the roof directly below them, belligerent and predaceous and staring up narrow-eyed, intently watching them, his slitted, amber eyes flashing fire-and his gaze was fully on Dulcie, keen with speculation.

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ON THE ROOFS below Joe and Dulcie the tomcat sauntered along a sharp peak, swaying his broad shoulders with authority and staring coldly up at them where they crouched high on the rail of the tower. Though he dismissed Joe, hardly noticing him, his gaze lingered keenly on Dulcie, making her shiver. Then he smiled and, turning away again, began to stalk between the chimneys, his gaze fixed on a skylight’s clear dome; crouched over the moonstruck bubble, he peered down intently through the curving glass.

From their high vantage, Dulcie watched him with interest.“Blue Moss Cafe,” she said softly. “What’s he looking at? What’s so fascinating? They’re closed for the night.” There would not be so much as a bread crust remaining on the small round tables, not a crumb visible in the stainless steel kitchen; she and Joe had often looked in, sniffing the good smell of beef stew, watching the happy diners. The cat seemed to study every detail of the dim, closed restaurant, remaining so for some moments before he moved on again to peer into an attic and then into a darkened penthouse. There were apartments above some of the shops, and where a room was lighted, he kept his distance, circling around to avoid any wash of light spilling upon him. Approaching an angled, tilting skylight, he hunkered over the dark, dusty panes-and froze.

Whatever he saw below him down in the dusty-dim environs of Medder’s Antiques had jerked him to full alert. Lashing his tail, he clawed at the glass, every line of his muscled body focused and intent, fixated on the little crowded antique store and its ancient, dusty furniture, perhaps studying some odd accouterment of human culture-maybe an antique rattrap or silk umbrella or silver snuffbox. A faint glow seeped up from a nightlight somewhere within, dully igniting the skylight’s grimy panes and silhouetting the black cat’s broad head and thick shoulders. Clawing at the metal frame, digging and pulling, he soon forced the skylight open.

Heaving his shoulder into the crack, he pushed the glass up, rolled underneath, and dropped out of sight as the glass thumped closed behind him; the leap would be ten or twelve feet down among dust-scented Victorian chairs and cluttered china cabinets.

“Come on!” Dulcie hissed. Leaping from the rail, she fled down the tower’s dark, winding stairs. Joe raced close, pressing against her, gripped by a nameless fear for her; he didn’t like to think what kind of cat this was, breaking and entering like a human thief.

Side by side they crouched over the skylight looking down where the cat had vanished among the jumbled furniture. Nothing moved. The reflections across a row of glass-faced china cabinets were as still as if time itself had stopped, the images of carved fretwork and tattered silk shawls lifeless and eternal, a dead montage. A heap of musical instruments, violins and trumpets and guitars, lay rumbled into the arms of a Victorian setee. An ancient bicycle wore a display of feathered hats suspended from its seat and handlebars. The cats heard no sound from the shop, only the hush of breeze around them tickling across the rooftops punctuated by the high-frequency calls of the little bats.

Clink.A metallic clunk jarred the night. Then a familiar scraping sound as the front door opened. The tinkle of its bell stifled quickly, as if someone had grabbed the clapper.

Two men spoke, their voices muted. The cats heard the scuff of shoes crossing the shop but could see no one. Soon they heard wooden drawers sliding out, then the ring of the shop’s old-fashioned cash register as its drawer sprang open-sounds they knew well from visiting widow Medder. Joe found himself listening for a police car down on the street, hoping that a silent alarm might have gone off, alerting a patrol unit.

But would Mrs. Medder have an alarm, when she didn’t even have a computer or a fax machine?

Celia Medder had opened the shop a year ago, after losing her husband and young child in a boating accident down near Santa Barbara; she had moved to Molena Point wanting to escape her painful memories, had started the little shop with her own antique furniture from the large home she no longer wanted, slowly buying more, driving once a month up into the gold-rush towns north of Sacramento looking for bargains. It had not been easy to make a go of her new business. The cats were fond of her; she always welcomed them, never chased them off the sofas or Victorian chairs. She would brush up the satin when they jumped down, but she never spoke to them harshly.

The night was so still that they needn’t look over to know the street was empty. No soft radio from a police unit, no whisper of tires, no footsteps.

“Why would a burglar break into a used furniture shop?” Dulcie whispered. “Why not a bank or jewelry store? And where did that cat come from?” She cut him a sideways look. “A trained cat? Trained to open skylights? I don’t think so.”

Below them the reflections jumped suddenly across the china cabinets. A dozen images flared and swam as a man slipped between the crowded furniture, edging between chairs and couches. A thin, small man-hunched shoulders, a slouch hat, a wrinkled leather flight jacket. The black cat joined him, circling around his ankles, rubbing and preening. Suddenly all the history of their ancient race tumbled through Dulcie’s head-Celtic kings, underground worlds, sleek shapeshifting princesses-all the old tales that the rest of the world thought of as fairy tales and that she knew were not. And the idea that this black burglar might be like themselves both excited and frightened her.

Man and cat moved through the room, out of sight. Dulcie and Joe heard cupboard doors sliding, then the clink of metal on metal, then the buzz of an electric tool.

“Drill,” Joe said. “Sounds like they’ve found the safe.”

“They must have had it spotted. It wasn’t that easy to find, hidden in the back of that old cupboard.”

Joe clawed at the skylight, digging at its frame to force the glass open, but before he could slide in, Dulcie bit the scruff of his neck, jerking him away. The skylight dropped with a thud.

He spun around, hissing at her.“Thank you very much. Now they know we’re here. Just leave me alone, Dulcie.”

“I won’t. You’d be trapped down there. They could kill you before you got out. You thinkthatwill help Mrs. Medder? You think getting dead will catch a thief? And they didn’t hear a thing. How could they, with the noise that drill’s making?”

But the drilling stopped. In the silence they heard a series of thuds and bumps. Dulcie crept closer, listening.“What did they do, drill the lock off?”

“I’m guessing they drilled a small hole-enough to stick a periscope inside.”

She gave him a narrow, amused glance.

“Not kidding. Miniature periscope, with a light on it.”

“Sure.”

He sighed impatiently.“A safe’s lock is made of flat plates. Okay? Each one turns when you spin the dial. When you get them lined up, the lock opens.”

“So?”

“So, if you can see them from the inside, you can line them up. The burglar drills a hole, puts the little periscope in-Captain Harper has one. It’s about as big as a pencil but with a flexible neck. You stick it into the safe and watch the plates while you turn the dial.”

Her green eyes widened.“You’re serious.”

“Harper showed Clyde. He took it from the evidence room after it wasn’t needed anymore.”

“No wonder you hang around home when the law comes over to play poker. It’s wonderful, the things you learn from Max Harper.”

“You needn’t be sarcastic.”

“I’m not being?” She stopped to listen. They heard the front door open and close and footsteps going away. Leaping to the roof’s edge, they crouched with their paws in the gutter, peering down.

Below them, the sidewalk was empty. No sign of man nor cat. But footsteps whispered away, around the corner. Joe crouched to drop down to the awning.“We need a phone-need to call Harper. Maybe a squad car can pick them up before they get away.”

“Not this time,” she said softly.

He turned to stare at her, his yellow eyes wide.“What’s with you?”

“You want Harper to know that one of the burglars is a cat?”

“I don’t intend to tell him about the cat.”

“So you don’t say a word about the cat. Harper picks up the burglar. You know how tough he can be. There’s no sign of forced entry, and Harper keeps at the guy about how he got in, until he caves. Tells Harper that a cat let him in, that he uses a trained cat.”

“Come on, Dulcie. The cat is his secret weapon. He’ll protect that beast like Fort Knox.”

She gave him a long look.“There’ll be cat hairs all over the store, on the guy’s clothes, and around the skylight. Even if the guy keeps his secret, Harper will be suspicious. You know how thorough he is-and how paranoid about cats. You know how nervous he gets when there’s a cat anywhere near a case.”

Over the past year, Joe and Dulcie’s telephone tips to Max Harper, in the guise of interested citizens, had led to key arrests in three Molena Point murders, resulting in six convictions. But each time, the cats themselves had been seen in embarrassing situations. This, and the fact that some of their tips had involved evidence that couldn’t possibly have been discovered by a human informant, tended to make Max Harper nervous. He had, in short, some well-founded suspicions involving the feline persuasion.

“We don’t need to add to his unease,” Dulcie said. She looked deeply at Joe. “Let’s leave this one alone. I have a bad feeling about this.”

“Dulcie, sometimes you?”

Below them a shadow moved in the blackness at the edge of the awning. And the blackness exploded up at them-the black cat hit the roof inches from Joe, his fangs white in the moonlight, his claws gleaming sharp as knives, going straight for Joe’s throat.

Dulcie charged between them.

The black torn froze, staring at her.

Joe and Dulcie faced the black cat, rigid with challenge.

Not a sound, not a twitch.

Then the torn relaxed, leering at Dulcie, his tail lashing provocatively, his neck bowed like the neck of a bull; when he smiled, his eyes burned keener than the fires of hell.

“I am Azrael.”

Joe circled him, rumbling and snarling.

“Azrael,” Dulcie said, moving between Joe and the black torn. “Azrael means Death Angel.” She watched the cat intently.

The presence of another like themselves should be a cause for joy. Where had he come from? Why was he here in their village? As Joe moved again to attack, she cut him a look of warning. What good were teeth and claws, if they found out nothing about this cat?

“Azrael,” she mewed softly, recalling the dark mythology. “Azrael of the million dark veils. Azrael who can spin the world on one claw.

“Azrael whose golden throne gleams in the sixth Heaven,” she purred, glaring at Joe to be still. “Azrael of the four black wings and the four faces, and a thousand watchful eyes.”

The tom smiled and preened at her but glanced narrowly at Joe.

“Azrael who stole from that store,” Dulcie said, trying to sound amused. “Azrael who helped that man steal.”

The black torn laughed.“And what do you think we stole? That junk furniture? Did you see him carrying away old chairs and hat racks?”

“You took her money.”

“If we did, little queen, that’s none of your affair.” His purr was a ragged rumble; he towered over her, slow and insinuating; his amber eyes caressed her, devoured her-but when he reached out his nose to sniff her tail, she whirled, screaming feline curses, and Joe exploded, biting and slashing him, sinking his claws into the tom’s back and neck. The two toms spun in a clawing, yowling whirlwind across the roofs, raking fur and swearing until Dulcie again thrust herself between them, fighting them both.

They spun apart and backed off, circling and snarling, crouching to leap again for the tender parts.

Joe attacked first-blood spattered Dulcie’s face. But the torn sent him flying against a chimney. Joe shook his head and bolted into Azrael, cursing a string of human insults until Dulcie again drove them apart, battling like a wildcat; neither torn would hurt a queen.

“You want to bring the cops?” she hissed at them. “There are apartments above these shops. You make enough noise, someone will call the station.”

The black torn smiled and turned away. He began to wash, as casual and easy as if there had never been a battle. But soon he paused, and drew himself up tall and erect like an Egyptian statue carved from ebony.“You two little cats,” he said, looking them over as if they amused him. “You two little cats-I see death around you.”

He studied them haughtily.“Do you not sense death?” He licked his paw. “There will be death in this village. Human death. I sense death-three human corpses. Death before the moon is again full.

“I see you two little cats standing over the bodies. I see your foolish pain-because humans are dead.” He laughed coldly. “Humans. How very silly. Why would you care that a human dies? The world is overrun with humans.”

“What do?” Dulcie began.

But a whistle from the street jerked the tomcat up, a call as soft as the cry of a night bird. He turned, leaped down into the awning, and was gone. They heard a muffledoofof breath as he hit the street. Heard his human partner speak to him, then footsteps.

Looking over the roof’s edge, they watched the two drift away, up the street into darkness. Joe crouched to follow, but Dulcie pressed against him, urging him away from the edge.

“Don’t,” she said. “Please don’t-he frightens me.” She was demure and quiet. If she had ranted and snarled at him, he would have been off at once, after the pair.

“He scares me,” she repeated, sitting down on the shingles. Joe looked back at her crossly, knowing he’d be sorry he hadn’t followed. But he was puzzled, too. Dulcie was seldom afraid. Not this shivering, shrinking, huge-eyed kind of fear.

“Please,” she said, “leave him alone. He might be like us. There might be a wonderful mystery about him. But he terrifies me.”

Later, in the small hours when Joe and Dulcie had parted, as she snuggled down in the quilt beside Wilma, she dreamed of Azrael, and in sleep she shivered. Caught by the tom’s amber eyes, she followed him along medieval lanes, was both frightened of him and fascinated. Winding across ancient rooftops they slipped among gargoyles and mythic creatures twisted and grotesque, beasts that mirrored the black tom’s dark nature. Azrael before her, drawing her on, charmingher, leading her in dream until she began to lose all judgment.

She’d always had vivid dreams. Sometimes, prophetic dreams. But this drama woke her, clawing the blankets, hissing with fear and unwanted emotions. Her thrashing woke Wilma, who sat up in bed and gathered Dulcie close, her long gray hair falling around them, her flannel nightgown warm against Dulcie. “Nightmare? A bad nightmare?”

Dulcie said nothing. She lay shivering against Wilma, trying to purr, feeling very ashamed of the way the black torn had made her feel.

She was Joe Grey’s lady; her preoccupation with the stranger, even in dream, deeply upset her.

Wilma didn’t press her for answers. She stroked Dulcie until she slept again, and this time as Dulcie dropped into the deep well of sleep she held her thoughts on Joe Grey and on home and on Wilma, pressing into her mind everyone dear to her, shutting out dark Azrael.

It was not until the next morning that Joe, brushing past Clyde’s bare feet, leaping to the kitchen table and pawing open the morningGazette,learned more about the burglary at Medder’s Antiques. He read the article as Clyde stood at the stove frying eggs. Two over-easy for Clyde, one sunny-side up for Joe. Around Clyde’s feet the three household cats andthe elderly black Labrador crouched on the kitchen floor eating kibble, each at his or her own bowl. Only Joe was served breakfast on the table, and he certainly wasn’t having kibble.

Clyde said kibble was good for his teeth, but so were whole wheat kitty treats laced with fish oil and added vitamins from Molena Point’s Pet Gourmet. Choosing between P.G.‘s delightful confections and store-bought kibble was no contest. Two of P.G.‘s fish-shaped delicacies, at this moment, lay on his breakfast plate, which Clyde had placed just beside the newspaper. Clyde had arranged four sardines as well, and a thin sliceof Brie, a nicely planned repast awaiting only the friedegg.

It had taken a bit of doing to get Clyde trained, but the effort had been worth it.

Standing on the morning paper sniffing the delicate aroma of good, imported sardines, he read theGazette’saccount of the burglary. The police did not know how the burglar had gotten into the store. There had been no sign of forced entry. No item of merchandise seemed to be missing. Fifteen hundred dollars had been taken, three hundred from the cash register, the balance from the locked safe. The safe had been drilled, a very professional job. Joe didn’t know he was growling until Clyde turned from the stove.

“What? What are you reading?” Clyde brought the skillet to the table, dished up the eggs, then picked Joe up as if he were a bag of flour so he could see the paper.

Joe dangled impatiently as Clyde read.

Clyde set Joe down again, making no comment, and turned away, his face closed and remote.

They had been through this too many times. Clyde didn’t like him messing around with burglaries and murders and police business. And Joe was going to do as he pleased. There was no way Clyde could stop him short of locking him in a cage. And Clyde Damen, even at his worst, would never consider such a deed-never be fool enough to attempt it.

Clyde sat down at the table and dumped pepper on his eggs.“So this is why you’ve been scowling and snarling all morning, this burglary.”

“I haven’t been scowling and snarling.” Joe slurped up a sardine, dipping it ineggyolk. “Why would I bother with a simple break-and-enter? Max Harper can handle that stuff.”

“Oh? Those small crimes are beneath you? So, then, what’s with the worried scowl?”

Joe looked at him blankly and nipped off a bite of Brie.

Clyde reached across the table and nudged him.“What’s going on? What’s with you?”

“Nothing,” Joe said coldly. “Is there some law that I have to tell you all my business?”

Clyde raised an eyebrow.

“So there’s a new cat in the village. It’s nothing to worry you, nothing for you to fret over.”

Clyde was silent a moment, watching him.“I take it this is a tomcat. What did he do, come onto Dulcie?”

Joe glared.

Clyde grinned.“What else would make you so surly?” He mopped upeggwith his toast. “I imagine you can handle the beast. I don’t suppose this cat has anything to do with last night’s burglary?”

Joe widened his eyes and laughed.“In what way? What would a cat have to do with a burglary? It’s too early in the morning for dumb questions.”

Clyde looked at him deeply, then rose and fetched the coffeepot, poured a fresh cup.

“You get the Sheetrock all torn out?”

“We did, and hauled it to the dump. No more Sheetrock dust, you and Dulcie can hunt mice to your little hearts’ content without sneezing-until we start hanging new Sheetrock, of course.”

The five-apartment unit that Clyde had bought was a venture Joe considered incredibly foolhardy. No way Clyde Damen was going to turn that neglected dump into a sound rental investment. The fact that Clyde was working on the project himself turned Joe weak with amusement.

The only sensible thing Clyde had done on the venture was to hire his girlfriend, Charlie Getz, who operated Charlie’s Fix-It, Clean-It. Charlie’s business was relatively new. She had only a small crew-just two women-but she did good work. Her cleaning lady was sixty-year-old Mavity Flowers, who was a tiny, skinny creature but a surprisingly hard worker. The other employee, Pearl Ann Jamison, was a real find. Pearl Ann not only cleaned for Charlie, she was handy at light carpentry and could turn out professional Sheetrock work, from installation of the heavy wallboard to mudding and taping. The rest of the work on the building, the wiring and plumbing, Charlie and Clyde were farming out to subcontractors.

Joe finished his breakfast, nosed his plate out of the way, and began to wash, thinking about the burglary. He supposed the antique shop had been the first, as he’d seen nothing in the papers about any other similar thefts. He didn’t let himself dwell on the nature of the black torn or where he came from but kept his mind on the immediate problem, wondering what other small village businesses the man and cat planned to hit.

But maybe this had been a one-time deal. Maybe the pair was just passing through, heading up the coast-maybe they’d simply needed some walking-around money. Maybe they were already gone, had hauled out of Molena Point for parts unknown.

Sure. The village should be so lucky.

No, this burglary hadn’t been impromptu. The planning was too precise, the team’s moves too deliberate and assured, as if they had done their research. As if they knew very well that the quiet village was a sitting duck, and they knew just how to pluck it.

He hated to think that that cat might have been prowling the shops for days-maybe weeks-and he and Dulcie hadn’t known about it, hadn’t scented the beast or seen him. He imagined the cat and the old man idling in Mrs. Medder’s antique shop getting friendly with her, the old man making small talk as he cased the place looking for a safe or a burglar alarm, the black torn wandering innocently rubbing around the old woman’s ankles, purring and perhaps accepting little tidbits of her lunch while he, too, checked the layout, leaped up to stare into the drawer of the open cash register, and searched the shadows for an alarm system.

He didn’t like that scenario. It was bad enough for a human to steal from the village shops. A cat had no business doing this stuff.

Leaping from the table to the sink, pacing restlessly across the counter and glaring out the window, Joe wished he’d followed those two last night. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. Dulcie could find excuses to avoid confronting the black tomcat if she chose, but he was going to nail that little team. Licking egg from his whiskers as he watched the rising sun lift above the Molena Point hills, Joe Grey’s lust for justice flamed at least as bright as that solar orb-burned with a commitment as powerful and predatory as any human cop.

4 [????????: pic_5.jpg]

CHARLIE GETZ had no reason to suspect, when she woke early Saturday morning, that she was about to be evicted from her cozy new apartment, that by the time most of the village sat down to breakfast she’d be shoving cardboard boxes and canvas duffels into her decrepit Chevy van, dumping all her worldly possessions back into her aunt’s garage-from which she had so recently removed them. Thrown out, given the boot, on the most special day of her life, on a day that she had wanted to be perfect.

She’d already spent three months sponging off Aunt Wilma, had moved in with Wilma jobless and nearly broke and with no prospects, had lived rent-free in Wilma’s guest room after abandoning her failed career.

During that time she’d launched her new venture, put what little cash she had into running ads, buying the old van and used cleaning and carpentry equipment, hiring the best help she could find on short notice. She was twenty-eight years old. Starting Charlie’s Fix-It, Clean-It and renting her own apartment, taking responsibility for her own life after wasting six years in San Francisco had been one big strike for independence. A huge step toward joining-belatedly-the adult world.

Now here she was back to square one, homeless again.

She had loved being with Wilma, loved coming home to a cozy house, to a blazing fire and a nice hot meal, loved being pampered, but she valued, more, being her own provider.

Now, waking at dawn before she had any notion that an eviction notice was tucked beside her front door, she snuggled down into the covers, looking around her little studio with deep satisfaction. The one room pleased her immensely, though the furnishings weren’t much, just her easel, her single cot, her secondhand breakfast table, and two mismatched wooden chairs. Open cardboard boxes stacked on their sides like shelves held her neatly folded clothes. But through her open windows a cool breeze blew in, smelling pleasantly of the sea, and above the village rooftops the sunrise, this morning, was a wonder of watercolor tints, from pink to pale orange streaked among islands of dark clouds.

The coastal foothills would be brightening now as the sun rose behind them, casting its light down on the small village, onto the narrow, wandering lanes and dark, leathery oak trees and the maze of slanted, angled rooftops, and reflecting from the windows of the little restaurants and shops-the morning sun sending its light into the windows of the Aronson Gallery onto her own drawings, picking out her work with fingers of light.

What a strange sensation, to think that she belonged to a gallery, that her work was to be part of a real exhibit. She still couldn’t believe her luck, not only to be included with six well-known artists but to see her drawings occupying more than half the gallery’s front window-a real vote of confidence for a newcomer. The exhibit had been a bonus out of nowhere, unforeseen and amazing.

Four years of art school and two years trying to find her way as a commercial artist, a dozen trial-and-error, entry-level advertising jobs that she knew weren’t right for her, nor she for them, had led at last to the realization that she would never make a living in the art world. Her failure had left her feeling totally defeated-a misfit not only in her chosen field but in life. Only now, after she had abandoned all idea of supporting herself in the arts, had anyone been interested in her drawings.

Reaching to her nightstand, she switched on the travel-size coffeepot that she had prepared the night before, wondering if her flowered India skirt and sandals and the low-necked blue T-shirtwerethe right clothes for the opening or if she’d better try the black dress again, with the silver necklace her aunt had loaned her. She imagined the gallery as it would be tonight, lighted and festive, thinking about the crowd of strangers, hoping she could remember people’s names.

As the scent of coffee filled the room she sat up, pushing her pillow behind her, and poured a steaming mug, blowing on the brew to cool it. Coffee in bed was pure luxury, a little moment to spoil herself before she started the day, pulled on her jeans and boots and a work shirt, and hurried out to be on the job by eight, installing Sheetrock and trying to figure out how to do things she’d never done before. She would not, once she got moving, stop again until dark overtook her, except for a hasty sandwich with her girls, maybe with Clyde, and with whatever subcontractor might be working.

Leaning back into the pillows, she planned her day and the week ahead, laying out the work for the plumber, the sprinkler man, and the electrician, and watching, through her open windows, the sky brighten to flame, the sunrise staining the room, and laying a wash of pink over her framed drawings. Her studies of the two cats looked back at her, so alert and expectant that she had to smile. Dulcie had such a wicked little grin, such a slant-eyed, knowing look, as if she kept some wonderful secret.

The portraits of Joe Grey were more reserved. Tomcat dignity, she thought, amused. Drawing Joe was like drawing draped satin or polished pewter-the tomcat was so sleek and beautifully muscled, his charcoal-gray coat gleaming like velvet.

But his gaze was imperious. So deeply appraising that sometimes he made her uncomfortable. Sometimes she could swear that she saw, in Joe Grey’s eyes, a judgment far too perceptive, a watchfulness too aware and intense for any cat.

Charlie didn’t understand what it was about those two; both cats had a presence that set them apart from other felines.

Maybe she just knew them better. Maybe all cats had that quality of awareness, when you knew them. Her thoughts fled to last night when she had stood alone in the moonlit village looking up at the black rooftops, stood touched by that vast, wheeling space, and had glimpsed two cats leaping between the rooftops across the pale, night sky, and she felt again a wonderful delight in their freedom.

She had gone out to dinner alone, hadn’t felt like a can of soup or peanut butter and crackers, which was all her bare cupboard had offered. And she didn’t feel like calling Clyde. Their dating was casual; he probably would have been happy to run out for a quick hamburger, but she’d wanted to be by herself. Besides, she’d been with him half the day, working on the house. She’d been tired and irritable from dealing with a hired carpenter, had wanted to walk the village alone, watch the evening draw down, have a quiet dinner and then home to bed. When she had taken on the job of refurbishing Clyde’s newly purchased relic of an apartment house, she had bitten off almost more than she could chew. She’d had no intention, when she started Charlie’s Fix-It, Clean-It, of becoming a remodeling service. The business was meant to be just what it said: minor household repairs and painting-replacing a few shingles, spiffing up the yard, window washing, gutter cleaning, a good scrub down, total maintenance for the village homes and cottages. Not tearing out and replacing walls, supervising workmen, replacing ancient plumbing. She had no contractor’s license, but Clyde was, for all practical purposes, his own contractor. All they had to do was satisfy the various building inspectors.

She’d gotten home from work as the summer twilight faded into a clear, chill night, had peeled off her sweaty jeans and shirt, showered, put on clean denims and a warm sweater. Leaving her apartment, she had walked through the village down to the shore ten blocks south, moving quickly between wandering tourists. This was the beginning of the Fourth of July weekend, and along the narrow streets, NO VACANCY signs glowed discreetly among climbing nasturtiums and bougainvillea.

She had chosen a circuitous route, cutting across Ocean to the south side of the village, slowing to look in the windows of the Latin American Boutique, enjoying the brightly painted carvings and red-toned weavings, admiring and coveting the beautiful crafts and trying not to make nose prints on the glass.

She had met the shop’s owner, Sue Marble, a white-haired woman of maybe fifty who, people said, kept the store primarily so she could claim a tax write-off on her frequent Latin American trips. Not a bad deal, more power to her.

But as she had moved along beside the window, a Peruvian death mask gleamed through her own reflection, an ugly face superimposed over her face, framed by her wild red hair. The image had amused her-then frightened her. Swiftly she had turned away, hurried away toward the shore.

She hit the beach at Tenth Avenue, and had walked south a mile on the hard sand, then turned back up Ocean to The Bakery, thinking that a glass of Chablis would be nice, and perhaps crab Newburg. She thought sometimes that she led herself through life only with these little treats, like beguiling a mule with a carrot.

But why not treat herself? Tuck some bits of fun in with the hard work? Hanging Sheetrock all day was no picnic-and the heavy work had left her ravenous.

The Bakery, a rambling structure of weathered shingles, had been a summer-vacation house in the early 1900s. A deep porch ran along the front, facing a little seaside park of sand dunes and low, twisted oak trees spreading like dark, giant hands over the curves of sand and sweeps of dark ice plant. She’d been disappointed that all the terrace tables were taken, but then had spied a small corner table and soon was settled facing the darkening dunes, ordering wine and the Newburg, quietly celebrating the first gallery exhibit of her drawings.

After her father died, it was her mother’s subtle control that had eased her in the direction of art school, to develop the talent her mother thought was her strongest. Her mother would not consider that her skills at repair work and at organizing the work of others had any value. Sipping her wine, Charlie thought about her mother withregret and disappointment. Her mother had died a year before she finished art school.

Beyond The Bakery veranda, the breaking waves were tipped with phosphorescence, and above them the night sky flowed like surging water, its light seeming also to ebb and change. She’d been so physically tired from the day’s work that the Chablis had given her a nice buzz, and the conversations around her were subdued, a relaxed ambience of soft voices against the hushing surf. When her Newburg arrived she’d made herself eat slowly, not wolf the good dish but savor each bite-had to remind herself this wasn’t noon on the job, eating a sandwich with the work crew and with Mavity and Pearl Ann and Clyde, all of them starved. Had to remind herself this was not supper with Clyde. Eating with Clyde was much like eating with the carpenters; she was inclined to follow his lead, devour her meal as if it would remain on the table only briefly and must be consumed before it got away.

But Clyde was good company. And he was honest, quick to see the truth of a situation. If he was lacking in some social graces, who cared? There was nothing put-on or fake about him.

That first morning, when they went up to look at the five-apartment building after he signed the escrow papers, he’d been so excited. Leading her in through the weedy patio and through those moldering rooms, he’d been deep in the grip of euphoria, imagining what the place would look like when they’d refurbished it-imagining he could do most of the work himself, just a little help from her.Just a little paint, Charlie. A bit of patching.They’d agreed to exchange labor. She’d help with the house, presenting him with bills that he’d honor by working on her declining Chevy van.

Of course there was more needed than patching, but the five apartments had nice large rooms and high ceilings, and Clyde had envisioned the final result just as clearly as he saw the possibilities in restoring an old, vintage car.

The difference was, he knew what it took to restore a car. Beneath his skilled hands the Mercedeses and BMWs and Bentleys of Molena Point purred and gleamed, as cared for as fine jewelry. But Clyde was no carpenter. To Clyde Damen, carpentry was a foreign language.

In order to pay cash for the building, he had sold his five beautifully restored antique cars, including the classic red Packard touring car that he so loved. The sales nearly broke his heart, he had done every speck of work on those cars himself in his spare time. But he was too tight to pay interest on a mortgage, and she didn’t blame him.

As the dining terrace began to empty, she had dawdled over her dinner enjoying her own company, quietly watching the surf’s endless rolling, feeling its power-spawned by the interplay of wind, the moon’s pull, and the centrifugal whirling of the earth. The sea’s unending motion seemed to repeat the eternal power of the universe-its vast and unceasing life.

She relished her idle thoughts, her idle moments, the little pauses in which to let her mind roam.

After the Newburg she had treated herself to a flan and coffee, and it was past midnight when she paid her bill, left the veranda, and headed home through the softly lighted village. The streets were nearly empty. She imagined the tourists all tucked up in their motel rooms, with maybe a fire burning on the hearth, perhaps wrapped in their warm robes nursing a nightcap of brandy.

Walking home, she had paused to look in the window of a sporting goods shop at a beautiful leather coat that she would never buy; she’d rather have a new cement mixer. It was then, turning away, that her glance was drawn to the rooftops by swift movement: Two dark shadows had sailed between the peaks. She had caught only a glimpse. Owls? A pair of large night birds?

But they were gone, the sky was empty.

No, there they were. Two silhouettes, not flying but racing along a peaked ridge, leaping from roof to roof then dropping out of sight.

Cats! They were cats; she had seen a lashing tail against the clouds and sharply peaked ears. Two cats, playing across the rooftops.

And she had to laugh. There was no mistaking Joe Grey’s tailless posterior, and his white paws and white nose. She had stood very still, setting carefully into memory the cats’ swift flight against the pale clouds. They appeared again, and as they fled up another peak and leaped between dark ridges, scorching in and out among the tilting roofs, she had itched for a piece of charcoal, a bit of paper.

As she stood watching them, she heard a young couple laughing somewhere ahead, the woman’s voice soft. Glancing to the street she didn’t see the man and woman, but their conversation was playful, challenging and happy; she couldn’t make out their words. Then silence, as if they had turned up a side street.

And the cats were gone. She had stood alone on the sidewalk, her painter’s mind teeming with the two racing felines, with the joy of their carefree flight.

But now, lying in bed, seeing the leaping cats among the darkly angled rooftops, she felt a sudden chill.

Puzzled, sliding out of bed, she refilled her coffee cup and stood before the easel looking at the quick sketch she had done, from memory, before she went to sleep, the swift lines of charcoal on newsprint, her hasty strokes blocking in jutting roof lines against the sky, and the lithe, swift cats leaping across-and a sense of threat was there, that she had not meant to lend to the scene. Studying the drawing, she shivered.

Last night she had been so charmed by the cats’ grace and freedom, by their wild joy; she had felt only pleasure in the hasty drawing-but she saw now that the drawing did not reflect joy. Its spirit was dark, pensive. Somehow she had infused the composition with foreboding. Its shadowed angles implied a dark threat.

Threattothe cats? Or threatbecauseof the cats?

Perplexed, she turned away. Carrying her coffee, she headed for the shower.

The bathroom was tiny. Setting her coffee cup on the edge of the sink basin, she slid under the hot, steaming water of the shower, her mind fully on the sketch.

What had guided her hand last night? Those two little cats were dear to her; she had gotten to know Dulcie well while she was staying with Wilma. And if not for her drawings of Joe and Dulcie, sketching them for her own pleasure, her work would not have been seen by Sicily Aronson. She would never have been invited to join Sicily’s prestigious group. Without Joe and Dulcie, there would be no exhibit for her tonight at Sicily’s fine gallery.

Letting the hot water pound on her back, reaching out for a sip of coffee, she told herself she had better get her mind on the day’s work. She had building materials to order and three subcontractors to juggle so they didn’t get in each other’s way. Coming out of the shower to dress and make a peanut-butter sandwich, checking over her work list, she forgot the dark drawing.

But then as she opened the front door, carrying her denim work jacket and the paper bag with her lunch, a folded sheet of paper fluttered down against her boot, as if it had been stuffed between the door and the molding. Snatching it up before it blew away, unfolding it, she read the neatly typed message.

Charlie:

You’d be a good tenant, if you didn’t clutter up the yard. You’ve had a week, and two previous warnings, to get your stuff out of the backyard. The other tenants are complaining. They want to lie in the sun back there, not fall over wheelbarrows and shovels. I have no choice. You are in violation of your rental contract. This is a formal notice to vacate the apartment and all premises by tonight. Any item you leave behind, inside the apartment or in the yard-cement mixer, buckets, the entire clutter-will be mine to keep and dispose of.

She set her lunch bag on the porch, dropped her jacket on top, and read the note again. Looking down toward her landlord’s apartment, just below hers, she wanted to snatch up that neat little man and smear him all over his neat little yard.

Swinging back inside, she grabbed her stacked cardboard boxes and began shoving dishes and pots and pans in on top of her folded clothes. Jerking her few hanging garments from the closet, she rolled them into a bundle, snatched her framed drawings off the wall, and carried the first load down to her van. Halfway through her packing, she grabbed up the phone and called Clyde, told him she’d be a bit late. Didn’t tell him why. And within an hour she was out of there, chalking up another defeat.

5 [????????: pic_6.jpg]

THE BRIGHTLYlighted gallery, from the aspect of the two cats, was an obstacle course of human legs and feet. They had to move lively toward the back to avoid being stepped on by spike heels, wedge sandals, and hard, polished oxfords that looked as lethal as sledgehammers. Slinking between silken ankles and well-creased trouser cuffs, they slipped beneath Sicily Aronson’s desk into shadow where they could watch, untrampled, the champagne-fueled festivities.

In Joe’s opinion, the way to attend an art exhibit was from, say, a rooftop several blocks removed. But Dulcie had to be in the middle, listening to the tangle of conversations, sniffing expensive French perfumes and admiring dangling jewelry and elegant hair arrangements. “No one will notice us-they’re all talking at once, trying to impress each other.”

“Right. Of course Sicily won’t notice us. So why is she swooping in this direction like a hungry barn owl?” The gallery owner was pushing through the crowd with her usual exuberance. “On stage,” Joe muttered. “Always on stage.” She was dressed in silver lame evening pajamas that flapped around her ankles, a flowing silver scarf that swung around her thin thighs, and an amazing array of clinking jewelry. Kneeling and laughing, she peered under the desk at them, then scooped Dulcie into her arms. Pulling Joe out, too, she cuddled them like two teddy bears; Joe had to grit his teeth to keep from clawing her, and of course Dulcie gave him thatdon’t-you-darescowl.

“You two look beautiful, so sleek and brushed,” Sicily cooed, snuggling them against her silver bosom. “This is lovely to have you here-after all, you are the main models, you dear cats. Did Wilma bring you? Where is Wilma?”

Joe wanted to throw up. Dulcie purred extravagantly-she was such a sucker for this stuff. Whenever she visited Sicily, wandering into the gallery, Sicily had a treat for her, a little snack put aside from Molena Point’s Pet Gourmet. And Sicily kept a soft sweater for Dulcie to nap on; she had figured out quickly that to Dulcie, pretty garments, silk and velvet and cashmere, were the piece de resistance. Only once, when Dulcie trotted out of the shop dragging a handwoven vicuna scarf, did Sicily fling a cross word at her and run out to retrieve the treasure. Now, fawning and petting them and effectively blocking their escape, she reached behind the desk to fetch a blue velvet cushion and laid it on the blotter. “You two stay right here-just curl up and look pretty-and I’ll fix a plate for you.” Leaning down, she stared into Joe’s eyes, stroking him and scratching behind his ears. “Caviar, Joe Grey? Smoked turkey?”

Joe felt himself weakening.

But as Sicily left them, a big woman in a plum-colored dress descended, pushing her way out of the crowd.“Oh, the two little models. Oh, look how sweet.”

Joe growled and raised his paw. Dulcie nudged him.

“Isn’t that cute. Look at him put up his paw to shake hands. Just like a little dog.”

The lady’s male companion had sensibly stepped back from Joe. But the woman reached for him. “Oh, they look justlike their portraits. Such dear little cats. Come and pet them, Howard. Look how sweet, the way they’re posing here on the desk, so obedient.”

She patted Joe on the head like a dog, a gesture guaranteed, under most circumstances, to elicit a bloody stump. He held his temper with heroic effort, but he calmed as she chose a slice of ham from her plate and gave them each a share.

He was beginning to feel more charitable when a woman in a white dress joined them.“Oh, the darling kitties, the kitties in the drawings.” And an elderly couple headed their way, practically cooing. A regular crowd was gathering. Joe eyed them sourly. Even the good party food wasn’t enough to put up with this. As other guests circled the desk reaching to pet them, Joe lost it. Lashing out at the nearest hand, he leaped past it, hit the floor running, sped out the door and across the street and up a bougainvillea vine. Didn’t stop until he was on the roof of Mara’s Leather Shop, pacing among the vents.

Dulcie didn’t follow him. Probably she’d stay in there all night, lapping up the attention.

Stretching out beside a warm chimney, he dozed intermittently and irritably. His view from the roof was directly in through the gallery’s wide windows and open front door, where the crowd had gathered around a white-clothed table as a tuxedoed waiter served champagne. It was more than an hour before Dulcie came trotting out between a tangle of elegantly clad ankles, scanned the rooftops, and saw him looking over. Lifting her tail like a happy flag, she crossed the street and swarmed up the vine to join him.

“You didn’t have to be so surly. You knew we’d be petted. Cats in a public place always get petted.”

“Petted?Mauled is the word. You said no one would notice us.”

She settled down beside him, her belly against the warm shingles.“You missed some good party food.”

“I’ll have my share in the alley.”

“Suit yourself. I had duck liver canapes from the hand of my favorite movie star.” She sighed deeply. “He might be sixty-some, but he’s some macho hombre.”

“Big deal. So some Hollywood biggie feeds you duck liver like a zoo animal.”

“Not at all. He was very polite and cordial. And he’s not from Hollywood; you know very well that he lives in Molena Point. What a nice man. He treatedmelike a celebrity-he told me I have beautiful eyes.” And she gave him a clear green glance, bright and provocative.

Joe turned away crossly.“So where are Charlie and Clyde? Fashionably late is one thing. Charlie’s going to miss her own party.”

“They’ll show. Clyde told Wilma he’d keep Charlie away until there was a real mob, until she could make a big entrance.”

“Thisisa mob. And Charlie isn’t the kind for a big entrance.”

“She will be, tonight.”

Joe snorted.

“It’s her party. Why not a grand entrance?”

“Females. Everything for show.”

“I’ve seen you make a big entrance-stroll into the living room when Clyde has company. Wait until conversation’s in full swing, then swagger in so everyone stops talking. Starts calling to you,kitty kitty kitty,and making little lovey noises.”

“That is a totally different matter. That is done for a specific purpose.”

Dulcie cut her eyes at him, and smiled.

The game was to get the crowd’s attention and then, when they were all calling and making a fuss, to pick out the person who remained withdrawn and quiet. Who didnotwant to pet the kitty.

Immediately one made a beeline for the cat hater. A jump into their lap, a persistent rubbing and kneading and waving your tail in their face, and the result was most rewarding. If your victim had a really severe case of ailurophobia, the effect was spectacular.

When the routine worked really well, when you had picked the right mark, your victim would turn as white as skimmed milk. If you could drool and rub your face against theirs, that was even better. There was nothing half as satisfying as a nice evening of ailurophobe harassment. Such little moments were to be treasured-such fleeting pleasures in life made up for all the millions of human rebuffs, for centuries of shabby human slights and maltreatment.

“Here they come,” Dulcie said, pressing forward over the roof gutter, her ears pricked, the tip of her tail twitching with excitement.

Clyde pulled up directly in front of the gallery, his yellow‘29 Chevy convertible commanding immediate attention. This was the car’s maiden appearance. The top was down, and the machine was dazzling. He had completely overhauled the vintage model, had given it mirror-bright metal detailing, pearly, canary-toned paint, pale yellow leather upholstery, andof course the engine purred like a world-champion Siamese. The car’s creamy tones set off Charlie’s flaming hair to perfection.

Her red, curling mane hung loose across her shoulders over a dark tank top, and as Clyde handed her out, her flowered India skirt swirled around her ankles in shades of red, pink, and orange. The cats had never seen Charlie in high-heeled sandals, had never seen her in a skirt.

“Wow,” Joe said, hanging over the roof, ogling.

“Oh, my,” Dulcie said. “She’s beautiful.”

Tonight they saw none of Charlie’s usual shyness. She looked totally wired, her cheeks flaming as she took Clyde’s hand and stepped to the curb.

Clyde’s chivalry prompted them to stare, too, as he gave Charlie his arm and escorted her into the gallery. Clyde himself looked elegant, scrubbed and shaven and sharply turned out in a black sport coat over a white turtleneck and a good-looking pair of jeans. For Clyde, this was formal attire.

“There’s the mayor,” Dulcie said, “and his wife. And look-the president of the art association.”

Joe didn’t know the president of the art association from a rat’s posterior. Nor did he care. But he cared about Clyde and Charlie. He watched with almost parental pride as they pushed into the gallery and were mobbed with greetings and well-wishers. Crouched on the edge of the roof, the two cats totally enjoyed Charlie’s happy moment. They remained watching as the party spilled out onto the sidewalk among a din of conversation and laughter, and the scents of perfumes and champagne and caviar caressed them on the night breeze.

But later when two waiters headed away toward Jolly’s Deli carrying a stack of nearly empty trays that they had replaced with fresh servings, the cats left the roof, padding along behind them, their attention on those delectable scraps.

Jolly’s Deli catered most of the local affairs, the gallery openings and weddings and the nicest parties. And whatever delicacies were left over, George Jolly set out on paper plates in the alley for the enjoyment of the village cats.

Of course the old man put out deli scraps several times every day, but party fare was the best. An astute cat, if he checked theGazette’ssocial page or simply used his nose, could dine as elegantly, in Jolly’s alley, as Molena Point’s rich and famous.

And the alley provided more than a free handout. Through frequent use, it had become the city version of a feline hunting path, a communal by-way shared by all the local cats.

Some people view cats as reclusive loners, but that is not the case. Any cat could tell you that a feline is simply more discerning than a dog, that cats take a subtler view of social interaction.

When several cats happened into the alley at one time, they did not circle each other snarling like ill-mannered hounds-unless, of course, they were toms on the make. But in a simple social situation, each cat sat down to quietly study his or her peers, communicating in a civilized manner by flick of ear, by narrowing of eyes, by twitching tail, following a perceptive protocol as to who should proceed first, who merited the warmest patch of sunshine or the preferred bench on which to nap.

The village cats had established in Jolly’s alley, as well, a center for feline messages, a handy post office where, through scents left on flowerpot and doorway, one could learn which cats were with kitten or had had their kittens, which ladies were feeling amorous, or if there was a new cat in the village.

Only in the hierarchy of the supper plate did the biggest and strongest prevail-but George Jolly did not tolerate fights.

Such social commerce pleased Joe and Dulcie despite the void that separated them from normal cats. After all, every cat was unique. The lack of human language didn’t make the other cats imperceptive or unwise; each could enjoy the world in his own way. And, Joe thought, how many cats wouldwantto read the newspaper or use the phone?

But tonight they had the alley to themselves, the little brick-paved retreat was their own small corner of civilized ambiance, softly lit by the wrought-iron lamps at either end of the lane, perfumed by the jasmine vine that concealed Jolly’s garbage cans.

The two waiters had disappeared inside, but George Jolly must have been watching for visitors, because as the cats flopped down to roll on the warm bricks, the back door opened and the old man was there, his white apron extending wide over his ample stomach as he knelt to place a paper plate before them, a little snack of smoked salmon and chopped egg and Beluga caviar.

They approached the offering purring, Dulcie waving her tail, and George Jolly stood smiling and nodding. Jolly loved providing these little repasts-he took a deep delight in the cats’ pleasure.

Kneeling for a moment to stroke them, he soon rose again and turned away to his kitchen like any good chef, allowing his guests privacy in which to enjoy their meal. They were crouched over the plate nibbling at the caviar when, above them, a dark shadow leaped across the sky from roof to roof, and the black torn paced the shingles looking down at them-observing the loaded deli plate.

Dropping to an awning and then to the bricks, he swaggered toward them snarling a challenge deep in his throat, a growl of greed and dominance.

Dulcie screamed at him and crouched to slash; Joe flew at him, raking. At the same moment, the back door flew open and George Jolly ran out swinging a saucepan.

“No fighting! You cats don’t fight here! You cats behave in my alley!”

Joe and Dulcie backed away glancing at each other, but Azrael stood his ground, snarling and spitting at Jolly.

“Stop that, you black beast. Don’t you challenge me!” Jolly hefted the pan. “You eat nice or I don’t feed you. I take the plate away.” He looked hard at the three of them. “I don’t put out my best imported for you to act like street rabble-you are Molena Point cats, not alley bums.

“Except you,” Jolly said, glaring at Azrael. “I don’t know you, you black monster. Well, wherever you come from, you snarl again, you get a smack in the muzzle.”

George Jolly could never have guessed the true effect of his words. He had no idea that the three cats understood him, he knew only that his tone would frighten and perhaps shame them. He glared hard at Azrael-Azrael blazed back at him, his amber eyes sparking rage, and he began to stalk the old man, crouching as if he would spring straight into Jolly’s face.

“Don’t you threaten me,” Jolly snapped, swinging the saucepan. “You learn some manners or you’ll be snarling at the dogcatcher.” He stood glaring until Azrael backed away switching his tail, his head high, and turned and swaggered off up the alley-until the formidable Death Angel vanished into the night.

Joe and Dulcie did not see Azrael again until some hours later as they prowled the rooftops. Pale clouds had gathered across the moon, and there was no sound; the bats had gone to roost or perch or whatever bats did hanging upside down in their pokey little niches beneath the eaves. Who knew why bats would hunt one night and not the next? Presumably, Joe thought, it had to do with how bright the sky-yet why would bats care, when they hunted by radar? On the roofs around them, the shadows were marbled by moonlight. Above them they heard a barn owl call, sending shivers. Even Joe Grey respected the claws and beak of the barn owl.

When the clouds parted and the full moon brightened the rooftops, across the moon’s face the owl came winging. He swooped low and silent. The cats crouched to run. Screaming a booming cry, he dove, heading for the shadows beyond them.

They heard the boom of his wings beating against the roof, and heard screaming-the owl’s scream and a cat’s scream, then the frantic flurrying of feathers, the thud of bodies?

The owl exploded into the sky and was gone.

And in the moon’s gleam the black cat sauntered out swaggering and spitting feathers.

Unaware of them, he slipped along seeming none the worse for his encounter. Pausing as before at each window and skylight, looking in, he lingered at a thin dormer window. He reared suddenly, clawing at the frame.

A wrenching creak slashed the night as the casement banged open.

Below on the street the cats heard footsteps, and when they fled over the roofs to look, they saw Azrael’s human partner pacing, peering impatiently in through a glass door below a liquor store sign, his gray hair tangled around the collar of his wrinkled leather jacket, his boots, when he fidgeted, chuffing softly on the concrete.

The instant the door opened from inside, the old man slipped in. The cats, dropping down onto the hanging sign then to the sidewalk, crouched beneath a car where they could see through the plate glass.

Within, a faint, swinging light shone as the old man shielded his flashlight behind his hand, directing its beam along rows of bottles where Azrael paced, his tail lashing against the rich labels.

At the cash register, the old man bent over the lock and inserted a metal pick, his thin face lined and intent.

Within minutes he had the drawer open and was snatching out stacks of bills. Cleaning out the shallow tray, he lifted it, spilling loose change onto the floor as he grabbed at the larger bills that lay beneath; the night was so still they heard every coin drop.

“Why do shopkeepers do that?” Dulcie whispered. “Why do they leave money in the register?”

“Because the village has never had that much trouble. Don’t you wonder if this old boy knew that-if he knew what an easy mark Molena Point is? Yet he has to be a stranger-I’d remember that old man.”

They watched him stuff wads of bills into his pockets while, behind him, Azrael wound back and forth along the liquor shelf smiling and rubbing against the bottles.

“Cut the purring!” the old man snapped. “You sound like a spavined outboard. And don’t leave cat hair stuck to everything.”

“I never leave cat hair. Have you ever seen me shed?”

“Of course you shed. Everything I own is covered with black fur.”

Azrael leaned from the shelf, peering over his partner’s shoulder. “Get those tens-they can’t trace tens so easy.”

“Who’s going to trace anything? No one marks their money in this burg. You’re talking like some big-assed bank artist.”

“How do you know they don’t?”

“Don’t be so paranoid.”

“It’s you that’s paranoid-getting jumpy because I purr and grousing about cat hair.”

The old man smoothed his thin gloves where they had wrinkled over his fingers and closed the register, and the two slipped out the front door.

“Don’t forget to lock it,” the cat hissed.

“Don’t be so damn bossy.”

“Don’t get smart with me, old man. You’ll be running this party alone.”

The man and cat stiffened as, half a block away, a prowling police car turned into the street. As it shone its light along the storefronts in routine inspection, the two burglars slid through the shadows into the alley, were gone as completely as if they had never been there.

The patrol car didn’t slow. The moment it had passed, the two appeared again, heading up Ocean. As they moved away, Joe and Dulcie followed, slipping along beneath the parked cars. Joe was determined to stay with them tonight, to see where they went to ground. Dulcie didn’t like this, but she was unwilling to stay behind.

The two burglars proceeded up Ocean for four blocks, then turned down toward the Fish Shack. The old man paused before entering.“You want the cod or the shrimp?”

“The shrimp-what these stateside yokels pass off as shrimp. Poor substitute for what we get at home.”

“You’re not at home, so stop bitching.” The little man disappeared inside. The cat turned away to the curb where he sniffed at the messages left by passing four-legged citizens. If he scented Joe and Dulcie over the smell of other cats and dogs and fish and axle grease, he gave no indication.His partner returned dangling a white paper bag liberally splotched with grease.

“No shrimp. You’ll have to eat fish and chips.”

“Couldn’t you have gotten crab?”

“Didn’t think to ask. Let’s get on, before the law comes back.” And off they went, man and cat walking side by side bickering companionably, two swaggering lowlifes with the cocky walk of drunks leaving a cheap bar.

6 [????????: pic_7.jpg]

BEYOND WILMA’S open shutters, the neighborhood was drowned by fog, the cottages and trees hidden in the thick mist, the gnarled branches of the oak tree that ruled her front garden faded as white as if the tree had vanished and only its ghost remained. Standing at the window sipping her morning coffee, she thought that it was the coastal fog, as much as Molena Point’s balmy days, that had drawn her back to her childhood village to spend her retirement years. She had always loved the fog, loved its mystery-had wandered the foggy neighborhoods as a little girl pretending she had slipped into a secret and magical world.

At dawn this morning, she had taken a long walk along the shore listening to the breakers muffled and hidden within the white vail, then home again to a hot cup of coffee and to prepare breakfast for her company.

Behind her, the Sunday paper lay scattered comfortably across her Kirman rug, and beside the fire, Clyde sprawled on the velvet loveseat reading the sports page. On the other side of the hearth, lounging in the flowered chaise, Bernine Sage pored over the financial section. Neither had spoken in some time. Clyde’s preoccupation was normal; Bernine’s silence came across as self-centered and cold.

She would not ordinarily have invited Bernine to breakfast or for any meal, but this morning she’d had no choice. Bernine had been at her door late last night when she arrived home from the opening. Having fought with her current lover, needing a place to stay, she seemed to think that it was Wilma’s responsibility to offer her a bed; she hadn’t asked if Wilmahadcompany or if her presence would be inconvenient. “Why I ever moved in with that idiot-what a selfish clod. And not a motel room left. I’ve called and called. Damn the holidays.”

After getting Bernine settled, Wilma had left a note on the kitchen table hoping Charlie would see it.

Bernine is in the guest room with you, I’m sorry. She had a fight with her live-in.

Charlie had seen the note, all right. When Wilma came out at five this morning, the scrap of paper was in the trash, wadded into a tight ball.

Bernine had dressed for brunch this morning not in jeans like everyone else, but in a pink velvet leisure suit, gold belt, gold lizard sandals, and gold earrings, and had wound her coppery hair into a flawless French twist decorated with gold chains-just a bit much in this house, in this company, Wilma thought, hiding a smile. Her own concession to company for breakfast had been to put on a fresh white sweatshirt over her jeans. And Clyde, of course, was nattily attired in ancient, frayed cut-offs, a faded purple polo shirt with a large ragged hole in the pocket, and grease-stained sandals.

Bernine had greeted him, when he and Joe arrived, with a raised eyebrow and a shake of her elegant head.“You brought yourcat?You brought your cat to breakfast? You actually walked over here, through the village, with a cat tagging along?”

Clyde had stared at her.

“Well,” she said, “it’s foggy. Maybe no one saw you.”

“What difference if someone saw us? We-I do this all the time, take the cat for a walk.”

“I’m surprised that a cat would follow you. What do you do, carry little treats to urge it along? Don’t people laugh-a grown man walking a cat?”

“Why should anyone laugh? Why should Icare?Everyone knows Joe. Most people speak to him. And the tourists love it; they all want to pet him.” Clyde smiled. “Some rather interesting tourists, as a matter of fact.” And he turned away, snatching up the Sunday paper, looking for the sports page.

Now the cat in question lay patiently awaiting the breakfast casserole. Stretched across the couch beside Dulcie, the two of them occupied as much of the blue velvet expanse as they could manage, comfortably watching the fire and dozing. Their occasional glances up at Wilma communicated clearly their pleasure in this lazy Sunday morning before the blazing fire, with their friends around them-and with the front page of the Molena PointGazettelying on the floor where she had casually dropped it so that they could read the lead article. As they read, their little cat faces keen with interest, she had busied herself at the coffee table rearranging the magazines, effectively blocking Bernine’s view. But then the cats, finishing the half-page account of the liquor store burglary, had put on dull, sleepy faces again, diligently practicing their best fuzzy-minded expressions.

The two cats looked beautiful this morning, Wilma thought, sleek and healthy, their coats set off by the blue velvet cushions, Dulcie’s curving, chocolate stripes as dark as mink, her pale, peach tinted ears and paws freshly washed. And Joe always looked as if he had groomed himself for a formal event, his charcoal-gray coat shining, his white paws, white chest, and white nose as pristine as new snow.

Wilma didn’t speak to them in front of Bernine, even to prattle baby talk as one would to ordinary pets; their responsive glances were sometimes more intelligent than they intended, and Bernine was far too watchful. The history that Bernine had picked up from a previous boyfriend, the Welsh mythology of unnatural and remarkable cats that had peopled the ancient world, was better not stirred even in the smallest way. Better not to set Bernine off with the faintest hint of immediate feline strangeness.

In fact, having Bernine in the house with Dulcie was not at all comfortable. She just hoped Bernine would find a place soon. And certainly Bernine’s intrusion into the guest room was not a happy situation for Charlie who, half an hour ago, had disappeared in the direction of the garage, silent and uncommunicative. Wilma knew she would be out there sulking as she unloaded her possessions from the van. Already cross at the eviction from her apartment-though she hadn’t let her anger spoil last night’s gallery opening-her sullenness was multiplied by Bernine’s unexpected presence. Bernine was not Charlie’s favorite person.

Earlier this morning when the two young women had coffee in the kitchen, Charlie had made no effort to be civil, had hardly spoken to Bernine. Wilma hoped that when Mavity arrived, her old friend would ease the atmosphere, that her earthy temperament would soften their various moods. Mavity might be ascerbic, without subtlety or guile, but her very honesty made her comfortable to be near.

As she picked up the coffeepot from the desk and moved across the room to fill Clyde’s cup, she watched the cats sniffing the good smells from the kitchen and licking their whiskers. She could just imagine Bernine’s sarcasm when the cats were fed from the same menu as the guests.

Clyde lowered the sports page and held out his cup.“Charlie going to stay out in the garage all morning? What’s she doing?”

“Unloading her tools and equipment-she’ll be in shortly. You could go out and help her.”

Clyde sipped his coffee, shook his head, and dug out the editorial section, burying himself again. Bernine watched him, amused. Very likely, Wilma thought, Bernine understood Charlie’s temper-and the reason for it-far better than did Clyde.

Dulcie watched Clyde, too, and she wanted to whop him, wished she could chase him out to the garage with Charlie. Didn’t he know Charlie was jealous? That she was out there sulking not over the eviction, or simply over Bernine’s presence, but over Bernine’s proximity to Clyde himself? Males could be so dense.

But you didn’t need female perception, or feline perception, to see that Bernine’s sophistication and elegant clothes and carefully groomed good looks, coupled with her superior and amused attitude, made big-boned Charlie Getz feel totally inadequate. You didn’t need female-cat intelligence to see that Charlie didn’t want Bernine anywhere near Clyde Damen.

Scowling at Clyde, she realized that Bernine was watching her, and she turned away, closing her eyes and tucking her nose beneath her paw, praying for patience.Mustthe woman stare? It was hard enough to avoid Bernine at the library, without being shut in, at home, with that cat hater.

Why were anti-cat people so one-sided? So rigid? So coldly judgmental?

And how strange that the very things Bernine claimed to value in her own life, her independence and self-sufficiency, she couldn’t abide in a sweet little cat.

Beside her on the couch, Joe was avoiding Bernine’s gaze by restlessly washing, his yellow eyes angrily slitted, his ears flat to his head. He’d been cross and edgy anyway, since last night when they followed the old man and Azrael and lost them. And then the front page of theGazettethis morning hadn’t helped, had turned him as bad-temperedas a cornered possum.

The Molena PointGazettedidn’t concern itself with news beyond the village. Problems in the world at large could be reported by theSan Francisco Chronicleor theExaminer.TheGazettewas interested only in local matters, and last night’s breakin occupied half the front page, above the fold.

SECOND BURGLARY HITS VILLAGE

A breakin last night at Jewel’s Liquors netted the burglars over two thousand dollars from a locked cash register. This is the second such burglary in a week. Police have, at this time, no clue to the identity of the robber.

Police Captain Max Harper told reporters that though the department performed a thorough investigation, they found no mark of forced entry on the doors or on the window casings and no fingerprints. The crime was discovered by the store’s owner, Leo Jewel, when he went in early this morning to restock the shelves and prepare a bank deposit. When Jewel opened the register he found only loose change, and loose change had been spilled on the floor.

Captain Harper said the burglar’s mode of operation matched that of the Medder’s Antiques burglary earlier this week. “It is possible,” Harper said, “that the burglar obtained duplicate keys to both stores, and that he picked the cash register’s lock.”

Leo Jewel told reporters he was certain he had locked both the front and the alley doors. He said that no one else had a key to the store. He had closed up at ten as usual. Captain Harper encourages all store owners to check their door and window locks, to bank their deposits before they close for the night, and to consider installing an alarm system. Harper assured reporters that street patrols had been increased, and that any information supplied by a witness will be held in confidence, that no witness would be identified to the public.

Dulcie wondered if the police had collected any black cat hairs. She wondered what good the stolen money was, to Azrael.So the old man buys him a few cans of tuna. So big deal.But she didn’t imagine for a minute that any monetary gain drove Azrael. The black torn, in her opinion, was twisted with power-hunger, took a keen and sadistic pleasure in seeing a human’s hard-won earnings stolen-was the kind of creature who got his kicks by making others miserable. For surely a chill meanness emanated from the cat who liked to call himself the Death Angel; he reeked of rank cruelty as distinctive as his tomcat smell.

When the doorbell blared, she jumped nearly out of her skin. As Wilma opened the door, Mavity Flowers emerged from the mist, her kinky gray hair covered by a shabby wool scarf beaded with fog. Beneath her old, damp coat, her attire this morning was the same that she wore for work, an ancient rayon pants uniform, which, Dulcie would guess, she had purchased at the Salvage Shop and which had, before Mavity ever saw it, already endured a lifetime of laundering and bleaching. Mavity varied her three pants uniforms with four uniform dresses, all old and tired but serviceable. She hugged Wilma, her voice typically scratchy.

“Smells like heaven in here. Am I late? What are you cooking?” She pulled off the ragged scarf, shook herself as if to shake away remnants of the fog. “Morning, Clyde. Bernine.

“Had to clear the mops and brooms out of my Bug. Dora and Ralph’s plane gets in at eleven. My niece,” she told Bernine, “from Georgia. They bring everything but the roof of the house. My poor little car will be loaded. I only hope we make it home, all that luggage and those two big people. I should’ve rented a trailer.”

Dulcie imagined Mavity hauling her portly niece and nephew-in-law in a trailer like steers in a cattle truck, rattling down the freeway. Bernine looked at Mavity and didn’t answer. Mavity’s minimal attention to social skills and her rigid honesty were not high on Bernine’s list. Yet it was those very qualities that had deeply endeared her to Wilma. Mavity’s raspy voice echoed precisely her strained temper this morning; she had been volatile ever since her brother arrived two weeks ago.

Greeley Urzey visited his sister every few years, and he liked to have his daughter and her husband fly out from the east to be with him; but it took Mavity only a few days with a houseful of company before she grew short-tempered.

“That house isn’t hardly big enough for Greeley and me, and with Dora and Ralph we’ll be like sardines. They always have the bedroom, neither one can abide the couch, and they bring enough stuff for a year, suitcases all over. Greeley and me in the sitting room, him on the couch, me on that rickety cot, and Greeley snoring to shake the whole house.”

Dulcie and Joe glanced at each other, suppressing a laugh.

“Itisa small house,” Wilma said kindly, sitting down on the couch beside Dulcie and patting a space for Mavity.

Mavity sat stroking Dulcie, then reached to pet Joe.“You’re a nice cat, Joe Grey. I wish all tomcats were as clean and polite.”

She looked at Wilma, shaking her head.“Can you believe that Greeley brought acatwith him! A great big, ugly cat. Carried it right on the plane with him. He found it on the streets of Panama; it probably has every disease. My whole house smells of tomcat. I can’t believe Greeley would do such a thing-a cat, all that way from Panama.Took it on board, in a cage. Three thousand miles. I didn’t think even Greeley could be so stupid.

“He could have left it home, could have paid some neighbor to feed it. They have maids down there-everyone has a maid, even Greeley, to clean up and take care of things. The maid could have fed an animal. Greeley never did have any sense. Who in their right mind would travel all that way carting a stray cat? It’s sure to get lost up here, wander off, and then Greeley will have a fit.”

Bernine had put aside the financial page.“Can’t you board it somewhere?” she asked coldly. “Surely there are kennels for cats.”

“First thing I told Greeley, but he wouldn’t hear of it.”

Bernine shrugged and returned to the newspaper. Dulcie, fascinated, sniffed at Mavity’s uniform searching for the cat’s scent.

But she could smell only the nose-itching jolt of Mavity’s gardenia-scented bath powder. Leaping to the floor, she sniffed of Mavity’s shoes.

No hint of cat there. Mavity’s white leather oxfords smelled of shoe polish and of a marigold Mavity must have stepped on coming up the walk; the flower’s golden color was streaked up the white leather. Frustrated with her inability to scent the strange tomcat, she curled up again on the couch, quietly regarding Mavity.

“I told Greeley that cat could do its business outdoors. Why ever not, when I live right there on the edge of a whole marsh full of sand? But no, even if the cat goes outside, it still has to have a fresh sandbox, right there in the kitchen. Talk about spoiled-talk about stink.

“I told Greeley it’s his job to change the sand, go down to the marsh and get fresh sand, but I have to keep telling and telling him. And to top it off, the cat has sprayed all over my furniture-the whole house reeks of it. Oh, my, what a mess. I’ll never get it clean. Why do tomcats do that?”

Dulcie almost choked with suppressed laughter. She daren’t look at Joe for fear she’d lose control.

“Well, in spite of that beast, it’s good to have Greeley. It’s been four years since he was here. After all, Greeley and Dora and Ralph-they’re all the family I have.”

Mavity grinned.“I guess my little car will hold the two of them and the luggage; it always has before.” She glanced at Bernine and reached to stroke Dulcie. “It’s not every day your only family comes for a visit.”

Swallowing back her amusement, Dulcie rolled over, her paws waving in the air. Mavity was so dear-she could complain one minute, then turn around and do something thoughtful. She had cooked all week, making cakes and casseroles for Greeley and his daughter and son-in-law so they would enjoy their stay.

Dulcie didn’t realize she was smiling until Wilma scowled a sharp warning and rose hastily, pulling Mavity up.

“The frittata’s done,” Wilma said. “It will burn. Let’s take up breakfast.” She headed for the kitchen, urging Mavity along, shooting Dulcie such a stern look of warning that Dulcie flipped over, flew off the couch, bolted through the house to the bedroom and under Wilma’s bed.

Crouched inthedark she swallowed back a mewing laugh-at Mavity, and at Wilma’s look of anger because she’d been smiling-trying not to laugh out loud. It was terrible to have to stifle her amusement. Didn’t Wilma understand how hard that was? Sometimes, Dulcie thought, she might as well plaster a Band-Aid over her whiskers.

Lying on her back on the thick bedroom rug, staring up at the underside of the box springs, she considered Greeley and his tomcat.

Were these two the burglars?

But that was not possible. It would never happen, the solution to a crime fall into their furry laps as easy as mice dumped from a cage.

Last night she and Joe had followed the old man and Azrael clear across the village before they lost them. Keeping to the darkest shadows, they had tailed them to the busy edge of Highway One, had drawn back warily from the cars whizzing by-had watched the cat leap to the old man’s shoulder and the man run across between the fast vehicles where no sensible animal would venture.

Pausing on the curb, their noses practically in the line of fast cars and breathing enough carbon monoxide to put down an ox, they had argued hotly about whether to follow the two across that death trap-argued while Azrael and the old man hurried away down the block.

“You can go out there and get squashed if you want,” she’d told him, “but I’m not. It’s dark as pitch, those drivers can’t see you, and no stupid burglar is worth being squashed into sandwich meat.”

And for once she had been able to bully Joe-or for once he had shown some common sense.

But then, watching the pair hurry two blocks south and double back and cross the highway again, toward the village, their tempers blazed.

“They duped us!” Joe hissed. “Led us like two stupid kittens following a string-hoping we’d be smashed on the highway.” And he crouched to race after them.

But she wasn’t having any more. “We could tail them all night. As long as they know we’re following, they’re not about to go home.”

“They have to go home sometime-have to sleep sometime.”

“They’ll sleep on a bench. Just see if they don’t.”

But Joe had shadowed them for over an hour, and she tagged along-until Joe realized that Azrael knew they were still following, knew exactly where they were on the black street, that the cat had senses like a laser.

But nowwhat if Mavity’s brother and his cat were the burglars?

Certainly everything fit. Greeley had been here for two weeks. Both burglaries had occurred within that time. The old man looked the right age to be Mavity’s brother, and, more to the point, he was small like Mavity, with the same wiry frame.

There was, Dulcie thought, a family resemblance, the deeply cleft upper lip, the same kind of dry wrinkles, the same coloring. Though Mavity’s hair was gray, and the burglar’s was ordinary brown, with gray coming in around his ears.

If the burglarwasGreeley, then, as sure as mice had tails, he had stashed the money somewhere in Mavity’s cottage. Where else would he hide it? He didn’t live in Molena Point; it wasn’t as if he had access to unlimited hiding places. Greeley was practically a stranger in the village.

As she flipped over, clawing with excitement into the carpet, wondering when would be the best time to slip into Mavity’s cottage and search for the stolen cash, beside her the bedspread moved and Joe peered under, his yellow eyes dark and his expression smug.

“So,” he whispered. “This one dropped right into our paws. Did you smell Azrael on her?”

“No, I didn’t. We can’t be sure?”

“Of course we’re sure. There’s no such thing as coincidence.” He looked at her intently. “New man in town, brings his cat all the way from Panama. Why would he bring a cat all that way, unless he had some use for it? And that old burglar,” Joe said, “even looks like Mavity.”

Twitching a whisker, he rolled over, grinning, as pleased as any human cop who’d run the prints and come up with a positive ID.

7 [????????: pic_8.jpg]

CHARLIE HAULED the last duffle from her van and dumped it in Wilma’s garage, enjoying the chill fog that pressed around the open garage and lay dense across the garden-but not enjoying, so much, shifting all her gear once again.

As a child she had loved to play“movers,” filling cardboardbox “moving vans” with toys and sliding them along a route carefully planned to bring all her family and friends together into a tight little compound. At six years old, moving had satisfied a yearning need in her. At twenty-eight, hauling her worldly goods aroundin pasteboard boxes was right up there with having a double bypass.

Stacking her cartons of jumbled kitchen utensils and clothes against the wall beside Wilma’s car, she sniffed the aroma from the kitchen, the delicious scent of ham and onions and cheese. But, hungry as she was, she didn’t relish having to sit at the table with Bernine.

She considered making an excuse and skipping breakfast, but that would hurt Wilma. It wasn’t Wilma’s fault that Bernine had moved in uninvited; she could hardly have let the woman sleep on the street-though the imagedidappeal. And not only had Bernine taken over the guest room, she was sitting in there with Clyde right now, all cozy beside the fire, and Clyde hadn’t made the slightest effort to come out and keephercompany.

Coming home last night from the opening, she’d been on such a high, had returned Clyde’s kisses with more than her usual ardor; they’d had such a good time. And now, this morning, he seemed totally distant.

Slamming the last box into place, she wheeled her cement mixer out of the van and rolled it around behind the garage, parking it next to her two wheelbarrows, throwing a tarp over the equipment to keep out some of the damp. Wilma’s backyard was as narrow as an alley, stopping abruptly at the steep, overgrown hillside. The front yard was where Wilma’s flowers bloomed in rich tangles of color between the stone walks. Wilma, having no use for a lawn, had built an English garden, had worked the soil beds with peat and manure until they were as rich as potting mixture, creating an environ where, even beneath the oak tree, her blooms thrived.

Closing the van’s side door, Charlie stood a moment gearing herself to go back inside. Last night when Clyde gave her a last lingering kiss and drove off in the yellow roadster, waving, she had headed for bed wanting to stretch out and relive every lovely moment of the evening, from the festive arrival Clyde had planned for her, and all the compliments about her work, to Clyde’s very welcome warmth. But then, coming into the guest room, there was Bernine inherbed, on the side of the room she thought of as absolutely her own, and Bernine’s clothes scattered all over as if she’d moved in forever. Bernine had been sound asleep, her creamy complexion glowing, her red hair spread across the pillow as if she was about to have her picture taken for some girlie magazine or maybe welcome a midnight lover.

A silk skirt lay across the chair, a pink cashmere sweater was tossed on the dresser, and Bernine’s handmade Italian boots were thrown on the other bed beside a suede coat that must have cost more than six cement mixers. Surveying the takeover, feeling as if she’d been twice evicted, she’d gone back into the kitchen to cool down, to make herself a cup of cocoa. It was then that she foundthe note, folded on the table and weighted down with the salt shaker.

She’d read it, said a few rude words, wadded it up, and thrown it in the trash. Had stood at the stove stirring hot milk, thinking she would sleep in the van.

But of course she hadn’t. She’d gone to bed at last, dumping Bernine’s boots and coat on the floor, creeping into the other bed deeply angry and knowing she was being childish.

This morning, coming down the hall from the shower, she’d avoided looking at Bernine sleeping so prettily-and had avoided looking in the mirror at her own unruly hair and her thousand freckles, had pulled on her jeans and her faded sweatshirt, her scuffed boots, tied back her wild mane with a shoestring, and slipped out of the room only to catch a glimpse of Bernine’s slitted eyes, watching her, before she turned over, pulling the covers up.

Then in the kitchen she’d hardly poured her coffee before Bernine came drifting in, yawning, tying a silk wrapper around her slim figure. And now the woman was in there with Clyde, all dressed up and smelling like the perfume counter at Saks. She hoped Bernine’s soured love life, or whatever had left her temporarily homeless, had been suitably painful.

An old boyfriend once told her that her temper came from insecurity, that her anger flared when she felt she was not in control of a situation, that if she would just take positive action, put herself in control, she wouldn’t get so raging mad.

Maybe he was right. She was considering what positive action she would like to take against Bernine when Mavity’s VW Bug pulled to the curb, its rusted body settling with little ticks and grunts like some ancient, tired cart horse.

Watching Mavity slide out, small and quick, and hurry to the front door, Charlie began to feel easier. Mavity always had that effect. And at last she went on in, across the roofed back porch to the kitchen.

Wilma’s kitchen was cozy and welcoming with its blue-and-white wallpaper, its patterned blue counter tile and deep blue linoleum. The big round table was set with flowered placemats, Wilma’s white ironware, and a bunch of daisies from the garden. Charlie poured herself a cup of coffee as Wilma and Mavity came in, Mavity’s short gray hair kinky from the fog, her worn white uniform freshly washed and pressed.

As Wilma took a casserole from the oven and put a loaf of sliced bread in the microwave, Charlie mixed the frozen orange juice, and Mavity got out the butter and jam. Clyde schlepped into the kitchen hitching up his cut-offs, looking endearingly seedy. His disheveled appearance cheered Charlie greatly-why would Bernine be interested in a guy who looked like he’d slept in some alley?

On the table, the frittata casserole glistened with melted cheese; the Sicilian bread came out of the oven steaming hot. The bowl of fresh oranges and kiwi, mango and papaya was aromatic and inviting. As they took their places, the two cats trooped in, licking their whiskers, and sat down intently watching the table. Charlie wished she could read their minds; though at the moment there was no need, their thoughts were obvious-two little freeloaders, waiting for their share.

When they were seated, Wilma bowed her head, preparing to say grace. Charlie liked that in her aunt. Wilma might be modern in most ways, but true to family tradition she liked a little prayer on Sunday morning, and that was, to Charlie, a comfortable way to start the week.

But the prospect of a morning prayer seemed to make Bernine uneasy; she glanced away looking embarrassed. As if the baring of any true reverence or depth of feeling was not, to Bernine, socially acceptable-or, Charlie thought, was beyond what Bernine understood.

“Thank you for this abundance,” Wilma said. “Bless the earth we live upon, bless all the animals, and bless us, each one, in our separate and creative endeavors.”

“And,” Clyde added, “bless the little cats.”

Amused, Charlie glanced down at the cats. She could swear that Dulcie was smiling, the corners of the little tabby’s mouth turned up, and that Joe Grey had narrowed his yellow eyes with pleasure. Maybe they were reacting to the gentle tone of Clyde’s and Wilma’s voices, combined with the good smell of breakfast. Now the cats’ gazes turned hungrily again to the table as Wilma cut the frittata into pie-shaped wedges and served the plates. Five plates, and a plate for Joe and Dulcie, which she set on the floor beside her chair, evoking an expression of shock and pain from Bernine.

Wilma passed Clyde’s plate last. “How’s work going on the apartments?”

“A few complications-it’ll be a while before we’re ready for you to landscape the patio. But between Charlie’s expertise and my bumbling we’ll get it done.”

“Thank goodness for Mavity,” Charlie said, patting Mavity’s hand. “We couldn’t do without you.”

“Couldn’t do without Pearl Ann,” Mavity said. “I’m the scrub team,” she explained to Bernine. “But Pearl Ann does other stuff. I don’t know nothing about taping Sheetrock. Pearl Ann’s a regular whiz-she can tape Sheetrock, grout tile, she can do anything. She says her daddy was a building contractor and she grew up on the job sites.”

Clyde passed Mavity the butter.“Pearl Ann would be just about perfect, if she’d improve her attitude.”

“I invited her to breakfast,” Wilma said, “but she planned to hike down the coast this morning.” Pearl Ann Jamison, tall and plain and quiet, was fond of solitary pursuits, seemed to prefer her own dour company to the presence of others. But, as Mavity said, she was a good worker.

Mavity glanced at her watch.“I don’t want to be late, leave Dora and Ralph sitting in the airport.”

“They don’t get in until eleven,” Wilma said, and she dished up another helping of frittata for Mavity. “Maybe they won’t stay too long,” she added sympathetically.

“One of those night flights,” Mavity told Bernine. “Catching the shuttle up from L.A. They bring enough luggage for a year.”

“Yes, you said that,” Bernine told her dryly.

“And with my brother here, too, my little place is straining at the seams. Maybe one of these days I can afford a bigger house,” Mavity rambled amiably. “Two guest rooms would be nice. I plan to start looking when my investments have grown a bit more. That Winthrop Jergen, he’s a regular genius, the way he’s earned money for me.”

Bernine gave Mavity her full attention.“You have someone helping you with your-savings?”

“Winthrop Jergen,” Mavity said. “My investment counselor. Doesn’t that sound grand? He lives right there in Clyde’s upstairs apartment, was living there when Clyde bought the place.”

“Oh,” Bernine said. “I see.” As if Mavity had told her that Jergen meted out his financial advice from the local phone booth.

“He has clients all over the village,” Mavity said. “Some of Clyde’s wealthiest customers come to Mr. Jergen. They pull up out in front there in their Lincolns and BMWs.”

Bernine raised an eyebrow.

“He moved here from Seattle,” Mavity continued. “He’s partly retired. Said his doctor wanted him to work at a slower pace, that his Seattle job was too frantic, hard on his blood pressure.”

She gave an embarrassed laugh.“He talks to me sometimes, when I’m cleaning. He’s very young-but so dedicated. That conscientious kind, you know. They’re hard on themselves.”

“And he does your-investments,” Bernine said with a little twisted smile.

“Oh, yes, the bit of savings we had before my husband died, and part of my salary, too.” Mavity launched into a lengthy description of the wonders that Winthrop Jergen had accomplished for her, the stocks he had bought and sold. “My account has almost tripled. I never thought I’d be an investor.” She described Jergen’s financial techniques as if she had memorized, word for word, the information Jergen had given her, passing this on with only partial comprehension.

Bernine had laid down her fork, listening to Mavity.“He must be quite a manager. You say he’s young?”

“Oh, yes. Maybe forty. A good-looking man. Prematurely silver hair, all blow-dried like some TV news anchor. Expensive suits. White shirt and tie every day, even if he does work at home. And that office of his, there in the big living room, it’s real fancy. Solid cherry desk, fancy computer andall.”

Bernine rewarded Mavity with a truly bright smile.“Your Mr. Jergen sounds most impressive.”

Dulcie, watching Bernine, envisioned a fox at the hen coop.

“But I do worry about him.” Mavity leaned toward Clyde, her elbows comfortably on the table. “You know that man that watches your apartment building? The one who’s there sometimes in the evening, standing across the street so quiet?”

“What about him?”

“I think sometimes that Mr. Jergen, with all the money he must have-I wonder if that man?”

“Wonder what?” Clyde said impatiently.

Mavity looked uncertain.“Would Mr. Jergen be so rich that man would rob him?”

Clyde, trying to hide a frown of annoyance, patted Mavity’s hand. “He’s just watching-you know how guys like to stand around watching builders. Have you ever seen a house under construction without a bunch of rubberneckers?”

“I suppose,” Mavity said, unconvinced. “But Mr. Jergen is such a nice man, and-I guess sort of innocent.”

Bernine’s eyes widened subtly. She folded her napkin, smiling at Clyde. “This Mr. Jergen sounds like a very exceptional person. Do you take care of his car?”

Clyde stared at her.

Dulcie and Joe glanced at one another.

“Of course Clyde takes care of his car,” Mavity said. “Mr. Jergen has a lovely black Mercedes, a fancy little sports model, brand-new. White leather seats. A CD player and a phone, of course.”

The little woman smiled.“He deserves to have nice things, the way he helps others. I expect Mr. Jergen has changed a lot of lives. Why, he even signed a petition to help Dulcie-the library cat petition, you know. I carry one everywhere.”

Wilma rose to fetch the coffeepot, wondering if Mavity had forgotten that Bernine sided totally with Freda Brackett in the matter of Dulcie’s fate.

This was the second time in a year that petitions had been circulated to keep Dulcie as official library cat, and the first round had been only a small effort compared to the present campaign. At that time, the one cat-hating librarian had quit her job in a temper saying that cats made her sneeze (no one had ever heard her sneeze). The furor had been short-lived and was all but forgotten. But now, because of the hardhanded ranting of Freda Brackett, all the librarians, except Bernine, and many of the patrons had been walking the village from door to door getting signatures in support of Dulcie. Even Wilma’s young friend, twelve-year-old Dillon Thurwell, had collected nearly a hundred signatures.

Mavity busied herself picking up her dishes, and she soon left for the airport, her decrepit VW ratting away through the thinning fog. Strange, Dulcie thought, that at breakfast no one had mentioned the two burglaries. Usually such an incident in the village was a prime topic of conversation.

She guessed Bernine had been too interested in Winthrop Jergen to think about burglaries, and certainly Clyde wouldn’t mention them in front of her and Joe; Clyde hated when they got interested in a local crime. He said their meddling complicated his life to distraction, that they were making an old man of him-but Clyde knew he couldn’t change them. Anyway, their interests gave him something to grouse about.As she and Joe slipped out into the fog through her cat door and headed up the hills, their thoughts were entirely on the burglaries and on Mavity’s brother, Greeley, and his traveling tomcat.

“If Greeley is the burglar,” she said, “we need some hard evidence for Captain Harper.”

He looked at her quizzically.“Why the change of mind? You were all for keeping this from Harper.”

“I’ve been thinking-if Harper doesn’t find the burglar and make an arrest, he’ll set up a stakeout. And what if they see Azrael break into a shop? That would really tear it. What if theGazettegot hold of that?”

“Harper isn’t going to tell the press that kind of thing.”

“But one of his men might. Maybe the uniforms on stakeout would tell someone. What if Lieutenant Brennan or Officer Wendell sees Azrael open a skylight and slip in, and then there’s a burglary and they start blabbing around the department?”

Joe sighed.“You’re not happy if we finger the old man, and you’re not happy if we don’t. I swear, Dulcie, you can worry a problem right down to a grease spot. What is it with females? Why do you make things so damned complicated?”

“We don’t make things complicated. We simply attend to details. Females are thorough-we want to see the whole picture.”

Joe said nothing. There were times when it was better to keep his mouth shut. Trotting across the grassy park above the Highway One tunnel, they headed up a winding residential street, toward the wild hills beyond.

“And,” she said, “if Brennan and Wendell did see Azrael break in, they’d start putting things together-remembering the timeswe’vebeen under their feet at a crime scene.”

“Dulcie, who would believe that stuff? If a cop talked like that, they’d laugh him out of the department. No one would believe?”

“Peoplewouldbelieve it,” she said impatiently. “The story’s so bizarre, the press would love it. The papers would have a field day. Every tabloid would run it, front page. And every nut in the country would believe it. People would flock to Molena Point wanting to see the trained burglar-cat. Or, heaven forbid, the talking cat. Ifthatgot in the news?”

“Dulcie, you’re letting your imagination go crazy.”

But he knew she was right. He cut a look at her, kneading his claws in the warm earth.“If we can find the stolen money and get it to Harper, and if the guy’s prints are on it, Harper will make the arrest without a stakeout. And the cops will never know about Azrael.”

“If thereareany prints on the money, with those gloves the old man was wearing.”

“Likely he’d count the money after he stole it,” Joe said. “Why would he wear gloves then? Harper gets the prints, arrests the old man, and you can bet your whiskers that tomcat won’t hang around. He’d be long gone. And good riddance.”

“Except,” she said, “that old man mighttellthe cops about Azrael, just to take the heat off himself. Figure he could make himself famous and create enough interest, enough sympathy for the talking cat, enough public outcry, that he’d be acquitted.”

“That’s really way out.”

“Is it? Look at the court trials just this year, where public opinion has swayed the verdict.”

He looked at her intently. She was right.“Talking cat confesses to robberies. Verbose kitty discovered in California village.”

She twitched her whiskers with amusement.“Tomcat perjures himself on witness stand.”

“Speaking cat insults presiding judge, is cited for contempt.”

Dulcie smiled.“County attorney goes for feline conviction. Judge rules that jury must include proper quota of cat lovers.”

“Or cats,” he said. “Tomcats sit on jury?”

“Cat excused because she’s nursing kittens?” She rolled over, convulsed with feline glee.

“But,” she said at last, “what about the murders? We don’t?”

“What murders?”

“The three deaths. Azrael said he saw death-three murders.”

“You don’t believe that stuff. Come on, Dulcie, that’s tomcat grandstanding.There will be murder in this village…” Joe mimicked.“I smell death, death before the moon is full?” He yowled with amusement.“I see you two little cats standing over the bodies.? Oh, boy, talk about chutzpah.”

“But?”

“So who is going to be murdered over a couple of little, two-bit burglaries? Come on, Dulcie. He was giving you a line. That tomcat’s nothing but a con artist, an overblown bag of hot air.”

But Dulcie lashed her tail and laid back her ears.“Therecouldbe truth in what Azrael said.” With all his talk of voodoo and dark magic,wasthe foreign tomcat able to see into the future?

Certainly there was a sense of otherness about Azrael-a dark aura seemed to cling around him like a grim shadow. And certainly when she read about cats like themselves, a thread of dark prophetic talents wound through the ancient myths.

Who knew, she thought, shivering, what terrifying skills the black torn might have learned in those far and exotic lands?

8 [????????: pic_9.jpg]

DORA AND RALPHSleuder’s shuttle from L.A. was due to land at 11:03, and as Mavity headed up the freeway for Peninsula Airport, her VW chugging along with the scattered Sunday traffic, the fog was lifting; the day was going to be pretty, clear and bright.

Wilma’s elegant breakfast had been a lovely way to end the week; though the pleasant company made her realize how much time she spent alone. It would be nice to have Dora and Ralph with her, despite her crowded little house. She did miss her family.

She really ought to entertain them better, ought to get Wilma’s recipe for that elegant casserole. All she ever made for breakfast was eggs and bacon or cereal. Well, of course she’d be making grits. Dora couldn’t face a morning without grits-she always brought instant grits with her from Georgia. The first time Mavity heard of instant grits, which were more common in the south than instant oatmeal, she’d doubled over laughing. But after all, it was a southern staple. And Dora worked hard at home. On the farm, breakfast was a mainstay. Dora grew up in a household where her mother rose every morning at four to fix grits and eggs and salty country ham and homemade biscuits from scratch, a real farm breakfast. Biscuits and redeye gravy became Greeley’s favorite after he married a southern girl at eighteen and moved south to her father’s farm.

Greeley and his wife had had only the one child, only Dora, and for thirty years he had lived that life, so different from how he grew up here in California. Imagine, getting out to the fields every morning before daylight. You’d drink Dora would want to get off the farm, but no, she and Ralph still planted and harvested and hauled produce to market, though they had some help now. And now they had that junk car business, too. Ralph called it a “recycled parts exchange.”

For herself, she’d rather clean other people’s houses than do that backbreaking field labor. After a day’s work, her time was her own. No sick cows to tend, no broken water lines or dried up crops to worry over. She could come home, make a nice cup of tea, put up her feet, and forget the world around her.

And maybe Greeley hadn’t liked it all that well, either, because the minute Dora’s mother died-Dora was already married-Greeley hit out for Panama, and the next thing she knew, he’d learned to be a deep-sea diver. That had shocked everyone. Who knew that all those years, Greeley Urzey had such a strange, unnaturallonging?

Well, he was happy living down there in Central America, doing his underwater repairs for the Panama Canal people, and Dora and Ralph were happy with their farm and their junk business.And I’m happy,Mavity thought,except I wish Lou was still here, that he wasn’t taken away from me so soon.She shoved aside the wordlonely,pushed it down deep where it wouldn’t nudge at her. She knew she’d soon be grousing because of too much family, longing for some loneliness-well, for some privacy.

Never happy. That’s the trouble with me. Maybe that’s the trouble with everyone, always something that doesn’t suit. I wonder what it’ll be like in the next world-I wonder if you really are happy forever?

She had given herself plenty of time heading for the airport, and in the brightening morning she took pleasure in the Molena Point hills that flanked the little freeway, the dense pine and cypress woods rising dark against the blue sky, and the small valleys still thick with mist. Ahead, down the hills, the fog was breaking apart over the wide scar of the airport that slashed between the houses and woods. Greeley had wanted to come along, and she could have swung by the house to get him if she’d had room, but he ought to have known the Bug wouldn’t handle another passenger plus a mountain of baggage. Even though Dora and Ralph traveled with all those suitcases, she’d never seen either of them wearing anything but jeans and Tshirts or sweatshirts printed in Day-Glo with some crazy message. Besides, they were not small people. Each time she saw her niece and Ralph, their girth had spread a little, expanding like warm bread dough.

But they were a sweet couple, and she’d get them tucked into the car one way or another. Maybe by their next visit she would have a bigger house, three nice bedrooms, one on the main level for herself, two upstairs for company. Not too big, though. Too much to clean. Maybe a place up in the hills. She wondered why Wilma didn’t open an account with Mr. Jergen and increase her own pension. Sometimes she didn’t understand Wilma; sometimes she thought Wilma’s career as a parole officer had left her with no trust at all. Wilma relied on her close friends, but she didn’t have much faith in other folks.

Turning off the freeway into the small airport, she drove slowly past the glass doors of the little terminal but didn’t park in front. You could never depend on that fifteen-minute parking. They’d give you a ticket one second after your time was up-as if the meter maid was lurking just around the corner, hungry to make her quota. Continuing on down the hill, she pulled into a short-term space, locked the car,and headed double-time back up the steep incline.

Pushing open the glass door, her frizzy gray hair was reflected, and her thin old body, straight as a stick in her white uniform. She might look frowsy, but she was in better shape than most women half her age. She wasn’t even breathing hard after the steep climb-and she didn’t have to pay some expensive gym to keep fit.

Shegotpaid for doing her workouts scrubbing and polishing and sweeping, right on the job.

Greeley was the same as her, as lean as a hard-running hound. Dora, being Greeley’s daughter, ought to be the same, but she took after her mother. Ample, Greeley said.

Still, Dora didn’t have Greeley’s quick temper, and that was a blessing.

Peninsula Airport was so small that most of its flights were commuter planes. The runways would take a 737 if some airline ever decided to put on a straight run, but no one had. Crossing the lobby toward the three gates, she saw that all three of the little glassed-in waiting areas were empty. To her left at the Delta desk a lone clerk stood staring into space as if sleeping on his feet.

In the larger general waiting room to her right, only three travelers occupied the long lines of worn chairs. Two men sat slumped and dozing, as if they might have traveled all night or maybe waited there all night huddled down into the cracked leather. She couldn’t see much of the man behind the pillar, just his legs. She had the impression of limpness; maybe he was asleep, too.

She thought she’d like a cup of coffee but, checking her watch by the airport clock, there really wasn’t that much time. Anyway the airport coffee was expensive and not worth hiking upstairs, throwing away a buck and a half. Wilma’s coffee was better. And where would she put another cup? She was so full of breakfast her ears bulged.

Choosing a seat in the middle of a row of attached chairs, she settled down where she would be able to see the incoming plane but away from the overflowing ashtrays and their stink of stale cigarettes. After one week with Greeley smoking in the house, she longed never to see another cigarette; her little cottage smelled not only of cat, but like a cheap bar as well.

She could have put up one of those thank you for not smoking signs in the living room. Not that Greeley would pay any attention. He’d pitch a fit if she tried to make him go outdoors to smoke.

Between the stink of cigarettes and the stink of that cat, she’d have to burn her home to the ground to get the smell out.

Mavity’s cottage, anywhere else but Molena Point, would be called a shack. It was a low-roofed, California-style clapboard, one step up from a single-wide trailer. But in the upbeat seaside village, it had value. Well, she thought, the land had value. Located right on the bay, it was real waterfront property, even if the bay, at that point, was muddy and smelly.

One would think, from looking at the Molena Point map, that her house faced a wide bathing beach. In fact, her little bit of land occupied a strip of marsh between the bay and the river-oh, it had patches of beach sand, but with heavy sea grass growing through. And the marsh was sometimes in flood. All the foundations along the shore were real high, and in bad weather one wanted to have buckets handy. The lower part of her house was stained dark with blackish slime that, as many times as she hosed and scrubbed it, just kept getting darker.

She hadn’t thought much about her property value until Winthrop Jergen pointed out just how dear that land might be and had explained to her how much she could borrow on it, if she chose to invest more heavily. But she hesitated at the thought of a mortgage. She would hate to have something happen, though of course nothing would happen.

She did love the view from her porch; she loved the marsh and the sea birds, the gulls and the pelicans and terns. The land just above her place, up the hill where the old Spanish mission rose against the sky, was pricey property. There were fine, expensive homes up there bordering the valley road; and the old mission was there. She loved to hear its bells ringing for mass on Sunday morning.

Dora said the bells brought her right up out of a sound sleep. But what was wrong with that? Being southern, they got up for church, anyway. They always trotted off tomass, even if they weren’t Catholic. Ralph said it was good for the soul to worship with a little variety.

The airport loudspeaker crackled, announcing the incoming commuter flight from L.A., and she rose and moved into waiting area number three and stood at the window. The runway was still empty, the sky empty.

It had been a long time since she’d seen Dora and Ralph, though they had talked on the phone quite a lot recently. Now that Greeley was considering moving back to California, she thought the Sleuders might decide to come out to the coast, too, maybe settle down inland where properly was cheaper. Since they had that terrible financial loss last year, she supposed they didn’t have a lot of money. Well, the only reasonshecould afford to be here was because she and Lou had bought their little place nearly forty years ago when prices along the marsh were nothing. And both of them always worked, too. Their cottage had been only a couple thousand dollars, back then, and was called a fishing shack.

She’d buried Lou in the Molena Point Cemetery thirteen years ago last April, and she had to admit, if only to herself, shewaslonely-lonely and sometimes afraid.

Well, maybe she wasn’t the only one who was lonely. Before Ralph made their plane reservations, Dora had called her four times in one week, long chatty calls, as if she, too, needed family. Then Dora surprised her by deciding to head out her way, when they didn’t even know if Greeley was coming. Usually it was Greeley who set the dates, far in advance, when he could get off work.

The small, twin-engine commuter flashed across the sky. Mavity pressed against the glass watching as it came taxiing back, its turbo engines throbbing, and slowed and turned and pulled up before the building. She watched two men push the rolling metal stair up to its door, watched the baggage cart run out to the plane, and stood looking for Dora and Ralph. There was no first class on the commuter, so they might even be first in line.

Waiting for her family, she did not see the thin-faced man behind the pillar shift in his chair for a better view of the plane-a pale, waxen-faced man with light brown hair hanging down his back in a ponytail, pale brown eyes. His brown cords and brown polo shirt were deeply wrinkled, his imitation leather loafers pulled on over bare feet.

Half hidden behind the post, Troy Hoke had observed Mavity since she arrived, and now, watching the disembarking passengers, he smiled as Dora and Ralph Sleuder came ponderously down the metal steps and headed across the tarmac toward the building. Dora’s T-shirt said GEORGIA PEACH, stenciled over the picture of a huge pink peach, and Ralph’s shirt told the world that he was a GEORGIA BULLDOGS fan. As they came into the glass-walled waiting room, Hoke lifted his newspaper again. The two big people surged inside, laughing and engulfing Mavity in hugs. He kept the newspaper raised as the three stepped to the moving baggage belt and stood talking, waiting for the luggage. He had parked at the far end of the long-term section and, coming up into the terminal forty-five minutes before Mavity arrived, he had loitered in the gift shop reading magazines until he saw Mavity’s old VW Bug pull by the glass doors heading for the parking lot. Had watched her come quickly up the hill again, in that familiar, impatient jerking way she had, and swing in through the glass doors to check the flight postings.

The luggage was being unloaded, the two baggage handlers throwing it off the cart onto the belt. It took a while for the Sleuders to retrieve their suitcases, slowly building a tilting mountain of baggage. He watched the two hefty folk and Mavity slide and drag suitcases across the lobby to the main door, where Dora and Ralph waited beside their belongings while Mavity went to get her car, pulling into the loading zone. He was amused at their efforts to stow all the bags into the interior of the VW and in the hood. They rearranged the load three times before they could close the doors. Dora sat in the front seat balancing a big duffle on her lap. Ralph, in the back, was buried under three suitcases. Not until he saw the VW drive off and turn toward the freeway did the thin-faced man leave the terminal, taking his time as he walked to his car and then headed for Molena Point.

Mavity’s little car was so loaded she thought its springs would flatten right down to the ground. Leaving the terminal, she was certain the tailpipe would drag along the concrete. Before she left home she’d removed all her cleaning stuff-brooms, mops, her two vacuum cleaners, the canister model and the old Hoover upright, and her scrub buckets and plastic carrier fitted out with bottles of cleaning solutions and window scrapers and rags-had left it all in the carport hoping Greeley’s cat wouldn’t pee on everything. Now, beside her, Dora sat pinned down by the big duffle bag and by her bed pillow, which she always carried when she traveled because without it she couldn’t sleep. Dora’s arm pooched over the gearshift, and her thigh squished against it so hard that they might have to drive the freeway in low gear.

“Where’s Greeley?” Ralph asked, looking around the VW as if he expected his father-in-law to materialize from beneath a suitcase.

“He’s really anxious to see you,” Mavity said. “Too bad there wasn’t room in the car.”

“How long is it to the house?” Dora said nervously. “I should have stopped in the ladies’ room.”

“Ten minutes,” Mavity lied, cutting the time in half. “You remember. Only a little while. You can hold it.”

“Is there a Burger King near? We could stop there for the restroom. Or a McDonald’s?”

Patiently Mavity swung down an off-ramp to McDonald’s and watched Dora make a trip inside. When Dora wedged herself back into the car she was toting a white paper bag emblazoned with the golden arches and smelling of hamburger and onions. She handed Ralph a double burger, its wrapping damp with mustard, and shoved a giant paper cup between her knees.

Mavity, pulling onto the freeway again, was glad the Sunday traffic wasn’t heavy. Already she was beginning to feel like a sardine packed too tight. She tried to keep her mind on the cool, piney sea wind blowing in through her open window. Ahead, as she turned toward Molena Point, the wide expanse of sea with the sun on it eased the tight feeling across her shoulders. But when they turned off the highway into the village, Dora said, “I’d love to see where you work, where they’re doing that remodeling. Could we stop by there?” Dora loved anything to do with houses.

“We can come back,” Mavity told her. “After we unload. Or this evening after supper we can take a run up, the four of us.” If she didn’t get out of the crammed car soon she was going to have one of those shaky attacks that left her feeling weak.

But Dora’s face crumpled with disappointment.

“Or what about tomorrow morning?” Mavity said quickly. “You and Ralph and Greeley can drop me off for work, take your time looking at the building-though it’s just a mess of lumber and Sheetrock-then you can have the car for the day, go out for a nice lunch, and pick me up at five. How would that suit you?” She seldom offered her car when they were visiting, because she needed it for work, and she knew Dora wouldn’t refuse.

Dora nodded, despite the disappointment that pulled down her soft jowels. Mavity only hoped she could show them through the apartments quickly tomorrow, without getting in everyone’s way. Dora seemed totally set on seeing the project, and when Dora got her mind on something, it was hard to distract her.

They found Greeley at home in the kitchen frying chicken. He made drinks for Dora and Ralph, and they sat in lawn chairs out on the grass, looking at the bay, talking and catching up, until Dora and Ralph got hungry.

Dora didn’t mention the apartment building again during dinner, but Monday morning she and Ralph were up early getting themselves ready, getting in Mavity’s way as she tried to wash and dress.

And up at the apartments, they insisted on poking through every room, bothering the two carpenters and chattering to Pearl Ann and Charlie, who were busy hanging Sheetrock, slowing everyone’s work until Pearl Ann opened a can of paint thinner and accidentally spilled some on Dora, and that sent Dora off with Ralph in the VW to change her clothes.

She thought it strange that Dora had seemed to avoid the patio, keeping to its roofed walkway or inside the apartments, but glancing out often-almost as if she didn’t want to be seen, though there was no one living in the apartments, only Mr. Jergen, and his office lights weren’t burning; the upstairs windows were dark as if he had gone out. Maybe Dora, looking out at the flower beds, had developed an interest in landscaping. Heaven knew, the patio could use some nice plants and bushes; it must look to Dora like last year’s dried-up farm stubble.

Well, despite Dora’s peculiarities, it was good that she had gotten her mind off her troubles; this was not an easy time for the Sleuders. Mavity guessed she ought to be a bit more tolerant of Dora’s irritating manner.

9 [????????: pic_10.jpg]

AT THREE O’CLOCK on Tuesday morning across the moonlit village nothing stirred, no hush of tires on the damp streets, no rumble of car engines beneath the cloud-veiled moon; the tangle of cottages and shops and sheltering trees was so still the village might have been cast beneath some hoary wizard’s hundred-year enchantment. The white walls of Clyde Damen’s cottage and its ragged lawn were patterned with the ancient scriptures of tree shadow as still as if frozen in time. But suddenly a shadow broke away, racing across the mottled lawn and up the steps and in through the cat door, his white pawsflashing.

Tracking mud across the carpet, Joe Grey trotted through the sleeping house accompanied by comforting and familiar sounds; the creak in the floor as he crossed the hall, Clyde’s irregular snoring from the bedroom, and beyond the kitchen door, old Rube gently snuffling his own doggy snores. Joe pictured the Labrador sprawled on the bottom bunk in the laundry, among the tangle of cats, all sleeping deeply. The four household animals had slept thus ever since Barney died, dog and cats crowding together to ease their loneliness for the elderly golden retriever.

Joe missed Barney, too. The old golden had been a clown, always into something, dragging Clyde’s Levis and gym equipment all over the house, huffing and growling in the kitchen as he goaded the white cat to knock a pack of cookies off the top of the refrigerator.

Moving swiftly down the hall, Joe’s nostrils were filled with the stench of human sleep laced with beer and garlic. Loping across the bedroom’s antique rug, he sprang onto the blankets inscribing muddy pawprints, avoiding Clyde’s stomach by leaping over his housemate. Kneading the empty pillow, he stretched out across it andbegan to wash.

Around him, the room was a montage of twisted tree shadows, as dense as if he resided in a jungle-though the thought of jungle irritated him, reminded him of the invading torn. As he washed, Clyde stirred and moaned-and woke, leaning up to stare.

“What the hell are you doing? You’re shaking the whole damned bed.”

“How could I shake the bed? I was simply washing my face. You’re so sensitive.”

Clyde snatched up the digital clock.“It’s three A.M. I was sound asleep.”

“You wouldn’t want me to go to sleep unbathed.”

“I don’t care if you never take a bath-if you call that disgusting lickingbathing.” Clyde flipped on the bedside lamp, scowling at him.

“My God. I might as well have a platoon of muddy marines marching across the sheets. Can’t you wash outside? When I go to bed, I don’t drag half the garden in. And I don’t do all that stomping and wiggling.”

“Youhave hot and cold running water and a stack of nice thick bath towels. All I have is my poor little cat tongue.”

Clyde sighed.“I presume the hunting was successful, by the amount of blood on your face. And by the fact that you are not out in the kitchen banging around clawing open the kibble box, ripping through the entire supply of cat goodies.”

“When have I ever done that after a night’s hunt? Of course the hunting was successful. Was, in fact, very fine. The full moon, even with clouds streaked across it, makes the rabbits wild.

“It’s the lunar pull,” Joe told Clyde, giving him a narrow leer. “Oh, the rabbits danced tonight. Spun and danced across the hills as if there wasn’t a cat within miles. Lovely rabbits. Such tender little rabbits.”

“Please. Spare me your feline sadism.”

“What we do is certainly not sadism. We are part of a complicated and essential balance of nature-a part, if you will, of the Godgiven food chain. An essential link in the necessary?”

Clyde snatched up his pillow and whacked Joe.“Stop talking. Stop washing. Stop shaking the bed. Shut up and lie still and get the hell to sleep.”

Joe crawled out from under the pillow, his ears back, his head ducked low, and his bared teeth gleaming sharp as knives.

Clyde drew back, staring at him.“What? What’s the matter? I hardly tapped you.”

“You didn’ttapme. Youwhackedme. In all our years together, you’ve never hit me. What’s with you? How come you’re so irritable?”

“I’mirritable? You’re the bad-tempered one-I thought you were going to take my arm off.” Clyde peered closer, looking him over. “You and Dulcie have a fight?”

“You’re so witty. No we didn’t have a fight. I simply don’t like being hit. Fun is one thing, but that was real anger. And why would Dulcie and I fight? For your information, I left Dulcie on Ocean Avenue staring in the window of that new Latin American shop, drooling over all that handmadestuff they sell. And why areyouso edgy? You and Charlie have a fight?”

“Of course not. She?” Clyde paused, frowning. “Well she was a bit cool.”

“And you’re taking it out on me. Venting your bad mood on a defenseless little cat. What did you fight about?”

“Nothing. She was just cool. She’s been cool ever since Sunday morning. Who knows what’s with women?”

“Bernine,” Joe said and resumed washing his paws.

“Berninewhat?”

Joe shrugged.

“You mean she’s in a bad temper because Bernine’s staying with Wilma? But why get angry at me?”

“You figure it out. I’m not going to draw pictures for you. I don’t suppose you would want to get up and pour me a bowl of milk. I’m incredibly thirsty.”

“You’re not saying-Charlie’s notjealous.Jealous of Bernine Sage?”

“Milk is good for the stomach after a full meal of raw game. A nice chilled drink of milk would ease my mood, and would wash down that cottontail with just the right dietetic balance.”

“Why the hell would she be jealous of Bernine? Bernine Sage is nothing-a bimbo, a gold digger. Doesn’t Charlie?? Bernine doesn’t care about anything but Bernine. What’s to be jealous of?”

“If you would keep a bowl of milk in the refrigerator where I can reach it, I wouldn’t have to ask. It’s demeaning to have to beg. I have no trouble opening the refrigerator, but without fingers and a thumb I really can’t manage the milk bottle.”

“Please, spare me the details.”

“And have a glass yourself-it will help you sleep.”

“I was asleep, until you decided to take a bath. And now you want me to get up out of a nice warm bed and freeze my feet on the linoleum, to?”

“Slippers. Put on your slippers. Put on a robe-unless you really enjoy schlepping around the kitchen naked, with the shades up, giving the neighbors a thrill.”

“I am not naked. I have on shorts. I am not going to get out of bed. I am not going to go out to the kitchen and wake up the other animals, to pour you a bowl of milk. I can’t even describe the rudeness of such a request-all so you can wash down your bloody kill. That is as barbaric as some African headhunter drinking blood and milk. The Watusi or something.”

“Masai. They are not headhunters. The Masai are a wise and ancient people. They drink milk mixed with the blood of their cattle to give them strength. It is an important Masai ritual, a meaningful and religious experience.Theyknow that milk is nourishing to the soul as well as to the body of a tired hunter. And if you want to talk disgusting, what about those Sugar Puffs or Honey Pops or whatever you eat for breakfast with all that pyridoxine hydrochloride and palmitate, to name just a few foreign substances. You think that’s not putting strange tilings in your stomach?” Joe kneaded thepillow; its springy softness gave him the same sense of security he had known in kittenhood kneading at his mother’s warm belly. “There’s a fresh half-gallon of milk in the refrigerator, whole milk.”

Clyde sighed, rose, and began to search for his slippers. Joe watched him for a moment then galloped along past him to the kitchen.

And as Joe drank milk out of his favorite bowl, which Clyde had placed on the breakfast table, and below him on the floor the other animals slurped up their own hastily supplied treats, Clyde sat at the table drinking cold coffee left over from the morning before.

“I hope you killed that rabbit quickly and didn’t tease it. I don’t like to think of you and Dulcie tormenting?” Clyde shook his head. “For two intelligent beings, you really ought to show more restraint. What good is it to be sentient, to be master of a culturally advanced language, and, supposedly, of advanced thought patterns, and still act like barbarians?”

“The rabbit died quickly. Dulcie broke its neck. Does that make you happy? It was a big buck-a huge buck, maybe the granddaddy of rabbits. It clawed her in the belly, too. For your information, a rabbit can be as vicious as a Doberman when you?”

“Wouldn’t you be vicious if someone was trying to flay you for supper?”

“We’re cats. We’re hunters. God put rabbits on the earth for cats to hunt-it’s what we do. You want we should go on food stamps?”

Finished with his milk, he dropped to the cold linoleum, Clyde turned off the light, and they trucked back to bed again. But, getting settled, clawing his side of the blanket into a satisfactory nest, Joe began to worry about Dulcie.

When he had left her in the village, not an hour before, he thought he glimpsed a shadow moving across the rooftops. Probably a raccoon or possum had climbed to the rooftops to scavenge bird’s nests. And even if it had been Azrael, Dulcie would be in control; she was quite capable of bloodying Azrael if he got fresh.

Or, he hoped she was.

The moon’s light cast the sidewalk and shops into a labyrinth of confusing shadows, but the street seemed empty, and Dulcie heard no sound, nor had noticed anything moving except, high above her, the little bats darting and squeaking. Her attention was centered on the shop window against which she stood,her paws pressed to the glass, the bright colors of weavings and carvings and clay figures softly illuminated into a rainbow of brilliance. Oh, the bright art drew her. Pushing her nose against the pane, she sniffed the exotic scents that seeped through, aromas no human would detect; the faint drift of sour foreign dyes, of rare woods and leathers, the heavy stink of sheep fat from the handmade wool rugs and blankets. Studying the bold Colombian and Peruvian patterns, she thought that their strange-looking horses and deer and cats were closer akin to mythological animals than to real beasts.

Closer akin to me,she thought.

The notion startled her, shocked her, made her shiver.

The idea must have been playing on her mind without realizing, from the myths she had read-the notion that she was strange and out of sync with the world.

It isn’t so. I am real flesh and blood, not some weird mythical beast. I am only different.

Just a little bit different.

And stubbornly she returned her attention to the bright and foreign wares.

She had, coming down the street, paused at each shop to stand on her hind paws and stare in, admiring handprinted silk blouses and cashmere sweaters and handmade silver jewelry, her hunger for those lovely embellishments making her purr and purr with longing.

Now, dropping to all fours, she slipped into the garden that ran beside the shop and trotted along to the back, staring up at the transom above the back door.

She did not intend to steal-as she had, in the past, stolen silky garments from her neighbors. She meant only to get nearer the lovely wares, to sniff and feel and enjoy.

Swarming up a purple-blooming bougainvillea vine that climbed the shop wall, forcing up between its tangle of rough, woody limbs, she clung above the back door, clawing at the narrow transom until the hinged window dropped inward. It stopped halfway, held by a chain.

Crawling through on the slanted glass, she jumped down to a stack of packing crates, then to the floor.

She was in the shop’s storeroom. It smelled of packing straw and the sour scent of the raw mahogany crates that had been shipped from South America.

Trotting into the big showroom, she was surrounded by primitive weavings and carvings and paintings, was immersed in a gallery of the exotic, every tabletop and display case filled with unusual treasures. Leaping to a counter, she nosed at straw figures and clay beasts, at painted wooden animals and medieval-looking iron wall hangings and applique pictures made from tiny bits of cloth. Lying down on a stack of wool sweaters as soft as the down of a baby bird, she rolled luxuriously, purring and humming a happy, half-cat, half-human song of delight.

It had been a long time since she’d coveted anything so fiercely as these lovely creations.

Choosing the softest sweater, a medley of rust and cream and black that complemented her own tabby coat, she forgot her good intentions. Dragging it between her front paws-like a leopard dragging an antelope-she headed across the floor to the storeroom. There she gazed up toward the high window, her head swimming with the heady pleasure of taking, all for herself, something so beautiful. She was crouched to leap when a sharp thud made her spin around, bristling.

She could smell him before she saw him. In the inky gloom, he was a whisper of black on black, his amber eyes gleaming, watching her. Sauntering out of the darkness, he smiled with smug superiority.“What have you stolen, my dear?”

She crouched, glaring.

“My, my. Would you report me and Greeley to the police, when you’re nothing but a thief yourself? Tell me, Dulcie, where are you taking that lovely vicuna sweater?”

“I’m taking it to nap on it,” she lied, “in the storeroom, away from the display lights. Is there a law against that?”

The tomcat sat down, cutting her a wicked smile.“You don’t steal, my dear? You have never stolen from, say, your neighbors? Never slipped into their houses and carried away silk underwear, never stolen a black silk stocking or a lace teddy?”

Her heart pounded; if she had been human, her face would have flamed red.

“My dear Dulcie, I know all about your little escapades. About the box that your Wilma Getz keeps on her back porch so the neighbors can retrieve their stolen clothes, about Mr. Warren’s chamois gloves that were a present from his wife, about Wilma’s own expensive watch that was ‘lost’ under the bathtub for nearly a year.”

She watched him narrowly. Where had he heard such things? All her neighbors knew, but?Mavity.It had to be Mavity-she could have heard it anywhere. She’d probably told that cute little story to Greeley, having no idea she would hurt Dulcie.

“Mavity thinks you’re charming,” Azrael told her, “dragging home the neighbor’s underwear.”

The tomcat twitched his whiskers.“And Greeley, of course, was most fascinated by your display of, shall we say, perspicacity and guile.”

He looked up to the shelves above them, drawing her gaze to a row of ugly black carvings.“Those figures up there, my dear, those ugly little feathered men-youdoknow that those are voodoo dolls?”

“So?”

“That dark voodoo magic is of great importance.” His smile was oily.

“It is that kind of darkness in you, Dulcie, that entices you to steal. Oh, yes, my dear, we are alike in that.

“You know the tales of the black cat,” he said softly, “of the witch’s familiar. Those are the tales of the dark within us-that is the darkness that invites the joy of thieving, my dear. That is the darkness speaking within your nature.”

She had backed away from him, her paw raised to slash him, but his golden eyes held her, his pupils huge and black, his purring voice drawing her, enticing her.

“You and I, Dulcie, we belong to the dark. Such magic and passion are rare, are to be treasured.

“Oh, yes, the dark ways call to you, sweet tabby. The dark, voodoo ways.” He narrowed his eyes, his purr rumbling. “Voodoo magic. Black magic. Shall I say the spells for you, the dark spells? The magic so dear to your jungle brothers? Come, my Dulcie?” and he slid close against her, making her tremble.

She spun away from him hissing and crouched to leap to the transom, but he blocked her way. She fled into the showroom. He followed.

“In the jungle, my dear, the voodoo witches make dark enchantments, such exotic and exciting spells-spells to sicken and waste your enemies-and love spells, my dear?”

She leaped away but he was there pressing against her. When she lashed out at him, his topaz eyes burned with amusement and his black tail described a measured dance.

“My dark powers fascinate you, sweet Dulcie. My cunning is human cunning, but beneath my black fur, my skin is marked by the spots of the jungle cat.

“I have teased jungle dragons as big as two men and have come away unscathed. I have hunted among constrictors twenty feet long, have dodged snakes so huge they could swallow a dozen cats.” And the tomcat’s words and his steamy gaze filled her with visions she didn’t want.

“I have hunted in the mangrove trees, dodging hairy beasts with the faces of ghosts, creatures that hang upside down among the branches, their curving claws reaching as sharp as butcher knives, their coats swarming with vermin.” The black torn purred deep in his throat. “I have witnessed human voodoo rites where an image of Christ is painted with goat’s blood and common cats are skinned alive, their innards?”

“Stop it!” She twisted away, leaping to the top of a cabinet-but again he was beside her, his eyes wild, her distress exciting him. “Come run with me, Dulcie of the laughing eyes. Come with me down the shore under the full moon. Come where the marsh birds nest, where we can suck bird’s eggsand eat the soft, sweet baby birds, where we can haze the bedraggled stray cats that cower beneath the docks, the starving common cats that crouch mute beneath the pier. Come, sweet Dulcie?”

His words, frightening and cruel, stirred a wildness in her, and the torn pressed her down, began to lick her ear.“Come with me, sweet Dulcie, before the moon is gone. Come now while the night is on us.” His voice was soft, beguiling, dizzying her.

She raked him hard across the nose and leaped away, knocking sweaters to the floor, tipping a tall wooden man that fell with a crash behind her as she fled through the storeroom and up the pile of crates and out the transom.

Dropping down the vine to the mist-damp sidewalk, she fled up the side lane and across Eighth, across Seventh and then Ocean past the darkened, empty shops, never looking back, her heart pounding so hard she couldn’t have heard a dozen beasts chasing her, certainly couldn’t have heard the soft padding of Azrael’s swift pursuit.

But when, stopping in the shadow of a car, she crouched to look behind her, the sidewalk and street were empty. Above her, along the rooftops, nothing moved.

What had happened to her back there? Despite her anger, she had been nearly lost in a cocoon of dark desire.

Pheromones,she told herself.Nothing but a chemical reaction. His sooty ways have nothing to do with real life.

Shaken with repugnance at herself, she spun away again racing for home, speeding past the closed shops and at last hitting her own street, storming across Wilma’s garden, trampling the flowers, up the back steps and in through her cat door, terrified of the dark stranger and terrified of herself.

Crouching on the linoleum, she watched her door swinging back and forth, unable to shake the notion that he would come charging through.

But after a long time when the plastic door grew still and remained pale, without any looming shadow, she tried to calm herself, washing and smoothing her ruffled fur and licking at her sweating paws.

She felt bruised with shame. She had for one long moment abandoned Joe Grey-for one moment abandoned the bright clarity of life and slipped toward something dark, something rancid with evil.

Azrael’s twisted ways were not her ways.

She was not an ignorant, simple beast to whom a dalliance with Azrael would be of no importance. She was sentient; she and Joe Grey bore within themselves a rare and wonderful gift. With human intelligence came judgment. And with judgment came commitment, an eternal and steely obligation and joy from which one did not turn away.

In her gullible and foolish desire, she had nearly breeched that commitment.

There would never be another like Joe Grey, another who touched her with Joe’s sweet magic. She and Joe belonged to each other; their souls were forever linked. How could she have warmed, for the merest instant, to Azrael’s evil charms?

Pheromones,she told herself, and defiantly she stared at her cat door ready to destroy any intruder.

10 [????????: pic_11.jpg]

LATER THAT MORNING, in the patio of the Spanish-style structure, where piles of new lumber lay across the dry, neglected flower beds, from within a downstairs apartment came the sudden ragged whine of a skill-saw, jarring the two cats as they padded in through the arch past a stack of two-by-fours. The air was heavy with the scent of raw wood, sweet and sharp.

Joe couldn’t count how many mice he and Dulcie had killed in the tall grass that surrounded this building, before Clyde bought the place. Situated high above the village, the two-story derelict stood alone on the crest of the hill facing a dead-end street. The day Clyde decided to buy it was the first timeJoe had gained access or wanted to enter the musty rooms. Even the exterior smelled moldy; the place was a dump, the walls stained and badly in need of paint, the roof tiles faded and mossy, the roof gutter hanging loose.

That day, trotting close to Clyde entering the front apartment beneath festoons of cobwebs as thick as theater curtains, he was put in mind of a Charles Addams creepy cartoon; beneath the cobwebs and peeling wallpaper hung old-fashioned, imitation gas lights; under Joe’s paws, the ancient floors were deeply scarred as if generations of gigantic rats had dug and gnawed at the wood.

“You’re going to buy this heap?”

“Made an offer today,” Clyde had said proudly.

“I hope it was a low offer. What are they asking for this monstrosity?”

“Seven hundred.”

“Seven hundred dollars? Well?”

“Seven hundred thousand.”

“Seven hundredthousand?“He had stared at Clyde, unbelieving.

Over the sour smell of accumulated dirt he could smell dead spiders, dead lizards, and generations of decomposing mouse turds.“And who is going to clean and restore this nightmare?”

“I am, of course. Why else would I?”

“You?Youare going to repair this place? Clyde Damen who can’t even change a lightbulb without a major theatrical production?You’regoing to do the work here?Thisis your sound financial investment, and you’re going to protect that investment by working on it yourself?”

“May I point out that one apartmenthasbeen refurbished, that it looks great and is rented for a nice fifteen hundred a month? That most of what you’re seeing is simply dirt, Joe. The place will be totally different when it’s cleaned and painted. You take five apartments at fifteen hundred each?”

“Less taxes. Less insurance-fire insurance, liability insurance, earthquake insurance-less yard maintenance, utility bills, general upkeep?”

“After expenses,” Clyde had said patiently, “I figure ten, maybe twelve percent profit. Plus a nice depreciation write-off, to say nothing of eventual appreciation, a solid capital gain somewhere down the line.”

“Capital gain? Appreciation?“Joe had sneezed with disgust, imagining within these walls vast colonies of termites-overlooked by the building inspectors-chewing away on the studs and beams, weakening the interior structure until one day, without warning, the walls would come crashing down. He had envisioned, as well, flooded bathrooms when the decrepit plumbing gave way and faulty wiring, which at the first opportunity would short out, emit rivers of sparks, and ignite the entire building.

Which, he thought, might be the best solution.

“Itisinsured?”

“Of course it’s insured.”

“I can’t believe you made an offer on this. I can’t believe you sold those five antique cars-those cars that were worth a fortune and that you loved like your own children, those cars you spent half your life restoring-sold them to buythis.Ten years from now when you’re old and feeble and still working on this monstrosity and are so in debt you’ll never?”

“In ten years I will not be old and feeble. I am in the prime of my life. And what the hell do you know about houses? What does a cat know about the value of real estate?” Clyde had turned away really angry, hadn’t spoken to him for the rest of the day-just because he’d pointed out a few obvious truths.

And, what was worse, Dulcie had sided with Clyde. One look at the inside of the place and she was thrilled.“Don’t be such a grouch, Joe. It’s lovely. It has loads of charm. Big rooms, nice high ceilings. All it needs is?”

“The wrecking ball,” Joe had snapped. “Can you imagineClydefixing it up? Clyde, who had to beg Charlie to repair our leaky roof?”

“Maybe he’ll surprise you. I think the house will be good for him.” And she had strolled away waving her tail, padding through the dust and assessing the cavernous and musty spaces like some high-powered interior designer. Staring above her at the tall windows, trotting across the splintery floors through rooms so hollow that her smallest mew echoed, Dulcie could see only fresh paint, clean window glass, deep windowseats with puffy cushions, soft carpets to roll on. “With Charlie’s help,” she had said, “he’ll make it look wonderful.”

“They’re both crazy, repairing old junkers-Clyde fixing up this place, Charlie trying to save that heap of a VW. So he rebuilds the engine for her, does the body work, takes out the dings and rust holes, gives it new paint?”

“And fits out the interior,” Dulcie said, “with racks and cupboards for her cleaning and repair equipment-for vacuum cleaners, ladders, paint, mops, cleaning chemicals. It’ll be nice, too, Joe. You’ll see.”

Charlie had made it clear that her work on the apartments would be part-time, that her other customers came first. Her new business was less than a year old; she couldn’t afford to treat her customers badly or to turn customers away. She was lucky to have Pearl Ann on the job. Pearl Ann Jamison, besides having useful carpentry skills, was steadier, Charlie said, than most of the men she’d hired. Except for her solitary hikes up and down the coast, Pearl Ann seemed to want no other life but hard work. Pearl Ann’s only faults were a sour disposition and a dislike of cleaning any house or apartment while the occupant was at home. She said that the resident, watching over her shoulder, flustered her, made her feel self-conscious.

Now, the cats sat down in a weed-filled flower bed, listening for any mole that might be working beneath the earth. The patio was sunny and warm. The building that surrounded them on three sides contained five apartments, three up and two down, allowing space on the main level for a bank of five garages that were entered from a driveway along the far side of the building. Winthrop Jergen’s apartment was directly above the garages. Strange, Joe thought, that well-groomed, obviously well-to-do and discerning Winthrop Jergen, with his elegant suits, nice furniture, and expensive Mercedes would want to live in such a shabby place, to say nothing of putting up with the annoyance of arenovation project, with the grating whine of skill-saws and endless hammering, as he tried to concentrate on financial matters in his home office. But despite the noise, Jergen seemed content. Joe had heard him tell his clients that he liked the privacy and that he was totally enamored of the magnificent view. From Jergen’s office window he had a wide vista down the Molena Point hills to the village rooftops and the sea beyond; he said the offbeat location suited him exactly.

And Clyde was happy to have the rent, to help pay for materials while he was restoring the other four units.

Dulcie and Joe watched, through the open door of the back apartment, Charlie set up a stepladder and begin to patch the livingroom ceiling; the patching compound smelled like peppermint toothpaste. Above them, through an upstairs window, they could hear the slidingscuff, scuff of atrowel and could see Pearl Ann mudding Sheetrock. All the windows stood open except those to Jergen’s rooms; Winthrop Jergen kept his office windows tightly closed to prevent damage to his computer.

As the cats sunned in the patio, Mavity Flowers came out of the back apartment and headed upstairs, hauling her mop and bucket, her vacuum cleaner, and cleaning caddy. The cats, hoping she might stir up a last, lingering mouse, followed her as far as the stairwell, where they slipped beneath the steps.

The dusty space under the stairs still smelled of mouse, though they had wiped out most of the colony-mice as easy to catch as snatching goldfish from a glass bowl, the indolent creatures having lived too long in the vacant rooms. Winthrop Jergen’s only complaint when Clyde took over as landlord was the persistence of the apartment’s small rodents. A week after Joe and Dulcie got to work, Jergen’s complaints ceased. He had no idea that the cats hunted in his rooms; the notion would have given him fits. The man was incredibly picky-didn’t want ocean air or dust to touch his computer, so probably cat hair would be the kiss of death.

But the mice were gone, and it was while hunting the rodent colony that they had found the hidden entrance into Jergen’s rooms.

To the left of the stairs was a two-foot-wide dead space between the walls, running floor to ceiling. It could be entered from a hole beneath the third step, where the cats now crouched. Very likely Clyde would soon discover the space, which ran along beside the garages, and turn it into a storage closet or something equally useful and dull. Meantime, the vertical tunnel led directly up to Winthrop Jergen’s kitchen. There, a hinged flap opened beneath the sink, apparently some kind of cleanout access for the plumbing, so a workman could reach through to the pipes-an access plenty large enough to admit a mouse, a rat, or an interested cat into Jergen’s rooms.

Now, scrambling up inside the wall from fire block to fire block, they crouched beneath Jergen’s kitchen sink listening to Mavity’s vacuum cleaner thundering back and forth across the livingroom rug; the machine emitted a faint scent of fresh lavender, which Mavity liked to add to the empty bag. They could not, this morning, detect any scent of new mice that might have entered the premises, but all visits to Jergen’s rooms were of interest, particularly to Dulcie with her curiosity about computers-she was familiar with the library functions but spreadsheets were a whole new game.

Waiting until Mavity headed for the bedroom, they crossed the kitchen and sat down in the doorway, ready to vanish if the financier turned around. He sat with his back to them, totally occupied with the numbers on the screen.

Jergen’s office took up one end of the spacious living room. His handsome cherry-wood desk stood against the front windows, looking down the Molena Point hills-though all the cats could see from floor level was the blue sky and a few clouds, whose dark undersides hinted of rain.

The light of Jergen’s computer cast a faint blue gleam across his well-styled silver hair. His busy fingers produced a soft, constant clicking on the keys. His pale gray suit was smoothly tailored. His shoes, in the cats’ direct line of sight, were of soft, gleaming black leather. Everything about Winthrop Jergenpresented an aura of expensive good taste.

To Jergen’s right stood two cherry file cabinets, then a row of tall bookshelves filled with professional-looking volumes. The thick Kirman rug was oversized, fitting nearly to the pale walls, its colors of ivory and salmon forming a soft background to the creamy leather couch and the rose silk easy chairs. The six etchings on the left wall were delicately detailed studies of far and exotic cities, each with unusual rooftops: conical roofs, fluted roofs, straw ones topping stone huts, and a vista with sharply peaked domes. Each city flanked a seaport, as if perhaps the etchings embodied Jergen’s dreams of far and extensive travel. The vacuuming ceased, and the cats backed into shadow. As Mavity returned with a lemon-scented cloth and began to dust the end tables, Jergen stopped typing.

“Mavity, would you hand me that file? There on the credenza?”

She picked up a file from the cherry credenza, brought it across to him, her work-worn hands dry and wrinkled compared to Jergen’s smooth hands and neatly manicured nails.

“And that book-the black account book.”

Obediently she brought the book to him, complying as a kindergartner might obey a revered teacher.

“Thank you, Mavity. Your Coca-Cola stock is doing very well; you should expect a nice dividend soon. And though I can’t be certain, it appears the Home Depot stock should split this month, and that will give you a really handsome bonus.”

Mavity beamed.“I don’t know no way to thank you, Mr. Jergen, for all you’re doing for me.”

“But, Mavity, your good fortune is in my interest, too. After all, I enjoy a nice percent of your earnings.”

“Oh, and you deserve it,” she said hastily. “You earn every penny and more.”

Jergen smiled.“It’s a fair exchange. I expect your niece and her husband have arrived by now, for their visit? Didn’t you tell me they were coming this week?”

“Oh, yes, all tucked up in my little place, and enjoying the beach.” Mavity began to wind her vacuum cleaner cord, turning away to straighten it.

Jergen smiled briefly and returned to his computer; he began to work again, deep into columns of numbers. Dulcie’s eyes widened at the large amounts of money flashing on the screen and at the names of the impressive financial institutions-firms mentioned with serious respect in the library’s reference department. But soon both cats grew impatient with a world so far removed, that they could not smell or taste or deal with directly, and they slipped away, leaping down within the dark wall, crouching at the bottom.

In the musty shadows of the narrow, hidden space, Dulcie’s eyes were as black as midnight. “Mavity trusts Jergen totally. She thinks he hung the moon. Why does he make me uneasy?”

Joe looked at her and shrugged.“Don’t start, Dulcie. There’s nothing wrong with Jergen. You’re just bored-looking for trouble.”

She hissed at him but said nothing as they padded out beneath the stairs into the sunny patio. And they both forgot Winthrop Jergen when a pale blue BMW pulled up in front.

Bernine Sage swung out and came into the patio, her high heels clicking sharply across the worn bricks. Pausing, she glanced through the open doors of the two first-floor apartments.

In the back apartment Charlie had stopped work. She stood quietly on her ladder watching Bernine, but she did not call out to her. Not until Bernine headed purposefully in her direction did Charlie come down the ladder.“Looking for Clyde?” Her tone was not cordial.

“I have an appointment with Winthrop Jergen,” Bernine said cooly. “Is it upstairs? How do I??”

Charlie pointed toward the stairwell. Bernine said nothing more but headed across the patio.

Behind her, relief softened Charlie’s face. And from an upperfloor window, Pearl Ann stood at the glass watching the little scene with a dry, amused smile.

The cats listened to the clink of Bernine’s heels on the stairs, then her soft knock.

“She doesn’t waste any time, does she?” Dulcie said with a cutting little mew.

Joe shrugged.“She’ll start off talking investments, then come onto him. The woman’s a leech.” He curled up in the sunny weeds, yawning.

Dulcie curled up beside him, watching and listening. And it wasn’t half an hour later that they heard the upstairs door open and heard Bernine say softly, “Twelve-thirty, then. See you tomorrow.” And she clicked down the steps and left the patio with a smug, self-satisfied expression. Her fast work, even for Bernine, piqued Dulcie’s interest like the sound of mice scratching at a baseboard.

She watched Bernine drive away, then looked up at Jergen’s apartment. “Does he realize she’s a little gold digger? He seems smarter than that.”

“Maybehe’splaying at some game-maybe he sees right through her.”

Dulcie smiled.“I want to see this. I want to see how he looks when he leaves to pick her up, what he’s wearing?”

“That’s incredibly nosy. What difference?”

“What he’s wearing,” she said with patient female logic, “will indicate what he has in mind-what he thinks of Bernine.”

And Dulcie’s curiosity drew them back the next day to the patio, where they lay napping in the sun as Winthrop Jergen left his apartment. The sight of him made Dulcie laugh.

“Just as I thought. Trying to look like a twenty-year-old.”

He was dressed in a black turtleneck sweater that set off his sleek silver hair, tight black slacks, a tan suede sport coat, and suede boots.“Right,” Dulcie said, smirking. “Bernine made a big impression. Don’t be surprised if she takes him for a nice sum-she has a way with her lovers.”

But Joe was watching Pearl Ann gathering up her cleaning equipment as Jergen’s Mercedes pulled away. Joe rose as she headed for the stairs.

“This isn’t Jergen’s regular cleaning day,” he said, as Pearl Ann slipped quickly inside. “Come on.”

In another minute they were crouched beneath Jergen’s sink, waiting for the customary cleaning sounds, for Pearl Ann’s vacuum to start. They heard only silence, then the jingle of keys and a file drawer sliding open.

Slipping to the kitchen door, they watched Pearl Ann sitting at Winthrop Jergen’s desk examining the hanging files in an open drawer. Her keys dangled on their familiar gold chain from the drawer’s lock.

Searching through the files, she removed one occasionally and laid it on the desk, paging through. Then she turned on Jergen’s computer. She seemed quite at home with the machine, scrolling through vast columns of numbers. But every few minutes she rose to lean over the desk, looking down at the street below, her jumpsuit tight across her slim rear. The scent of her jasmine cologne was so sharp that Dulcie had to press her nose against her paw to keep from sneezing. After a long perusal of both hard copy and computer files, she removed a floppy disk from her pocket and slipped it into the machine.

“Copies,” Dulcie breathed against Joe’s ear. “She’s making copies. She’s using a code. How does she know his code?” At night in the library, after some instruction from Wilma, she found the computer a challenge, though she still preferred the feel of book pages beneath her paws. She knew about codes, Wilma had shown her that; Wilma kept a few things on her computer she didn’t want the whole library to know.

When Pearl Ann seemed finished with the financial sheets, she pulled up a file of Jergen’s business letters, quickly read through them and copied them, then dropped the disk in her pocket and turned off the machine. As she turned to put away the files, a whiff of her perfume engulfed the cats, and without warning, Dulcie sneezed.

Pearl Ann whirled and saw them.

“Cats! My God! Get out of here! What are you doing in here! He’ll have a fit. How did you get in here!”

Crouching, they backed away. Neither Joe nor Dulcie cared to run beneath the sink and reveal their secret entrance. And the front door was securely closed.

“Scat! Go on, get out!” She snatched up her mop, shaking it at them.

They didn’t move.

“You nervy little beasts! Goon,get out of here!” Her voice was hoarse with impatience.

They turned toward the front door, hoping she’d open it, but they weren’t fast enough. She shouted again and lunged at them, exhibiting a temper they hadn’t guessed at.

They’d never gotten friendly with Pearl Ann, nor she with them. She did her work, and they went about their business, all perfectly civil. But now that they were in her way, they saw a more violent side to Pearl Ann Jamison. Swinging her mop, she advanced on Dulcie, trapping her against the file cabinet. “You nasty little beast.”

Dulcie fought the mop, enraging Pearl Ann, who swooped and grabbed her, snatched her up, avoiding her claws, and shook her hard.

Joe leaped at Pearl Ann, clawing her leg to make her drop Dulcie. Gasping, she hit him and swung Dulcie up.“Damncats! Damn!” she croaked. Jerking the door open, she pitched Dulcie down the stairwell.

Joe barely skinned through as she slammed the door; below him Dulcie fell, unable to find her footing. He flew down the stairs, ramming against her, pushing her into the baseboard to stop her headlong tumble. Pressing against her, he could feel her heart pounding.

“You okay?” he asked, as they crouched shivering on the steps.

“I think so. I couldn’t get my paws under me.”

“What was she so angry about? What’s with her?” He licked her face, trying to calm her. “Do you hurt anywhere?”

“I’m all right. I guess she doesn’t like cats. I never saw that side of her before.” Her voice was shaky. She licked hard at her left shoulder.

“Whatever she was doing in there, she was nervous as a rat in a cement mixer. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

They beat it out through the patio, didn’t stop until they were across the street on their own turf, hidden in the tall grass.

“So whatwasshe doing?” Joe said, nosing at Dulcie’s hurt shoulder. “Is she trying to rip him off? First Bernine came onto him, and now Pearl Ann’s nosing around.” He looked intently at Dulcie. “What, exactly, was she doing at the computer?”

“I couldn’t make much of it, all those numbers make my head reel. You’d have to have an accounting degree.”

“Maybe she’s running a scam. Hire onto a job, look for something to steal. But what would she??”

“Could she be the law?” Dulcie wondered. “Or a private detective? Maybe checking on Jergen?”

“Checking on him for what?”

“I don’t know. Or maybe investigating one of his clients?”

Joe frowned, the white mark down his nose squeezing into a scowl.“Anything’s possible.”

“Whatever she was doing, and in spite of getting sworn at and tossed downstairs, I’m as much on her side as Jergen’s. Sometimes that man makes me twitch. Always so smooth and restrained-and alwayssowell-groomed.”

Joe grinned.“Not like Clyde-earthy and honest.” But then he sat lost in thought.

“Did Bernine get Jergen away so Pearl Ann could snoop?” Dulcie asked.

Joe looked at her and said nothing. Was there a crime here, or were they painting more into this than was there?

She said,“Pearl Ann was snooping for some reason. And Bernine-even for Bernine-really did come onto him pretty fast.”

The cats looked intently at each other, the two incidents, together, as compelling to them as a wounded bird fluttering before their noses.

11 [????????: pic_12.jpg]

WALKING ALONGDolores Street carrying a bowl of potato salad and a six-pack of beer, Charlie glanced up as Wilma nudged her, nodding ahead to where a black Mercedes convertible had slowed to turn the corner. From the driver’s seat, Winthrop Jergen raised his hand in greeting. Sitting close beside him, Bernine gave them a tight little smile, cold and patronizing. The tall redhead was elegantly dressed in a sleek black, bare-shouldered frock, her russet hair coiled high and caught with a band of black.

“She doesn’t waste any time,” Charlie said. “Lunch yesterday and now dinner. Wonder where they’re going.”

“Somewhere expensive, if I know Bernine.” Wilma shifted the bag of French bread to her other hand and reached up to steady Dulcie, who was riding on her shoulder. “Mavity’s remarks on Sunday, about Jergen’s financial acumen, were like gunfire to the troops.”

“It’s amazing she didn’t already know him, considering he’s a well-to-do bachelor.”

“A rare oversight. I’ve known Bernine half my life, and she seldom misses such a plum.” Glancing around at Dulcie, Wilma winked. Dulcie narrowed her eyes in answer. But as the convertible turned the corner and disappeared, she turned her attention to the shop windows, dismissing Bernine’s little games, enjoying the elevated view from Wilma’s shoulder. Her high perch was a liberating change from being level with the bottoms of doorways-from breathing the smell of hot rubber tires and dog pee and having to stand on her hind paws to see a store display. One had, at twelve inches from the sidewalk, a somewhat limited perspective.

Charlie, pausing at a dress shop, stared covetously in at a creamy velvet cocktail suit, where the sleek, darkhaired mannequin posed against a background of city lights.“Wish I could wear that stuff-and could look like that.”

“Of course you can wear it, and of course you can look like that, or better. That ivory velvet would be smashing with your red hair.”

“Right. And where would I wear it? For four hundred dollars, I’d rather have a Bosch drill, some new sawhorses, and a heavier sander.” Charlie laughed and moved on, looking around her with pleasure at the small village. Over the rooftops, the eastern hills were burnished by early-evening light, the windows of the scattered hillside houses reflecting gold and catching images of the sinking sun. Close around them along the narrow streets, the sprawling oaks, the tubs of flowers, the little benches, and the used-brick facades and jutting bay windows caught the light, so brilliant with color and yet so cozy that she felt her heart skip.

“This village-how lucky we are. The first time I ever saw it, I knew that I’d come home.”

Wilma nodded.“Some people are born for fast highways, for tall buildings, but you and I, we’re happier with the small places, the people-friendly places, with the little, interesting details-and with having everything we need right within walking distance.

“I like sensing the land under me, too. The way the old cypress trees cling to the great rims of rock and the rock ridges drop away into the sea like the spine of some ancient, half-emerged animal.

In the city,” Wilma said, “I can’t sense the earth. I couldn’t wait, when I retired, to move back home.

“I like knowing that these old trees were here before there was a village, when this coastal land was all wild-range cattle and grizzly bear country.” Wilma put her hand on Dulcie as they crossed the southbound lane of Ocean, toward the wide, grassy stretch of the tree-shaded median.

“I bet you had enough of big city crime, too.”

Wilma nodded.“In Molena Point, I don’t have to watch my backside.”

Charlie laughed.“People-friendly,” she agreed.

And cat-friendly,Dulcie thought. Compared to San Francisco’s mean alleys, which Joe had described in frightening detail-the bad-tempered, roving dogs, the speeding cars, the drunks reaching out from doorways to snatch a little cat and hurt it-compared to these, Molena Point reallywascat heaven, just as Clyde told Joe.

Clyde said Joe was lucky to have landed here. And despite Joe’s smart-mouthed replies, Joe Grey knew he was lucky-he just would never admit it.

Beyond Ocean, as they approached Clyde’s white Cape Cod cottage, Dulcie could smell the smokey-meaty scent from Clyde’s barbeque and could hear Clyde’s CD playing a soft jazz trumpet. Pete Fountain, she thought, purring as she leaped down from Wilma’s shoulder and in through Joe’s cat door.

In Clyde’s weedy backyard, a thick London broil sizzled on the grill. Clyde and Max Harper sat comfortably in folding chairs sipping beer. Harper, lean and leathery, looked even thinner out of uniform, dressed in soft jeans and Western shirt. Above the two men, in the maple tree, Joe Grey sprawled along a branch, watching sleepy-eyed as Dulcie threaded out the back door between Wilma’s and Charlie’s ankles. The little tabby headed across the yard, slowed by the inspection of the household cats sniffing and rubbing against her and by Rube’s wet licks across her face. The old Labrador loved Dulcie, and she was always patient with him; she never scratched him for his blundering clumsiness and sloppy greetings. Trotting quickly across the grass, escaping the menagerie, she swarmed up the tree to settle on the branch beside Joe, her weight dropping them a bit lower among the leaf cover.

Below them the picnic table was set for four and loaded with jars of condiments, paper napkins, plastic plates, bowls of chips and dip, and now Wilma’s covered bowl of potato salad. Wilma laid the foil-wrapped garlic bread at the back of the grill and put her beer in the Styrofoam cooler, tossing one to Charlie and opening one for herself. As she sat down, Clyde handed her a sheaf of papers.

Looking them over, she smiled.“What did you do, Max, threaten your men with desk duty if they didn’t sign a petition? Looks like you got signatures from the jail regulars, too.”

“Of course,” Harper said. “Drug dealers, pimps, they’re all there.”

She looked up at Clyde.“Two of these petitions are yours. You’ve been intimidating your automotive customers.”

Clyde tossed a roll of paper towels on the table.“They don’t sign the petition, they don’t get their car-though most of them were pleased to sign it.” He tipped up his beer, took a long swallow. “All this damn fuss. If the village wants a library cat, what’s the harm? This Brackett woman is a piece of work.”

“Next thing,” Harper said, “she’ll be complaining because my men circulated petitions on their own time.”

“She’ll try to get an ordinance against that, too,” Charlie said.

“She’d have a hard time,” Harper said. “Those petitions aren’t for financial or political gain, they’re for a cat. A poor, simple cat.”

Dulcie cut her eyes at Joe.A poor, simple cat?But she had to smile. For someone so wary of certain felines, Max Harper had responded to the library cat battle like a real gentleman-though if he knew the petitions were to help one of his telephone informants, he might go into shock.

Clyde adjusted the height of the grill to keep the meat from burning. The aroma of the London broil made the cats lick their whiskers.

Harper looked at Charlie.“So your landlord tossed you out.”

“I’m back freeloading on Wilma.”

“And you’ve joined Sicily Aronson’s group,” he said. “I stopped in the gallery to have a look.” He nodded his approval. “Your animals are very fine.” Charlie’s cheeks reddened. Harper glanced up at Dulcie and Joe as if inspecting them for a likeness. “You make those cats look?”

He paused, frowning, seemed to revise what he’d started to say. “It’s fine work, Charlie. And the Aronson is a good gallery-Sicily’s people sell very well. I think your work will be very much in demand.”

Charlie smiled.“That would be nice-it would be great to fatten up my bank account, stop feeling shaky about money.”

“It’ll come,” Harper said. “And Charlie’s Fix-It, Clean-It appears to be doing well-except,” he said, glancing at Clyde, “you need to be careful about questionable clients.”

“If you hit it big,” Clyde said, “if you sell a lot of drawings, you could put some money with Jergen, go for the high earnings. A bank doesn’t pay much interest.”

“I don’t like the uncertainty,” Charlie told him. “Call me chicken, but I’d rather depend on a small and steady interest.”

Clyde tested the meat, slicing into one end, a tiny cut that ran bloody. In the tree above, the cats watched, mesmerized.

Harper passed Charlie a beer.“Have you found a new apartment?”

“Haven’t had time to look. Or maybe I haven’t had the incentive,” Charlie said. “I get pretty comfortable with Wilma.”

“There are a couple of cottages empty down near Mavity’s place. We cleared one last week-busted the tenant for grass.”

“Just what I want. Handy to my friendly neighborhood drug dealer.”

“In fact, it’s pretty clean down there. We manage to keep them at bay.”

Molena Point depended for much of its income on tourism, and Harper did his best to keep the village straight, to stay on top of any drug activity. But even Molena Point had occasional problems. Several months ago, Joe remembered, there’d been an influx of PCP and crack. Harper had made three cases and got three convictions. In this town, the dealers went to jail. Harper had said that some of the drugs coming into the village were designer stuff, experimental pills.

Clyde said,“I could turn one of the new apartments into two studios. You could rent one of those.”

“Your permit doesn’t allow for more than five residences,” Charlie said.

“Or you could move in here, with me.”

Charlie blushed.“If I move in with you, Clyde Damen, I’ll sleep in the laundry with the cats and Rube.”

At the sound of his name, Rube lifted his head, staring bleerily at Charlie. The old dog’s cataracts made his eyes dull and milky. His black muzzle was salted with white hairs. When Charlie reached to pet him, Rube leaned his head against her leg. The three household cats wound around Clyde’s ankles as he removed the steak from the grill. But when the foursome was seated, it was Charlie who took up a knife and cut off bits of her steak for the animals.

The CDs played softly a string of Preservation Hall jazz numbers, the beer was ice cold, the steak pink and tender, the conversation comfortable, and as evening drew down, the fog gathered, fuzzing the outdoor lights and enclosing the backyard until it seemed untouched by the outside world. It was not until the four had finished dinner, the animals had had their fill, and Charlie was pouring coffee, that Harper mentioned the burglaries.

There had been a third breakin, at Waverly’s Leather Goods. “They got over four thousand in small bills. Didn’t take anything else, just the cash.” Waverly’s was the most exclusive leather shop in the village. “We have one partial print-we’re hoping it’s his. The guy’s real careful.

“The print doesn’t match any of the employees, but it will take a few days to get a make. He may have taken off his gloves for a minute while he was working on the safe.”

“Are you still going on the theory the burglar’s getting hold of the store keys?” Wilma asked.

Harper shrugged.“We’re checking the locksmiths. Or he could simply be skilled with locks.” He started to say something more, then hesitated, seemed to change his mind.

In the tree above him, the cats stared up at the sky, following the antics of the diving bats that wheeled among the treetops, but taking in Harper’s every word.

Wilma, glancing up at them, exchanged a look with Clyde and turned away torn between a scowl and a laugh. The cats aggravated them both-but they were so wonderful and amazing that Wilma wished, sometimes, that she could follow them unseen and miss nothing.

It was not until the company had left, around midnight, that Clyde vented his own reaction. As Joe settled down, pawing at the bed covers, Clyde pulled off his shirt and emptied his pockets onto the dresser.“So what gives?”

“What gives about what?”

“You’re very closemouthed about these burglaries.” He turned to look at Joe. “Why the silence? There is no crime in Molena that you and Dulcie don’t get involved with.”

Joe looked up at him dully.

“Come on, Joe.”

Joe yawned.

“What?Suddenly I’m the enemy? You think I can’t be trusted?”

“We’re not interested in these petty thefts.”

“Of course you’re interested. And isn’t it nice, once in a while, to share your thoughts, to have some human feedback?”

“We’re not investigating anything. Three amateurish little burglaries-Harper can handle that stuff.”

“You have, in the past, not only confided in me, but picked up some rather useful information, thanks to yours truly.”

Joe only looked at him.

“Clues you would surely have missed if Max and I didn’t play poker, if you didn’t scrounge around on the poker table, eavesdropping. But now you’re too good to talk to me?”

Joe yawned again.“I am eternally grateful for your help on previous occasions. But at the moment I am not in need of information. We’re not interested.” Turning over on the pillow, with his back to Clyde, he began to work on his claws, pulling off the old sheaths.

He and Dulcie already knew who the perp was. As soon as they checked out Mavity’s brother, Greeley, and found where he’d stashed the money, they’d tip Harper. And that would wrap it up. If the prints on the stolen bills matched the print from the leather shop, Harper would have Greeley cold.

Biting at his claws to release the sharp new lances and listening to Clyde noisily brushing his teeth in the bathroom, he quickly laid his plan.

Dulcie wasn’t going to like the drill.

But she’d asked for it. If she wanted to play cute with the black tomcat, wanted to cut her eyes at Azrael, then she could make herself useful.

12 [????????: pic_13.jpg]

MAVITY FLOWERS’S cottage stood on pilings across a narrow road from the bay and marsh, crowded among similar dwellings, their walls cardboard-thin, their roofs flat and low, their stilted supports stained with mud from years of soaking during the highest tides. Mavity’s VW Bug was parked on the cracked cement drive that skirted close to the house. Beyond the car, at the back, the open carport was crowded with pasteboard boxes, an old table, a wooden sawhorse, two worn tires, and a broken grocery cart. Joe, approaching the yard from across the road through the tall marsh grass, skirted pools of black mud that smelled fishy and sour; then as he crossed the narrow road, Azrael’s scent came strong to him, clinging to the scruffy lawn.

Following the tomcat’s aroma up onto Mavity’s porch, he sniffed at the house wall, below an open window. Above him, the window screen had been removed and the window propped open, and black cat hairs clung to the sill. Mavity might complain about the tomcat, but she treated him cordially enough. From within the cottage, the smell of fried eggs and coffee wrapped around Joe, and he could hear silverware clatter against a plate.

“Eat up, Greeley, or I’ll be late.”

“Eating as fast as I can,” a man replied. “You hadn’t ought to rush a man in the morning.”

“If you’re coming with me, you’ll get a move on.”

Below the window, Joe Grey smiled. He’d hit pay dirt. That raspy, hoarse croak was unmistakable; he could hear again the wizened old man arguing with Azrael over their takeout fish and chips. Greeley was their man. No doubt about it. Mavity’s own brother was their light-fingered, cat-consorting thief.

Luck,Joe thought.Or the great cat god’s smiling.And, sitting down beneath the window, he prepared to wait.

Once Mavity left for work, taking Greeley with her, he’d have only Dora and Ralph to worry about-if, indeed, they were out of bed yet. Mavity said the portly couple liked to sleep late, and if the great cat god hung around, he might not even have to dodge the Sleuders; maybe they’d sleep through his search.

As for Azrael, at the moment that tomcat was otherwise occupied.

But to make sure, Joe dropped from the porch to the yard and prowled among the pilings, sniffing for Dulcie’s scent.

Yes, he found where she had marked a path, her provocative female aroma leading away toward the village, a trail that no tomcat would ignore. He imagined her, even now, trotting across the rooftops close beside Azrael, her tail waving, her green eyes cutting shyly at the torn, distracting him just as they’d planned.

He sat down beside a blackened piling, trying to calm his frayed nerves, wondering if this idea had been so smart.

But Dulcie wouldn’t betray him. And as far as her safety, his lady could whip a room full of German shepherds with one paw tied behind. He imagined her dodging Azrael’s unwanted advances, subtly leading him on a wild chase far from Mavity’s cottage, handling the situation with such guile that she would not need to smack the foreign beast.

“Get your jacket, Greeley, or I’ll be late.” Inside, a chair scraped and dishes were being stacked, then water ran in the sink. He caught the sharp smell of dish soap, imagined Mavity standing just a few feet from him washing up the breakfast plates. Then the water was turned off. Soon the door opened, and from beneath the deck he watched their hurrying feet descend the steps, Mavity’s white jogging shoes and Greeley’s dark loafers.

He got a look at him as they headed for her VW. This was their man, all right.

Greeley wasn’t much taller than Mavity. He wore the wrinkled leather jacket with the cuffs turned up and the collar pushing at his shaggy gray hair. Joe could see him again rifling Mrs. Medder’s cash register.

The car doors slammed and Mavity backed out, turning up Shoreline toward the village. Joe did not enter the house at once but listened for Dora and Ralph. When, after some minutes, he had heard nothing but the sea wind hushing through the marsh grass behind him, he leaped to the sill and slipped in through the open window.

Pausing above the sink, his nose was filled with the smell of greasy eggs and soapsuds. The kitchen was open to the small living room, with barely space between for the tiny breakfast table pushed against the back of the couch. A faded, overstuffed chair faced the couch, along with a small desk and a narrow cot covered with a plaid blanket. A TV jammed between the desk and a bookcase completed the decor. The ceiling was low, the walls pale tan. To his right, from the darkened bedroom, he heard slow, even breathing.

There was only the one bedroom, and through the open door he studied the piled suitcases, the closed blinds, the two big mounds sprawled beneath the blankets. When neither Dora nor Ralph stirred, he padded along the kitchen counter and across the breakfast table to the back of the couch.

At one end of the couch was a stack of folded sheets and blankets and a bed pillow. Dropping down to the rug, he inspected first beneath the furniture and found, under the cot, a battered leather suitcase.

The clasp was devilishly hard to open. Digging at it with stubborn claws, at last he sprang it.

He found within only socks, underwear, a shaving kit, and a pair of wrinkled pajamas. The shaving kit, which was unzipped, had an inner pocket. Pawing this open, thinking Greeley might have stashed some of the money there, he narrowly missed cutting his pad on Greeley’s used razor blades. Why would anyone save old razor blades?

Nosing into the suitcase under the false bottom, which was meant to keep the bag rigid, he found nothing but a small notebook containing some foreign addresses and Greeley’s plane ticket. Sliding the ticket from its envelope, he saw that Greeley had not yet made his return reservation. Pushing everything back in order, he turned away. Listening to the lonely wind buffet the cottage, he headed for the bedroom.

Long before Joe entered Mavity’s cottage, across the village on the dark rooftops where the sea wind scudded and danced, Dulcie slunk along a roofs edge watching the street below. Around her, the dark trees hushed and rattled, and the moon’s fitful light jumped and fled; above her, telephone lines swung in an erratic dance,and in an open dormer window white curtains whipped like frantic ghosts. By the strike of the courthouse clock she had been on the rooftops since three, and it was now nearly six. She had not seen Azrael. She was beginning to worry that he had not left Mavity’s cottage or had returned to it, surprising Joe in his search.

Had she not marked her trail clearly enough, on her way from the marsh? Or had she marked it too clearly? Rubbing her whiskers on every surface and leaving little damp messages, had she made Azrael suspicious? She prayed that he hadn’t guessed their plan, that he was lying in wait for Joe. She longed to turn back to Mavity’s, but she might only lead him there. She could do nothing but keep on searching, casually marking her trail across the rooftops.

Then suddenly, in the shadows of the alley, was that the tomcat? Quickly she dropped down to an oak branch and crossed the six-foot chasm to the roof of the Swiss Cafe.

Stretching out along the rain gutter, she watched the dark montage of shadows that she thought had moved.

Now all was still. No sign of Azrael.

At last she slipped to the corner where she could see the street. She waited there, watching, until the glow of the street lamps began to fade and the sky grew to the color of pewter beneath dark, scudding clouds. The courthouse clock struck six-thirty. Maybe the tomcathadreturned to Mavity’s and at this moment he and Joe were locked in terrible battle.

A lone car hushed along Ocean as an early riser headed for work. A shopkeeper set a box of trash at the curb then began to water his curbside garden of ferns and geraniums. Dulcie was about to turn away, to seek Azrael along other streets when from beneath a parked truck the black torn swaggered out, nose to the gusting wind. Pausing just below her, he licked his paw and washed his whiskers. He seemed restless, kept glancing away in the direction of the marsh. Was he aware of her? Did some sixth sense nudge him? When he started away, Dulcie followed quickly along the roof’s edge.

But then he paused at the Red Skillet Cafe, stood peering into the patio, sniffing deeply the scents from last night’s grilled salmon and halibut. As Dulcie hunched on the rooftop, he padded through the wrought-iron gate to wind among the tables. Immediately a mockingbird, snatching up crumbs, attacked him-and exploded in a storm of feathers, with a naked backside. The black torn smiled, licked his whiskers, and prowled among the tables, gulping bits of charred fish like some half-starved stray-but still he seemed edgy and unsettled, glancing away again and again in the direction of Mavity’s cottage.

Quickly Dulcie, her heart pounding half with fear, half with excitement, dropped to the pavement and hurried after him.

Beyond the iron gate, Azrael was turned away. But his ears flicked. His tail lashed. His body stiffened as he sensed a presence behind him. As she slipped in through the bars, he whirled to face her.

She paused, her paw softly lifted.

His gaze narrowed to a sly caress.

They stared at each other in silence. Azrael flattened his whiskers, offered subtle body talk meant to set the stage for mating.

Dulcie gave him a slow smile. This wasn’t going to be easy, to delay him yet avoid the snuggling games. She felt like a lady cop playing street hustler.

“Where is your friend, my dear? Your little gray friend? Does he know you’re out alone?”

She wound among the chair legs, her tail high, her stroll sultry, her heart pounding so hard she could hear it. Azrael trotted close to her, his amber eyes deep and golden; when he bowed his neck, towering over her, she felt small suddenly, and frail.

Dora and Ralph Sleuder slept deeply, their even breathing unchanged as Joe prowled the dim bedroom. Pawing through a suitcase that lay open on the floor, he dug into its pockets and searched under the clothes, taking considerable trouble to push everything back in the same jumble as he’d found it.

He was nosing into a big duffle bag when the bedsprings creaked and Ralph stirred and sneezed. Fleeing to the kitchen, Joe leaped on the table and shot to the top of the refrigerator. Crouching behind a metal canister and a bag of potato chips, he watched Ralph swing to the floor and pad away toward the bathroom, nattily attired in striped green boxer shorts that dropped beneath his bare belly.

Making himself comfortable behind the chips, he was careful not to brush its crinkly cellophane or against the package of cookies. Amazing what a person could cram atop a refrigerator. Clyde favored beer, and an assortment of cat and dog kibble-all the essentials readily at hand.

The bedsprings squeaked again, and Dora rose, her ample curves voluminous in a pink-and-green flowered nightie. Not bothering to wash or comb her hair, she padded into the kitchen, looked out the window, and glanced into the living room.

Returning to the bedroom, she began to open the drawers in the tall dresser, carefully examining the contents of each, her movements quick and watchful.

From the bathroom, the toilet flushed, and Ralph returned to start on the other dresser, pawing through Mavity’s personal belongings.

“Nothing,” Dora said at last, closing the bottom drawer. “She must have a lot of time on her hands, to keep her drawers so neated up.”

Ralph slammed a drawer closed.“Maybe in the living room.”

“Start on the desk. I’ll look in the bookcase. Daddy’ll have dropped her at work by now, so she won’t come charging back forgetting her lunch or whatever. That gave me the cold sweats yesterday when she did that.”

“What about your daddy? How soon will he be back?”

“Depends. If he decided to drive over to Monterey-haircuts are cheaper over there-he’ll be a while.”

Watching Dora go through the bookcase, pulling romance novels from the shelves to look behind then shoving them back, watching Ralph finger through the contents of Mavity’s desk, Joe grew so interested that he backed into the cookies. The brittle crunch brought both Dora and Ralph swinging around to stare toward the kitchen. He remained frozen behind the canister, as still as one of those plaster amusement park cats-a gray plaster cat with white markings.

“Heat,” Ralph said, seeing no one in the kitchen. “Thought it was that stinking Azrael coming through the window, but it was just heat-them chip bags pop in the heat. Makes ‘em rancid, too.”

Joe watched, puzzled, as the two pudgy people resumed their investigation. If they were looking for Greeley’s stolen money, why had they searched Mavity’s bedroom? Why not go directly to Greeley’s suitcase, as he himself had done?

But maybe they’d already searched there. Or did they think that Mavity had hidden the money? Did they think she was Greeley’s accomplice?

Not Mavity. He couldn’t think that.

The smell of chips was so strong he could taste them. What did they put in that stuff? Looking out, he watched Ralph remove papers from the desk drawers and shuffle through them, scanning Mavity’s letters and bills, and he grew certain Ralph wasn’t looking for the money. But what, then?

The desk had seven drawers. Digging into the bottom drawer, Ralph raised up, fanning a stack of white paper.“Got it! I got it!”

Dora hurried in, her short, flowered nightie flapping around her meaty white legs, and snatched the papers from him. Leaning against the desk, she rifled through-then waved the papers and laughed, hugged Ralph and did a little dance around him, wriggling provocatively.

“Take a good look,” she said, handing them back, “while I get set up.” And she vanished into the bedroom. Joe heard a click, as if a suitcase had opened. She returned carrying a small copier machine. Glancing out the window toward the drive, she set it on the kitchen table and began to search for an outlet.

“Hurry up. Unplug the toaster. A haircut doesn’t take forever. Your dad?”

“I am hurrying. Give me the statements.” Jerking out the toaster cord, she jammed in the plug, flipped the switch, and stood shuffling through the sheaf of papers until a green light came on.

Slipping to the edge of the refrigerator, Joe could just see a letterhead above Mavity’s name and address. WINTHROP JERGEN, FINANCIAL ADVISOR.

Dora made two copies of each page and separated them into two piles. When she was halfway through, Ralph stopped her.“You better call him. I’ll finish.”

“You call him.”

“No. You’re the one started this. You do it.”

Sighing, she fished a slip of paper from her pocket, picked up the phone from the desk and carried it to the coffee table dragging the cord, sat down on the couch where she could be comfortable.“I hope he’s there.”

“He said he’d wait for the call.”

“Why is it so hard to get him on the phone?”

“Just call, Dora. Before your daddy gets back.”

While Ralph ran copies, she punched in seven clicks. No area code, so it was a local call. Waiting for her party to pick up, she glanced directly toward the refrigerator. Joe held his breath, didn’t twitch a whisker.

Abruptly she returned her attention to the phone. She didn’t say hello, she offered no cordial introduction, just started talking.

“We have them.”

A pause.

“I can’t. Dad has the car. He took Mavity to work. He’s getting a haircut-I told you he’d get one today. He’ll be back any minute.”

Silence.

“All right. But hurry.”

She hung up.“He’s on his way.” She headed for the bedroom and in a few minutes returned dressed in tight jeans and a T-shirt that told the world she liked hot cars and champagne, carrying a large leather briefcase. Ralph finished up the copies, straightened the two stacks, and put the originals back in the bottom desk drawer. Dora carried one stack into the bedroom, then unplugged the copier and slipped it into the briefcase, tucking the other set of pages on top.

When Ralph padded into the kitchen to make coffee, Joe froze again. The couple sat at the table, not five feet from him, sipping coffee and waiting.

“Where can he be?” Dora grumbled. “What’s taking so long?”

After twenty minutes by the kitchen clock, she fetched a plate of cake from the cupboard and cut two thick slices.

Ten minutes more, and another ten. They had poured the last of the coffee and Joe felt ready to pitch a fit-it was an interminable wait for both the Sleuders and their silent audience. At last a car came down the street.

“That has to be him. Where has he been?” Dora patted her hair and straightened her shirt. “What in the world took him so long?”

But the car went on by. Joe heard it stop a block away, heard the car door slam. In a minute, footsteps came up the street, turning to the house.

“That’s him,” Ralph said. A shadow loomed beyond the louvered glass: a thin man. Dora pulled the door open.

“Had car trouble,” the man said, stepping inside. “Left it up the block. It’s running rough as a paint shaker.”

Joe, watching him, was rigid with amazement.

He was of medium height and slight of build, his light brown hair tied in a ponytail that flopped over the hood of his blue windbreaker.

This was the man who lingered around the apartments. The silent watcher. Joe caught a whiff of motor grease as he moved past Dora to the table.

“Let’s have a look.”

Dora opened the briefcase and handed him the copies.

“Shuffle them out, Dora. My hands are greasy from the car.”

She spread the statements across the kitchen table; he stood scanning them as she sorted through, then looked up at her, smiling.

“This is what we want. Exactly. You’ve done a good job here.” He winked at her. “You two are quite something.”

The man watched as Dora put the papers in a neat pile again and slid them back into the briefcase on top the copier, carefully closing the lid.

Removing a white handkerchief from his pocket, he wrapped it around the handle.“No need to get grease on the leather. I’m just filthy.” He smiled again, holding the briefcase away from his pantleg, and moved toward the door. “Wish me luck, folks, that I can nurse the old car into the village.”

“I could phone for a tow truck,” Dora offered.

“I’ll take it slow. I think it’s the carburetor, but I should be able to make it to the garage all right.” He stared down at his dirty hands, let Dora open the door for him.

The man’s name was never spoken. When he had gone, Joe endured what seemed eternal confinement between the chips and cookies while Dora fixed breakfast and the two folks ate a never-ending meal of fried sausage, fried eggs, instant grits, toast, and coffee. At first the smells made him hungry, but afterprolonged exposure, he wanted to throw up. He woke from a fitful doze as Dora began to do the dishes, running hot water into the sink, plunging her hands into the suds.

When she had put the dishes in the drain, she hurried to the bedroom and returned wearing a yellow-and-purple mumu and flipflops and carrying a blanket and a beach umbrella. Ralph padded out dressed in skin-tight black exercise shorts and a red tank top straining across his considerable girth. Joe watched them toddle down the steps and plow through the muddy, sandy marsh to a streak of sand at the edge of the water, watched them spread their towels on the fish-scented shore. As Ralph put up the beach umbrella, Joe leaped down from the refrigerator and resumed his own search, swiftly prowling, poking with a nervous paw.

He found no other suitcase smelling of Greeley. He dug into the bags belonging to Dora and Ralph, then looked for the money beneath the beds and up under the bedsprings and under the couch cushions, all the while listening for footsteps on the porch or the sound of a car-or the soft thump of paws hitting the windowsill.

He tossed the bathroom, too, then pawed open the kitchen cabinets. He fought open the refrigerator but found no wrapped package that might contain money. Standing on the kitchen counter, he was just able to open the freezer, a favored place for householders to hide their valuables according to Max Harper. Leaning into the cold, he sniffed several paper-wrapped packages, but the smell of each matched its handwritten label: pork chops, shrimp, green beans. He nearly froze his ears off. Being practically inside the freezer, trying to listen for intruders, feeling as nervous as a mouse in a tin bucket, he backed out gratefully into the warm kitchen.

When he could think of nowhere else to look-couldn’t figure a way to take the top off the toilet tank or remove the light fixtures-he gave up, sprang out the open window, and trotted up the hill behind the cottage. Fleeing the scene through the woods, he hit the wide gardens above, galloping between those substantial homes wondering where Greeley had hidden the money and what Dora and Ralph were up to. Telling himself that Dora Sleuder wouldn’t rip off her own aunt Mavity.

13 [????????: pic_14.jpg]

WINTHROP JERGENliked to tell his clients that he was a sentimental nonconformist, that he would endure almost any inconvenience so he could enjoy the magnificent view from his out-of-the-way office-apartment.

In fact, the view meant nothing. That wondrous vista down the Molena Point hills wasn’t even visible when he sat at his desk, only the tops of a few ragged trees and empty sky. He had to stand up or move to the couch before the glare of sun-glazed rooftops stabbed at his vision. And this morning the so-called view was a mass of wind-churned trees and ugly whitecaps. That was the trouble with being close to the water, these violent winds whipping inland. Now, standing at his desk looking down to the dead-end street below, observing the weeds and the three battered service trucks parked behind Charlie Getz’s rusting van, he wondered why he tolerated this disreputable display.

According to the provisions of his lease, he could have refused to let Damen undertake the remodeling, but he thought it better to endure a few months’ annoyance in order to acquire a more respectable environ. And it was always possible that Damen would overextend himself, sink more money into the project than he could manage, and would be in need of cash, perhaps a personal loan.

Glancing at his watch, he left his desk and in the bathroom removed his sport coat, tucked a clean bath towel over his white shirt and tie, ran hot water into a washcloth and steamed his face, bringing up a ruddy color and relaxing the tightness that prevailed after he’d been at work for several hours. He brushed his teeth, used the blow-dryer to touch up his hair, removed the towel, and washed his hands. He was to pick up Bernine at twelve-thirty. He’d had trouble getting a reservation on a Saturday, but Bernine had raved about the Windborne. The restaurantwas indeed charming, a rustic, secluded aerie clinging to the seacliffs south of the village. Bernine said she liked the ambiance. The moneyed ambiance, he thought, amused. As long as Bernine wasn’t buying. If he kept this up, lunch or dinner every day, she could prove to be expensive.

He wasn’t sure whether Bernine Sage would become a client or a lover, or both. It didn’t matter. One way or another, she would be useful. She was blatantly obvious in coming onto him, but she was a good-looker, kept herself groomed and dressed in a style that commanded attention. A nice showpiece. Andshe seemed to know her way around, knew a lot of worthwhile, influential people.

As long as they understood each other, the relationship could be mutually entertaining. With Bernine on his arm he got plenty of appraising looks. She attracted interest, and interest, in a certain strata, meant money.

Straightening his tie and slipping back into his sport coat, he returned to the computer screen to finish up a last group of entries. He checked his figures, then closed and secured the file with a code and punched in the screen saver, a slowly wheeling montage of various foreign currencies. Putting his backup disks safely in the file cabinet, he locked it and locked the desk, left no disk or hard copy accessible. And without the code, no one could access his hard drive.

Surely no one around here had reason to snoop, or very likely had the knowledge to override his code. But he made it a point to follow set routines. He was successful in large part because he did not deviate from carefully chosen and rigorously observed procedures.

Two incidents of the morning did bother him, however. Small mistakes he must have made, though he abhorred carelessness.

He had found a number error in the Benson file. And he had found, in a hard copy file for the Dawson account, two spreadsheets out of order. Such small inefficiencies could lead to far more serious errors. He did not allow such carelessness in others, and he certainly couldn’t sanction it in himself.

Locking the apartment, heading down the stairs jingling his keys, he paused at the bottom of the steps glancing to his right into the weedy patio at the stacks of lumber, the sawhorses, and crated plumbing fixtures. He hoped this project wouldn’t last forever. Turning left from the stairwell, he stepped out onto the driveway and to the bank of garages. Activating his pocket remote, he opened his single garage door, backed the Mercedes out, and headed down the hills.

Molena Point’s shops and cottages were appallingly picturesque. In his opinion, a regular Disney World, though he would not say that to anyone. As for the crowds of tourists, those people might as well be in Fantasyland, they were so busy spending money on foolish whims. No thought to solid investment. No, the tourists weren’t for him. It was Molena Point’s established residents who made up the predictable cadre of his clients.

Parking in the short-term green zone in front of the Molena Point Library, he had intended to wait for Bernine in the car, but on impulse he swung out and moved through the deep garden, along the stone walk, and in through the dark, heavily carved doors of the sprawling Mediterranean building.

The central reading room was brightly lighted, its white walls and spaciousness offsetting the dark tables and bookcases. Through an office door he could see Bernine, dressed in a short pink suit, standing near a desk beside the head librarian-Freda something-a frowsy scarecrow of a woman who seemed to be scolding a third party standing nearly out of sight beyond the door. Interested, he wandered in that direction, pausing beside the book stacks.

He could see a bit of the third woman, with her back to him. Red sweatshirt, long gray hair caught back with a silver clip, faded jeans. That would be the Getz woman, the person Bernine was staying with.

Plucking a book from the shelf, something about Scottish bed-and-breakfasts, he stood slowly turning the pages, listening for any stray information that might be useful.

They were arguing about a cat.A cat-that cat that had caused all the fuss in the newspaper, the animal they called the library cat. Freda was giving the tall, gray-haired woman a real dressing-down. And she had considerable skill at it, too; she handled her authority with style, splendidly high-handed and thorough.

And certainly Bernine, standing at full attention, was being very politic; her few comments, when Freda spoke to her, were as smooth as butter. How insane, all this fuss over some cat. You couldn’t walk the street without someone wanting you to sign a petition.

He turned away as this Wilma person came out. She was actually carrying the cat, holding the animal across her shoulder like a baby. She crossed the reading room rigid with anger and disappeared through an office door.

From behind the closed door he heard her talking to someone, softly arguing. Curious, he moved closer. The other voice was so soft he could not make out the words, but both women were angry. He had a strong desire to see the other speaker, such a sudden, intense curiosity that he was tempted to push open the door.

Shutting the door behind her, Wilma set Dulcie on the desk.“That woman! How did we ever get saddled with her?”

“I’d like to slash her,” Dulcie hissed, her green eyes blazing. “Eviscerate her like a dead toad.”

Glancing at the door, Wilma lowered her voice.“She frightens me. We don’t know what she might do.” She reached to stroke Dulcie. “Won’t you agree to leave the library for a while?”

Dulcie’s eyes widened.

“She could be capable of anything. I don’t want you hurt.”

Dulcie glared, her ears flat.“I can take care of myself.”

“I know that. I know you can be all teeth and claws. But Freda is bigger, and she has the advantage of any number of large, heavy weapons. She could block your cat door and corner you, trap you in one of the offices. She might even turn on the gas. This petition movement has her in a rage. She’s livid that the town and her own staff are trying to override her.”

“You think she’d turn on the gas and risk blowing the place up? Don’t be silly. And so she blocks my cat door. You know I can open any door in this library-the back door, the front door, the door to the side street. I can turn the knobs and, with a little time, I can turn every one of these dead bolts.”

Wilma stroked her diffidently.“I know how skilled you are. And I know your hearing and eyesight are far superior, that there’s no way she could slip up on you. But you refuse to admit that, simply because of size, a human might have some advantage. She’s cruel, Dulcie. And she’s angry!”

Dulcie turned away and began to wash, every lick across her tabby fur telegraphing her disdain.

Wilma walked around the desk and sat down facing her.“Please, won’t you stay in my office during the day? Near your cat door? And stay away at night until the petitions go to the city council?”

Dulcie leaped off the desk, lashing her tail, and without another word pushed out her cat door. She’d had a difficult morning already, before Freda started in, and now Wilma. Tired and cross beyond toleration from leading Azrael around the village while trying to avoid his intimacies, she had come into the library needing a long nap, and there was Freda making another fuss. And now Wilma roiling at her. She felt as irritable as a bee trapped against the window; she wanted only to be left alone.

Azrael had pretended to enjoy her company as she gave him the grand tour, showed him the best places to hunt wharf rats, demurely led him along the shore and into the warehouses; as she showed him the meanest dogs to avoid and where the best restaurant garbage was judiciously hidden out of sight of wandering tourists-not that any village cat frequented such places. Why should they, when they could enjoy George Jolly’s offerings? But the entire morning she didn’t dare let her guard down. He had only one thing on his mind-hewouldkeep nuzzling her. She had swayed on a tightrope between seeking to distract Azrael while Joe searched Mavity’s cottage-and fighting her own distressing fascination. She didn’t want to find Azrael charming; she didn’t want to be drawn to him.

Well hewasa good storyteller. Lying in the sun on Molena Point’s fishy-smelling pier, he had told her wonderful tales of the jungle, had shown her the jungle’s mysterious, leafy world awash in emerald light, the rain approaching like a silver curtain to drench the giant leaves and vines then move on again, a silver waterfall receding, glinting with the sun’s fire.

He had shown her the steaming city sidewalks crowded with dirty children begging for food and stealing anything their fingers touched, had shown her black buzzards bigger than any street cat hunched above her on the rooftops, diving heavily to snatch garbage from the sidewalks; had shown her tangles of fishing boats tied to the wharves, then buckets of silver cod dumped flopping on the pier. His stories were so vivid that she could smell the stench of the open market where fly-covered sides of beef hung rotting in the tropical sun-and the tomcat’s soft-spoken Spanish phrases enticed her, caressed her, though she did not understand their meaning.

She had ignored the darkness surrounding Azrael, the cloying heaviness beneath his sweet Spanish phrases-until he repeated his ugly predictions of murder.

“The people in this village, that woman Bernine Sage, and this investment person, and your Wilma Getz and her niece and that auto mechanic, all of them are drawing close to death. As unable to pull away as leaves blown to the edge of a dark pool.” And Azrael had smiled as if greatly enjoying the prospect of human death. Rising, he had peered down into the shadowed world of mud and pilings below them, where Molena Point’s small colony of stray cats eked out a meager living.

Suddenly, lashing his tail, he had leaped off the pier and shouldered into the shadows below, snarling and belligerent, routing the cowering strays, tormenting and bullying those thin cats, had sent them slinking away into dark niches to crouch terrified between the damp boulders.

Shocked, she had stormed after him and driven him back with steely claws. To hell with guile and sweet smiles.

But at her attack, his amber eyes had widened with amazement.“What’s the matter? They’re only common cats. They’re not like us. Come on, Dulcie, have a little fun-they’re only stupid beasts.”

“You think they’re stupid because they can’t speak? You think they’re without feelings? Without their own sensibilities and their own unique ways?”

He had only looked at her.

“Common cats have knowledge,” she had said softly. She was hot with anger, but she daren’t enrage him-not until Joe had finished with Mavity’s cottage. “Can’t you see,” she had mewed gently, “that they have feelings, too?” All the while, she wanted to tear the stuffings out of him, he wassoarrogant-this cat couldn’t see a whisker-length beyond his ego-driven nose.

Disdainfully he had flicked his tail at her silly notions and stalked away. And she, chagrined, had swallowed her pride and galloped after him, sidling against his shoulder.

He’d glanced down at her, leering smugly again, turning on the charm, rubbing his whiskers against hers. She had held her tongue with great effort and spun away from the wharf, laughing softly and leading him a wild chase through the village. The cat was so incredibly boorish. Who needed a torn that viewed other cats so brutally, who viewed a female not as an interesting companion or hunting partner, but as a faceless object meant only to mount, only for male gratification?

And when at long last she heard the tower clock strike ten, and knew that Joe would have left Mavity’s, she gave Azrael the slip. Making a tangled way among and through the shops, through enough varied scents-spices, perfumes, shoe polish-to hide her trail, she had slipped into the library guessing that, even if Azrael tracked her, he wouldn’t follow her into that sanctuary of strict rules where he’d likely be thrown out on his lashing black tail.

Alone at last, she’d had a little wash and settled into the shelves of medieval history for a quiet nap. But it wasn’t two hours later that she woke to Wilma and Freda arguing.

Alarmed, she had leaped down and trotted into Freda’s office to rub against Wilma’s ankles-whether out of support for Wilma or out of curiosity, she wasn’t sure. And Wilma had picked her up and cuddled her, as together they took the blast of Freda Brackett’s temper.

Jergen watched his lunch date emerge from the head librarian’s office looking like a million dollars in the pale pink suit, its tight skirt at midthigh, the low-cut jacket setting off a touch of cleavage and Bernine’s golden tan. Her red hair, piled high and curly, was woven with a flowered silk scarf in shades of red and pink. The minute she saw him, she turned on the dazzle, gave him a bright and knowing smile.

“Ready for champagne?” he said, offering his arm. “Our reservations are for one.” Escorting her out, their passage was followed by the envious stares of several women behind the checkout counter. They made, Jergen was fully aware, an unusually handsome couple, well turned-out and enviable.

Crossing the garden, he stopped to pick a red carnation for Bernine. He was handing her into the car when, glancing across the street, he saw a portly couple entering an antique shop. He forgot Bernine and froze, stood staring-felt as if his blood had drained away.

But, no. Surely he was mistaken. That could not have been the Sleuders. Not Dora and Ralph Sleuder.

How would those two get here to Molena Point, and why would they come here? No, he had only imagined the resemblance. Taking himself in hand, he settled Bernine within the Mercedes, went around and slipped behind the wheel. The Sleuders wouldn’t be here, three thousand miles from Georgia. If those two hicks took a vacation anywhere, it would be to Disney World or to Macon, Georgia, to look at the restored southern mansions.

But, pulling out into the slow traffic, he continued to watch the antique shop. Now he could only catch a glimpse of the couple. Behind him, the traffic began to honk. Damn tourists. Moving on to the corner, he made a U-turn and came back on the other side, driving slowly. He was glad he had put the top up, so he was less visible. Passing the shop, he caught a clear look at the woman.

My God. ItwasDora Sleuder. Or her exact double. And then Ralph moved into view-the heavy chin, the receeding hairline and protruding belly.

This could not be happening.

What earthly event could have brought those people here? Brought those two bucolic hicks across the country?No oneknewhewas here. He had taken every precaution to cover his trail. He drove on by, trying to pull himself together, very aware of Bernine watching him, every line of her body rigid with, curiosity.

Someone once said that wherever you traveled, even halfway around the world, in any group of a hundred people you had a 50 percent chance of meeting someone you knew, simply by coincidence, by the law of averages.

Surely this was coincidence. What else could it be?

But the worst scenario was that the Sleudershadcome here to find him.

So? What could they do if they did find him?

Circling the block, he tried to puzzle out who could have sent them to Molena Point. Who, among his acquaintances, might be linked to them?

So far as he knew, only one of his clients had any ties to the east coast, and that was Mavity Flowers, whose niece came from one of the southern states. Mavity hadn’t mentioned the niece’s name and he hadn’t any reason to ask.

What a nasty coincidence if Dora turned out to be Mavity’s niece.

But no, that was too far-fetched. That sort of concurrence didn’t happen, would be quite impossible.

However, the fact remained that those two dull people were here. He had to wonder if, despite their simple rural set of mind, they had somehow tracked him.

Whatever the scenario-happenstance or deliberate snooping-the reality was that if he remained in this small, close town where everyone knew everyone’s business, the Sleuders would find him.

He began to sweat, considering what action to take.

Beside him, Bernine was growing restless. Smiling, he laid his hand over hers.“The couch in that antique shop, that dark wicker couch. It’s exactly what I’ve been looking for. I want to go back after lunch. If it’s as nice as it looks, it will fit my apartment perfectly-just the contrast I want to the modern leather.”

Bernine looked skeptical.

“Imagine it done up in some kind of silk, perhaps a Chinese print. You know about that kind of thing; you have wonderful taste. Would you have time, after lunch, to take a look?”

He could see she wasn’t buying it but that she appreciated the lie.

“I’d love to. Maybe we can find the right fabric in one of the local shops.”

He liked the speculative way she watched him, trying to read his real purpose, almost licking her lips over the intrigue. Strangely, her interest calmed him. Perhaps, he thought, Bernine could be useful, if he needed help with the Sleuders.

But as the Mercedes turned off Ocean, picking up speed heading down the coast, neither Jergen or Bernine had seen a woman watching them from an upstairs window as they slowly circled the block.

14 [????????: pic_15.jpg]

FROM THE FRESHLY washed windows of her new apartment, Charlie, taking a break from cleaning, watched Bernine Sage and Winthrop Jergen leave the library across Ocean looking very handsome, Bernine in a short-skirted pink suit, Jergen wearing a tweed sport coat and pale slacks. The couple, in less than a week, had become an item. And that was all right with her.

She had come to the window for the hundredth time, she thought, amused at herself, to admire her brand-new view of the village rooftops and of Ocean’s tree-shaded median and the library’s bright gardens. Now, watching Jergen lean to open the passenger door for Bernine, she saw him suddenly go rigid, straightening up and seeming to forget Bernine as he stared across the median at something on the street below her.

Craning to look down, she could see nothing unusual, just window-shoppers, two shopkeepers hurrying by, probably on their way to lunch, and a meter maid marking tires. Directly below her, lying on a bench in the sun, a huge black cat was stretched out, ignoring the people who surged around him, in a most uncatlike manner. Most cats didn’t want to sleep anywhere near strangers, but this one seemed to think he owned the sidewalk. Winthrop Jergen was still staring but then he seemed to shake himself. He turned, handing Bernine into the car.

Pulling away from the curb, he crept along slowly, still looking, until irate drivers behind him began to honk. He speeded up only a little, and when he reached the corner where Ocean Avenue stopped at the beach, he made a U-turn and came back up the northbound lane, pausing just below her window and tying up traffic again before the bleating horns drove him on. The cat, on its bench, stared irritably at the noise. Charlie left the window to resume her cleaning, to finish scrubbing the kitchen alcove. A new home was never hers until she had dug out the crevice dirt and scoured and burnished every surface.

She finished cleaning just after one and headed for Wilma’s to pick up her clothes and tools and meager furniture, thankful that Bernine wouldn’t be there watching her pack, making sarcastic comments. She’d had enough of that this morning. When Clyde picked her up for an early trip to the plumbing supply houses, he had come in for coffee and of course Bernine was up, looking fetching in a tangerine silk dressing gown.

“A breakfast date,” Bernine had purred smugly. “Now, isn’t that romantic.” She had looked them over as if she’d discovered two children playing doctor in the closet. “And where are you two off to, so early?”

“Plumbing supply,” Clyde had said gruffly, gulping his coffee. “Come on, Charlie, they open in thirty minutes.” Turning his back on Bernine, he had gone on out to the truck. Charlie had followed him, smiling.

They had had a lovely morning prowling through plumbing showrooms looking at showers, basins, at elegant brass faucets and towel racks. Not everyone’s idea of fun, but the excursion had suited them both. She had been back in Molena Point in time to pick up the key from her new landlord and get her studio ready to move into.

Now, parking in Wilma’s drive, she let herself into the kitchen, went down the hall to the guest room and began to fold her clothes into a duffle bag. As she was hiking her stuff out to the van, Wilma pulled up the drive beside her.

“Short day,” Wilma said, at her questioning look. “I took off at noon.” She looked angry, as if she’d not had a pleasant morning. Little tabby Dulcie sat hunched on the seat beside her, sulkily washing her paws. Wilma looked at Charlie’s tools and bags piled on the drive, looked at Charlie, and her disappointment was clear.

“I found an apartment,” Charlie said softly.

“Is it nice?” Wilma smiled, doing her best to be pleased. “Where is it?”

“Just across from the library-I can run in anytime, and you can run over for lunch or for dinner.” Charlie reached to touch her aunt’s shoulder. “I love being with you. How could I not, the way you spoil me? It’s just-I feel a burden, coming back again after being here so long.”

Wilma grinned.“It’s just that you like your privacy-and detest being stuck with Bernine.”

Charlie shrugged.“That, too. But?”

“Ever since you were a little girl,” Wilma said, “you’ve valued your own space. I’m going to make a chicken sandwich. You have time for lunch?”

“Sure, I do.”

Charlie finished loading up and went into the kitchen where Wilma was slicing white meat off a roast chicken. She sat down, stroking Dulcie who lay curled up on a kitchen chair. Wilma said,“I hadn’t much choice, about Bernine.”

“I know that. You have enough problem with her at the library. No need to antagonize her any more-until the petitions are in. She’s a troublemaker.” She got up to pour herself a glass of milk. “But maybe she’ll be in a nicer mood for a while, now that she’s dating Winthrop Jergen. I sawthem coming out of the library at noon, like they were having lunch.”

“Who knows how that will turn out?” Wilma said. She set the sandwiches on the table. “Tell me about your apartment.”

“It’s one big room-fresh white paint, a wonderful view of the village, and there’s a garage off the alley, for storage. The stairs go down to a little foyer between the antique shop and the camera store; you can go from there to the street or back to the alley. There’s a deli down at the corner, but not as good as Jolly’s, and? But you know every shop on that street.”

Wilma nodded.“You’ll enjoy living there.”

“You and Dulcie are invited to dinner as soon as I get settled.” She finished her sandwich quickly, petted Dulcie again, and headed back to her new apartment to unload her boxes and tools. Seemed like she’d spent half her life lately carting her stuff around. After hiking her duffels and folding bed up the stairs, she put fresh sheets on the bed, slapped new shelf paper in the cupboards, and unpacked her few kitchen supplies. By three o’clock she had stored her tools in the garage and was headed back for the job to check on the plumber, see if he’d finished roughing in the changes to the ground-floor bathrooms.

Parking before the building, coming in through the patio, she glanced up at Winthrop Jergen’s windows and was surprised that they were open-this wasn’t his regular cleaning day, and he never opened the windows, only the girls did. Then she saw Pearl Ann through the bathroom window, working at something, and remembered that he’d wanted some repairs done. She hoped Pearl Ann would close up when she left or they’d all hear about it. Heading across the patio into the back apartment, she saw that Pearl Ann had finished mudding the Sheetrock in those rooms, and had cleaned her tools and left them dry and shining on the work table, had left the container of mud well sealed. Pearl Ann was always careful with her equipment.

Many women didn’t like to mess with Sheetrock, partly because the drywall panels were hellishly heavy for a woman to handle. But Pearl Ann was good at the work, and she used a specially made wedge to lift the panels without straining so she could nail them in place. And her taping and mudding was as good as anyfull-time professional. She used the big float, giving it long, bold sweeps; she said she had learned from her dad.

Charlie was in the kitchen of the back apartment, which they used as an office and storeroom, when she saw the two cats come trotting into the patio from the hills below. It always amazed her how far and how quickly cats could travel. Less than two hours ago, she’d been feeding Dulcie bits of her chicken sandwich in Wilma’s sunny kitchen.

But these two roamed all over the hills; according to Clyde and Wilma, they were excellent hunters. She could imagine Joe Grey killing most anything, but it was hard to think of soft little Dulcie with blood and gore on her claws. Now, watching Dulcie roll on the sun-warmed bricks, she could almost feel in her own body the cat’s deep relaxion and well-being.

But soon Dulcie rose again, looking around eagerly-as if all set to rout a colony of mice. She looked secretive, too. As if, Charlie thought, she was about to embark on some urgent clandestine mission.

Ihave too much imagination.

Maybe I never grew up-still carting around my childhood fancies.

But the two cats did bother her. So often they appeared bound somewhere with intense purpose-bound on a specific errand, not just wandering. Cats not aware only of the moment but focused on some future and urgent matter.

These, Charlie Getz, are not sensible thoughts you’re having. You ought to be making a building supply list.

Yet even as she watched, the cats rose and trotted purposefully away across the patio in a most responsible and businesslike manner.

Maybe they knew it was nearly quitting time. Maybe they were waiting for Clyde; he usually showed up about now. A dog would go to the door at the time his master was due home, so why not a cat? A dog would show up at the bus stop to escort his kid home from school. Certainly cats were at least as smart as dogs-she’d read some startling things about the abilities of cats. She watched the cats cross the patio, looking up at Winthrop Jergen’s windows as if watching the flashes of Pearl Ann’s polishing cloth. Sweeping across the glass, it must look, to them, like some trapped and frantic bird.

But suddenly they glanced back and saw her looking out. They turned away abruptly to sniff at the edge of a flower bed. Turned away so deliberately that she felt as if she’d been snubbed. Had been summarily dismissed.

Amused by her own imaginings, she opened the kitchen door and told the cats,“Clyde’s not here yet.”

They looked around at her, their eyes wide and startled.

“He’s bringing some kitchen cabinets. If you’re looking for a ride home, just wait around, guys.”

The cats gave her a piercing look then closed their eyes, in unison, and turned away-as if the sound of her voice annoyed them. And when, half an hour later, Clyde arrived with the cabinets, Joe and Dulcie had disappeared.

“They’ll come home when they’re ready,” he said.

“Don’t you worry about them? Don’t you wonder where they go?”

“Sure I worry. They’re cats. People worry about their cats. Every time some village cat doesn’t show up for supper, you can hear his owner shouting all over Molena Point.”

He looked at her helplessly.“So what am I supposed to do? Follow Joe around? I can’t lock him in the house, Charlie. Do that, and I might as well put him in a cage.”

He seemed very intense about this. Well, she thought, Clyde loved his cat.

They unloaded the kitchen cabinets and set them in the front apartment; this was the only apartment to get new cupboards, thanks to the last tenant who had painted the old ones bright red. The new units were pale oak and prefinished. When Clyde was ready to head home, the cats were nowhere to be found, though he shouted for Joe several times. If the tomcat was around, he would usually come trotting to Clyde’s summons, as responsive as any dog. Clyde called him again, waited, then swung into his truck.

She stared at him.

“They’ll come home when they feel like it.” He searched her face for understanding. “I can’t keep him confined, treat him like an overcontrolled lap dog. What good would Joe’s life be, if I told him what to do all the time?”

She watched him turn the truck around at the dead end and pull away toward the village, his words resonating strangely.What good would Joe’s life be, if I told him what to do all the time?

A puzzling turn of phrase. For some reason, the question, thus stated, left her filled with both unease and excitement.

Tossing some tools in through the side door of the van, she went back inside to get a ladder. Slipping it in on top of the tools, she pulled the door closed. She wanted to hang some drawings tonight and put up bookshelves. As she locked up the building, she called the cats, checking each apartment so not to shut them in.

She didn’t find them. No sign of the little beasts. She didn’t know why she worried about them. As Clyde said, they were off hunting somewhere.

But when she slid into her van, there they were on the front passenger seat, sitting side by side, watching her as expectantly as a taxi fare waiting for the driver, urging him to get a move on.

15 [????????: pic_16.jpg]

JOLLY’S ALLEY was no longer a pretty retreat for either tourist or village cat. Beneath the darkening sky where the first stars shone, the cozy brick lane with its little shops looked like a garbage dump. The light of its two wrought-iron lamps shone down upon a mess of greasy paper wrappers, broken eggshells, sandwich crusts, and chewed chicken bones. Wadded paper napkins and broken Styrofoam cups spilled from the two overturned refuse cans, and the smears of cold spaghetti and slaw and potato salad were stuck liberally with tufts of torn-out cat fur-a dozen colors of fur, telling the tale of ahuge battle.

Joe and Dulcie, pausing at the alley’s entrance, surveyed the mess with amazement, then outrage. Dulcie’s ears went back and her tail lashed. Joe crouched as if to spring on whatever feline culprit remained.

But no culprit was visible, the battling cats had fled. Only the tufts of fur told the story, and their pawprints deep in the potato salad-and the stink of fear that lingered, as sharp as the smell of gunpowder after a frontline skirmish.

And, stronger even than the fear-stink, was the odor of the perpetrator-the belligerent reek of the black tomcat.

Sniffing Azrael’s scent, Joe and Dulcie padded across the greasy bricks, peering into the shadows beneath the jasmine vine, searching for him.

Suddenly above them a shadow exploded between the rooftops and dropped down within the jasmine vine, dark and swift.

The black torn sauntered out of the foliage, his bullish shoulders swaggering, his amber eyes burning. Looking around at the devastation, he smiled and licked his whiskers.

Joe’s growl was deep. “I suppose you waited until all the cats congregated for an evening’s snack, then attacked them. Did you trap the smallest ones behind the garbage cans, so you could bloody them?”

Azrael widened his amber eyes.“And what business is it of yours, little cat? What are you, keeper of the village kitties?” Crouching, he circled Joe, his teeth bared, his eyes blazing.

Joe leaped, biting into Azrael’s shoulder, raking his hind claws hard down Azrael’s belly. Azrael clawed him in the neck. They spun, a tangle of slashing and screaming, then Azrael had Joe by the throat, forcing him down. Joe twisted free and bit him in the flank as Dulcie lunged into the fray. Together they pinned the tomcat. Under their violent double assault, he went limp. When they drew back, he fled to a safer position.

Now suddenly he was all smiles, waving his tail, curving and winding around a lamppost, the change swift and decisive. Chirruping and purring, he fixed his gaze on Dulcie.

“If I had guessed, my dear, that you would be here this evening, we could have feasted together-after I routed that rabble, of course. Or perhaps,” he said softly, “you would have enjoyed that little skirmish-a little playful challenge to get your blood up. Hold!” he said as Joe moved to attack. “I have news. Information that will interest you.”

But Joe leaped tearing at Azrael’s ear and shoulder, and again the two were a screaming whirlwind-until the deli door crashed open and George Jolly ran out swinging a bucket. A cascade of dishwater hit them. Azrael bolted under a bench. Joe backed away, shocked, licking greasy dishwater from his whiskers.

“Look at this mess! At the mess you cats made.“Jolly fixed his gaze on Joe. “What kind of behavior is this? I go away for half an hour and you trash my alley! And on a Sunday, too-with the village full of visitors. You! I’d thought better of you, gray tomcat. Why would you do this?”

He looked hard at Dulcie.“Tomcats! Stupid fighting tomcats. All this over a lady?Shame. For shame.“He shook his head sadly. “I feed you no more, you tomcats. I feed no one. You disappoint me. You’re nothing but common street rowdies!”

Turning his back, he went inside. But he was out again at once, carrying a broom and dustpan. Irritably he righted the garbage cans and began to sweep, filling the dustpan over and over, dumping garbage back into the metal barrels. Azrael had disappeared, and as Jolly unwound a hose, Joe and Dulcie fled to the end of the alley.

Bouncing a hard spray across the bricks, Jolly washed up every smear, hosing the last crumbs into the drainage grid. Giving Joe a disgusted look, he disappeared inside. As he shut the door, Azrael dropped down from the roof. Ignoring Joe, he sidled up to Dulcie, looking incredibly smug.

“Such a charming companion you were the other morning, my dear Dulcie-diverting me so cleverly, while your crude friend, here, tossed Mavity’s cottage.”

He eyed Joe narrowly.“What were you looking for, gray cat, prowling Mavity’s home while Dulcie performed her little ruse?”

Joe washed his paws, sleeking the white fur, and spread his claws to lick them dry.

“If you so enjoy snooping,” Azrael told him, “if youlikepoking into human business-which I find incredibly boring-you might be interested in last night’s telephone conversation. Though I would prefer to share my information privately, with the lady,” Azrael said, purring.

Dulcie looked at him coldly.“Share it with both of us. One does not hunt another’s turf without shedding blood. What was this conversation? Why would we be interested?”

“An invitation to dinner,” Azrael told her. “Someone in the village has invited Dora and Ralph out to dinner-without Mavity or Greeley.”

“Humans go out to dinner frequently,” Dulcie said, yawning.

“They are keeping this dinner a secret. They’ve told no one. The reservation is at a very fancy restaurant, much too elegant for those two Georgia hicks.”

Dulcie yawned in his face.“Who made such an invitation?”

“They got a phone call, so I only heard one side. Heard Dora sayWinthrop.Couldn’t tell if she was talkingtoWinthrop Jergen or about him. You know Jergen-Mavity’s financial guru.”

“We know him,” Joe said, turning from Azrael to wash his hind paw.

Azrael sat tall, puffing himself up, lashing his thick black tail.“Why would a big-time financial advisor take those two rednecks to dinner? And why wouldn’t they tell Mavity and Greeley? Not a word,” Azrael said, narrowing his amber eyes.

“Maybe the Sleuders want to invest,” Dulcie suggested. “Surely Mavity bragged about Jergen-about how much money he’s earned for her.”

“Then why not invite her along? But what a laugh-shehasn’t any business investing, she’s nothing but a scrub woman. A bad-tempered, mean-spirited scrub woman, the way she treats visitors.”

Dulcie looked hard at him.“The way she treats dirty-mannered tomcats? At least her money is her own. She didn’t steal it, like her brother.”

“If she’d learned from Greeley she wouldn’t be mopping floors-not that I care what happens to that one.”

“Where is this dinner?” Dulcie said. “What restaurant?”

“Pander’s. Real fancy, people all dressed up, BMWs and stretch limos, street lined with Lincolns and New Yorkers. You should have seen Dora swoon. The minute she hung up the phone she rushed into the bedroom, fussing about dresses, pulling clothes out of her suitcase, holding them up and looking in the mirror.”

Azrael smiled.“But when Mavity got home, Dora was suddenly real busy doing up the dishes, cleaning up the kitchen. No hint of the big invitation.”

“Why didn’tyoutell Greeley?” Dulcie asked.

“Waiting to see what happens,” Azrael said cooly. “To see where this little adventure leads.” He licked his paw, smug and self-assured. “Sometimes it pays to hold back a little something from Greeley.”

He rose, lashing his tail.“Greeley’s blind when it comes to Dora. He’d never believe that Dora lied to him. When it comes to Dora, he wouldn’t believe even me.” And for a moment, the black torn looked almost pitiful.

“Greeley didn’t believe that Dora nearly killed me with that damned frying pan,” he hissed. “The minute he leaves the house she starts throwing stuff-but he says I’m lying.”

“When is this fancy dinner?” Joe said. “And why are you telling us?”

Azrael’s face became a sleek black mask. “I told you-that night on the rooftops, I told you. I sense death.” He looked at Joe almost helplessly. “This dinner? Visions of death. I do not want it to touch Greeley.”

The black torn shook himself.“If I spy on Dora and Ralph, if they see me prowling the restaurant, Dora’ll pitch a fit, have the whole place down on me.” He looked at Joe a long time. “She’d pay no attention to you-you’d be just a neighborhood cat lurking. You can slip under the tables. Try the terrace first. She seemed impressed that they might sit on the upstairs terrace, with a view down on the village.” Azrael gave a toothy laugh. “What’s the big deal about rooftops?” He fixed Joe with another level look. “You can find out what Dora and Ralph are up to-find out if it will harm Greeley.”

“Why would his own daughter do something to hurt him?” Dulcie asked.

“Maybe she wouldn’t mean to harm him. Maybe she wouldn’t understand the implications.”

“You’re making too much?“Joe began.

“I sense death around Greeley,” the cat yowled. “I see death.”

“Even if you do, why should we get involved?” Joe asked coldly. “What’s in it for us?”

The black torn gave Joe a deep and knowing look.“You will do it. You dance to curiosity as some cats dance to catnip. You two are riven with inquisitiveness.

“And with righteousness,” Azrael continued smugly. “If you think the law will be broken, that there’s a crime, that a human will be harmed, you little cats will do it.”

Joe crouched to rake him again, but the torn ignored him, twitching a long black whisker.

“You nosed into every possession Dora and Ralph have. You left your scent on every smallest bit of clothing. If you thirst for knowledge and justice, if you stalk after lawbreakers, how could younotrun surveillance-as your Captain Harper would say-on this intriguing little meeting?”

They watched him intently, Joe angrily, Dulcie with increasing interest.

“Tonight,” Azrael said softly, narrowing his flame-golden eyes. “Seven-thirty. They’re to take a cab.” And he slipped away, vanishing among the shadows.

Dulcie looked after him with speculation.

Joe said,“What’s he trying to pull? There’s no crime, nothing has happened. What a lot of?”

She kept looking where Azrael had vanished, and an eager, hotly curious expression gleamed like fire in her wide green eyes.

“He’s setting us up, Dulcie.”

“Why would he set us up? I don’t think so. Did you see his eyes when he talked about Greeley? That wasthat was a plea for help.”

“Come on, Dulcie. A plea for help from the likes of him? That cat cares about no one.”

“He cares about Greeley.” She gave Joe a deep green look. “He loves Greeley. I’m going over there to Pander’s.”

“Come on, Dulcie. You let him sucker you right in.”

“Intowhat?What could he do? What harm can come of it?”

“Dulcie?”

“Do as you please,” she hissed. “I want to know what this is about.” And she trotted away, switching her tail, heading for Pander’s.

Joe galloped after her, leaned down and licked her ear.“Totally stubborn,” he said, laughing.

She paused, widened her eyes at him, purring.

“Hardheaded.” He licked her whiskers. “And totally fascinating.”

She gave him a green-eyed dazzle and a whisker kiss.

“So what the hell?” Joe purred. “So we slip into Pander’s, maybe cadge a scrap of fillet. So what could happen?”

16 [????????: pic_17.jpg]

CROUCHING close together beneath a red convertible, the cats licked their whiskers at the delicious smells from Pander’s, the aroma of roast lamb and wine-basted venison and, Dulcie thought, scallops simmered in a light sherry. But the elegant scents were the only hints of Pander’s delights, for the building itself was not inviting. From the street it looked as stark as a slum-district police precinct.

The brick face of the plain, two-story structure rose directly from the sidewalk with no architectural grace, not even a window through which to glimpse the restaurant’s elegantly clad diners. The closed door was painfully austere, with no potted tree or flower or vine beside it, in the usual Molena Point style, to break the severity. Only the expensive cars parked at the curb and the delicious aromas wafting out hinted at the pleasures of Pander’s as the cats waited for Dora and Ralph Sleuder to appear.

Despite the gourmet allure, Joe would just as soon be home catching a nap as spying in that rarified environ, dodging the sharp eyes and hard shoes of unsympathetic waiters.

“What if we can’t get in?” Dulcie said softly, studying the blank, closed facade.

“Should have phoned for a reservation. We’d like two cushions laid on a corner table, my good man. We’ll have the venison-you can dispense with the silverware.”

She just looked at him.

“We’ll go over the roof,” he said more gently. “Drop down onto the terrace.” The second-floor dining terrace, at the back, boasted no outer access, only the stairs from within the main dining room.

“But, Joe, the minute we look over the edge of the roof and the terrace lights hit us, we’re like ducks in a shooting gallery.”

“Who’s going to look up at the roof? They’ll all be busy with their menus and drinks and impressing each other.” He looked hard at her. “I still say it’s a setup. I don’t trust anything that lying alley cat tells us.”

“He looked really worried. I think he truly wanted our help. Maybe his prediction of murder isn’t all imagination, maybe Greeley is in danger, and we can find out why.”

Joe shrugged.“Maybe Jergen found out that Greeley’s stealing. Maybe he’s going to hit Dora for blackmail-she forks over or he turns in her father.”

“That sounds flimsy. How would he even know Greeley? For that matter, how does he know Dora and Ralph?” Her green eyes narrowed. “Why this dinner so soon after Dora and Ralph copied Mavity’s financial statements?”

“As to that, what about Pearl Ann snooping into Jergen’s computer? Is there some connection? And,” he said, “need I point out again that there’s been no crime committed? That this is all simply conjecture?”

She gave him that don’t-be-stupid look, her eyes round and dark. “When people start prying into other people’s business, copying their personal papers, accessing their computer files, either a crime’s been committed or one’s about to be.Someone’sup to no good. We just don’t know who.” And she settled closer to Joe beneath the convertible to await Jergen’s little dinner party.

The Sleuders had not yet made an appearance when Pander’s door opened, a middle-aged couple came out, and the cats glimpsed, within, a tuxedoed maitre d’ of such rigid stance that one had to assume, should he discover a trespassing cat, he would snatch it up by its tail and call the dogcatcher. They had been waiting for some time when they realizedthey were not the only observers lingering near Pander’s closed door.

Across the street a man stood in the shadowed recess between two buildings, a thin, stooped man, pale and very still, watching Pander’s: the Sleuders’ mysterious friend and courier. The man who loitered, in the evenings, outside Clyde’s apartment building.

“He gives me the shivers,” Dulcie whispered. The cats watched him for a moment then slipped away beneath the line of cars and around the corner to the back alley.

They hoped to find the kitchen door propped open, a common practice among Molena Point restaurants during the summer to release the accumulated heat of the day and to let out the warm breath of the cookstove.

But the rear door was securely shut, the entire building sealed tighter than Max Harper’s jail.

“Spotlights or not,” Joe said, “let’s hit the roof.” And he took off for the end of the building, swarming up a bougainvillea vine through clusters of brick red flowers. With Dulcie close behind him, they padded across Pander’s low, tarred roof toward the blinding light that flowed up from the terrace. Soft voices rose, too, and laughter, accompanied by the tinkling of crystal.

Crouching at the edge, their paws in the roof gutter and their eyes slitted against the glare, they peered down onto two rows of snowy-clothed tables and the heads of sleekly coiffed women in low-cut gowns and neatly tailored gentlemen; the tables were set with fine china and heavy silver, and the enticing aromas engulfed the cats in a cloud of gourmet nirvana. Only with effort did they resist the urge to drop onto the nearest table and grab a few bites, then run like hell.

But they hadn’t come here to play, to create chaos in Pander’s elegant retreat, as amusing as that might be.

Along the terrace wall, dark-leafed, potted trees stood judiciously placed to offer the diners a hint of privacy between their tables. The cats did not see Dora and Ralph. But a serving cart stood directly below them, and in a flash of tabby and gray they dropped down onto it then onto the terrace, slipping beneath the cart, finding their privacy in the shadows between its wheels.

From this shelter, their view down the veranda was a forest of table and chair legs, slim ankles, pant cuffs, and gleaming oxfords. A waiter passed, inches from their noses, his hard black shoes creaking on the tiles. To their right, a pair of glass doors opened to the interior dining room. They knew from their housemates’ descriptions that Pander’s had four dining rooms, all richly appointed with fine antique furniture and crystal chandeliers, and the tables set with porcelain and sterling and rock crystal. Both Wilma and Clyde favored Pander’s for special occasions, for a birthday or for the anniversary of Wilma’s retirement. The staff was quiet and well-trained, none of themy-name-is-George-and-I’ll-be-your-waiterroutine, and none of the overbearing showmanship of some expensive but tasteless restaurants that catered to the nouveau riche, waiters with bold opinions and flashy smiles. Pander’s existed for the comfort and pleasure of its guests, not to put on a floor show.

When Wilma did dine at Pander’s, she would bring home to Dulcie some small and delectable morsel saved from her plate, wrapped by her waiter in gold foil and tucked into a little gold carton printed with Panders’ logo. Once she had brought a small portion of beef Wellington, another time a little serving of pheasant stuffed with quail. She had served these to Dulcie on the good china, too, making of the occasion a delightful party. Pander’s was one of the human institutions about which Dulcie liked to weave daydreams, harmless little fantasies in which she was a human person dressed in silk and diamonds and perhapsa faux-leopard scarf, little imaginary dramas that delighted her and hurt no one.

But now she began to worry.“What if they didn’t get a terrace table? If they’re not here when the courthouse clock chimes eight, we’ll have to try the dining rooms, slip along under the dessert cart when they wheel it in that direction.”

“I’m not going through that routine again. Creeping around on our bellies between squeaking wheels. I had enough of that in the nursing home.”

“At least you didn’t have to worry about your tail getting under the wheels.” She cut him an amused glance. “A docked tail does have its upside.

“And,” she said, “your short tail makes you look incredibly handsome-even more macho. The drunk who stepped on your tail and broke it-he didn’t know he was doing you such a big favor.”

The terrace was filling up, several parties had entered; only two tables remained empty, and no sign of the Sleuders. The cats were crouched to make a dash for the inner door when they saw Dora and Ralph coming through.

“There they?” She stopped, staring.

Joe did a double take.

The Sleuders’ host was not Winthrop Jergen.

Dora and Ralph’s dinner companion, gently ushering them in behind the maitre d’, was Bernine Sage, her red hair wound high with bands of gold, her orange-and-pink flowered suit summery and cool-making Dora and Ralph look so shabby that Dulcie felt embarrassed for them.

Dora had chosen a black dress, possibly to make herself appear thinner, but the black was rusty and faded, as if she had owned the dress for a very long time, and her black stockings were of the extra-support, elasticized variety. Ralph was dressed in a gray pinstripe suit with amazingly wide lapels, a shirt that should have been put through a tub of bleach, and a broad necktie with black-and-white dominoes printed across it. His socks were pale blue.

As the three were seated, the cats flashed across open space and beneath the table nearest to their cart. Slipping behind a potted tree to the next table, winding between silk-clad ankles and satin pumps and polished Bailey loafers, they were careful to avoid physical contact with the clientele, not to brush against someone’s ankle and elicit startled screams and have waiters on them as thick as summer fleas.

Moving warily, their progress alternating between swift blurs and slinky paw-work, they gained the end of the terrace and slipped under the Sleuders’ table, crouching beside Bernine’s pink high heels and nude stockings, Dulcie tucking her tail under so not to tickle those slim ankles.

Dora’s black shoes were a size too small. Her skin pooched over and her thick stockings wrinkled. Ralph was wearing, over his baby blue socks, black penny loafers with dimes in the slots. The threesome was seated so that the Sleuders could enjoy the view out over the village rooftops. Bernine’s vantage commanded the terrace tables and their occupants; she could watch the room while seeming to give the preferred seating to her guests. Their conversation was hesitant, almost shy. Above the cats, a menu rattled. Dora shifted in her chair, rearranging her feet so Joe had to back away. She asked Bernine about Molena Point’s weather in the winter, and Ralph inquired about the offshore fishing. The cats were starting to doze when a waiter came to take the drink orders. Dora ordered something called a white moose, Ralph liked his Jack Daniel’s straight with no chaser, and Bernine favored a Perrier.

When the waiter had gone, Bernine said,“How is Mavity feeling-is she all right? She’s working so hard. I worry about her. House cleaning is terribly heavy work for a woman of her years.”

Dora’s voice bristled. “Mavity has always worked hard.”

“I know Charlie is short-handed,” Bernine confided, “but Mavity isn’t so young anymore.”

“Hard work is the way she and Daddy grew up; they thrive on it. Both of them worked in the family grocery since they were in grammar school. It was right there on Valley Road when this part of Molena Point was mostly little farms,” Dora told her. “Mavity and Daddy wouldn’t know what to do without hard work. Daddy was the same on the farm, always working.”

“Well, I suppose she does want the work just now, since she’s investing every penny. She’s so excited about increasing her savings.”

There was a pause as their drinks arrived, the waiter’s hard black shoes moving around the table, the sound of ice tinkling, the sharp scent of alcohol tickling the cats’ noses. “But I do wonder,” Bernine said, “about these investments of hers. Mavity is thrilled with the money, but this Winthrop Jergen?” Another long pause. Dora began to wiggle her left toe. Ralph’s feet became very still. Bernine said tentatively, “I wonder sometimes if Mr. Jergen is-quite to be trusted.”

No one responded. Under the table, Ralph tapped his foot softly. Dora shifted position, pressed one foot tightly against the other.

Bernine said,“The kind of money Mavity’s making seems-well, nearly too good to be true.

“Though I don’t see how Mr. Jergen could cheat her,” she hastened. “After all, she must get a regular monthly statement. And she told me herself, she drew two hundred dollars from her profits just last week to do a few things to the house, buy some new dishes.”

Dora made a strange little sound.“Oh, the dishes are lovely. Real Franciscan pottery, just like Mama had. Well, she didn’t have to do that, just because we were coming. Didn’t have to do anything for us.”

“She wanted to,” Bernine said. “And I guess she can afford it, all right. I’d love to invest with Mr. Jergen, but I-I don’t know. Investments make me so nervous.”

“Investing with that Je?” Ralph began. Under the table, Dora kicked him.

“Still,” Bernine went on smoothly, “if Mavity can make that kind of money? Well, maybe Iwouldlike to try.”

Ralph cleared his throat.“I-I wouldn’t do that.” Dora kicked him again, barely missing Joe, and the cats backed away against the terrace wall. There was another pause, as if Bernine might have looked at Ralph with surprise.

“Do-do you have any-special reluctance?” she asked. “I know so very little about investments.”

Dulcie cut her eyes at Joe, amused. This was hugely entertaining. Whatever Bernine was playing at, she must seem, to Dora and Ralph, the height of sophistication-it must be a heady experience for Ralph to find Bernine Sage asking his advice.

Ralph leaned closer to Bernine’s chair. “I would be careful about investing with Jergen.” And Dora’s heel pressed hard against his ankle.

“Oh?” Bernine said softly. “You’re not telling me there’s something wrong?”

The waiter approached and they heard the tinkle of fresh drinks. There was a long interval concerned with ordering, with crab mornay, with a salad of baby lettuces, cuts of rare fillet, and a broiled lobster-a discussion that left the cats sniffing around under the table for any leftovers from previous diners.

“I can’t believe?” Bernine began when the waiter had gone, “I can’t dream that Mavity’s Mr. Jergen? Are you saying that Mr. Jergen??” She paused delicately, her hand beneath the table seeming to accidentally brush Ralph’s hand. The cats watched, fascinated, as Ralph tentatively stroked Bernine’s fingers. Dulcie could picture Bernine giving him a steamy gaze from beneath her mascara-heavy lashes.

Ralph cleared his throat and shifted his hand guiltily as if he thought Dora might have noticed his preoccupation.“I would not invest with Mr. Jergen,” he said bluntly.

“Ralph?” Dora said.

“We-Dora and I-we are very worried about Mavity.”

“But she’s made such wonderful money,” Bernine said. “She told me her profits have been?”

Dora sighed, pressing one toe against the other as if to relieve her tension.“I don’t think we should be talking about this, Ralph. After all, we?”

“Dora, be reasonable. Do you want this poor girl to? Do you want the same thing to happen to Bernine?”

Bernine leaned forward, tucking her sandaled toe behind her ankle in a little spurt of elation. As if she had whispered to herself,Bingo! Gotcha.

“All right,” Dora said reluctantly. “If you want to do this, Ralph, all right. But we have been far too trusting in the past, and I?”

“Dora, this is different. Can’t you see this is different?”

Dora sighed.

Ralph leaned close to Bernine, clutching her hand earnestly beneath the table, as if in a spasm of heart-to-heart communication.“Winthrop Jergen-it’s hard to tell you this, my dear. But Winthrop Jergen is a-professional confidence artist.”

Bernine caught her breath.

“We have the proof,” Ralph said. “All the court proceedings are available, back in Georgia.”

“You mean he’s-been to jail?”

“Jergen wasn’t convicted,” Ralph told her, “but he’s guilty as sin.”

“We only hope,” Dora said, “that we can convince Mavity of this. That she will accept the truth. We haven’t told her yet. We wanted?”

This time it was Ralph’s turn to kick, his black loafer thumping Dora’s ankle.

“We only hope that she can pull out of this in time,” Ralph said. “Before Jergen gets away with her money. She doesn’t?”

The waiter returned with their salads. In the island of silence as he served, the cats curled down more comfortably against the wall. When he had gone Ralph leaned, again, toward Bernine.

“Winthrop Jergen, my dear, robbed us of nearly all our life savings.”

“Oh. Oh, don’t tell me that. Oh, how terrible for you. I can’t believe this.” Bernine’s toe wiggled with excitement.

“We’ve gotten none of our money back,” Ralph told her. “All gone. Police couldn’t find a trace, not a bank account, nothing.”

Dora uncrossed her ankles, setting her feet solidly.“Jergen arranged his little scheme so his partner went to prison. Jergen got off freewent totally free.”

“But where did this all happen? And when?” Bernine asked, puzzled.

“In Georgia, and not many months ago,” Dora told her. “Not long before Christmas-it was a terrible Christmas for us. Terrible.”

“But what brought him here? How did you know he was here? Did Mavity??”

“Mavity told us about her wonderful investments,” Ralph said. “She hoped we might be able to make back some of our losses.”

“And,” Dora said, “when she described Jergen, we began to suspect that this might be Warren Cumming-that’s his real name.”

“Seemed impossible it could be the same man,” Ralph said. “But when we checked Cumming’s phone in Georgia, it had been disconnected. And when we went to his office, it was empty; he’d moved out. Mavity’s description of Jergen sounded so much like Cumming that we decided to find out. So when we told?”

Dora kicked again. Poor Ralph was going to have a black-and-blue ankle.

“When we told our Georgia friends we were coming out here,” Ralph mumbled, “they wished us luck. You have to understand how angry we were, that Jergen got off free.”

“Scot-free,” Dora said. “Looks like he came right on out here, took a new name, started right up again, cheating people-cheating my own aunt.”

“But?” Bernine began.

“I suppose he got a new driver’s license,” Dora said. “Got all those fake cards like you read about, social security, who knows what else?”

Ralph shifted his feet.“All we can do, now, is try to convince poor Mavity of the truth. She thinks that man hung the moon. But with some proof?”

“Now,” Dora said loudly, pressing her knee against his, “now all we can do is help Mavity cope with this. That’s all we can ever do.”

As their entrees were served, the conversation deteriorated to a replay of everyone’s concerns for Mavity, punctuated by the sounds of cutlery on china and occasional smacking from Ralph. The cats had nearly dozed off again when the main course was concluded and their waiter took the plates and brought coffee and the dessert cart. Bernine declined dessert. Dora chose a pecan and caramel torte with whipped cream. Ralph selected a double cream puff with chocolate sauce. Dulcie was partial to the small custard tart on the bottom shelf. Lifting it gently from its pleated white doily, she and Joe indulged. Above them, the conversation turned to Molena Point’s tourist attractions, then back to Mavity, to how shocked Bernine was and how worried they all were for Mavity’s well-being. When again the dessert cart passed their table, the cats went away beneath it, licking cream from their whiskers.

As the waiter parked the cart at the end of the terrace and turned away, the cats sprang to its top shelf skillfully missing cakes and pies and tortes. Leaping to the roof, they dislodged one small piece of cherry pie, sent it skidding across the terrace. They heard it hit and didn’t look back, sped racing across the roof and didn’t stop until they reached the end of the block.

Pausing beside a warm heat vent, they had a leisurely and calming wash to settle their nerves.“What’s that hussy up to?” Joe said, licking his paws.

“Don’t forget, she worked for years as a secretary for the San Francisco probation office. That’s where Wilma first knew her.”

“So?”

“She must know a lot of probation officers and law enforcement people. And those guys, when they retire, sometimes start private investigative services. Wilma knows several P.O.s who?”

“You think she’sinvestigatingDora and Ralph? Or investigating Jergen? Come on, Dulcie. Can you picture Bernine doing anything to help the law?”

“She would for money-she’d do anything for money.”

“And what about the watcher?” He peered over the roof to see if the man was still there, but he had gone-or had moved to a new vantage. “He appears to have masterminded the copying of Mavity’s financial statements,” Joe said.“Hecould be some kind of cop-that’s more believable than Bernine helping the law.”

He began to pace the roof, across the warm, tarry surface.“And what about Pearl Ann, snooping on Jergen?” He looked at Dulcie intently. “Who’s the cop, here? And who’s the rip-off artist?”

As they discussed the puzzle, thirty feet below them the sidewalk was busy with tourists, the after-dinner crowd heading home, lingering at the shop windows, and late diners coming from art exhibits or leaving the local theater, heading for various village restaurants. They saw, scattered among the crowd, two women and an elderly man carrying library cat petitions, stopping each tourist to show newspaper clippings with Dulcie’s picture.

“Who’s checking those signatures,” Joe said, amused. “These people aren’t village residents.”

“They use the library, though,” she said defensively. “Lots of visitors do. Wilma makes out temporary cards all the time.”

Directly below them a couple in jeans stood arguing about whether to drive on to San Francisco or stay in Molena Point, and up at the corner three college-age girls flirted with their male escort, each angling prettily for his attention. Ordinarily the cats enjoyed watching tourists, they liked hanging over the roof making fun of people, but tonight their attention returned quickly to Bernine and the Sleuders, worrying at the tangle as intently as they would worry at an illusive mouse.

But, as it turned out, they had little time to circle the quarry before Azrael’s prediction came true. Before there was, indeed, a murder. An event that sucked in Joe and Dulcie like flies into a spider web.

17 [????????: pic_18.jpg]

I SEE DEATHaround you? death before the moon is full,Azrael had told them-almost as if the black torn could himself bring death with his dark magic, as if this beast were indeed the Death Angel. Whatever the truth, two days after Azrael beguiled Joe and Dulcie into spying at Pander’s restaurant, death reached out just as he predicted.

It was barely eight A.M., Tuesday morning, as they entered the empty library, slipping in through Dulcie’s cat door, their bellies full of fat mice, meaning to curl up on the children’s window seat for a little nap before opening time. The cushioned retreat, where the children listened to stories, was at this hour Dulcie’s private domain.

According to Freda Brackett, Dulcie had turned the long window seat and the inviting tangle of brightly flowered pillows into a nest of cat hair, fleas, and ringworm, but the children thought differently. They loved finding Dulcie among the cushions to snuggle as they listened to the librarian’s stories; they all fought to hold her and sit close to her.

But now this early morning there were as yet no children and the wide bay window was theirs, the only sounds the occasionalwhishof passing cars away across the garden and the distant purling of the sea; crossing the reading room, the cats could feel, through the floor and carpet, the sea’s constant muffled heartbeat.

Dulcie thought it so odd that Wilma couldn’t feel the surf beating unless she was right there at the shore. How sad, what humans missed. Nor had Wilma, just last week, felt the preearthquake tremors that sent Dulcie under the bed at two in the morning, yowling until Wilma took shelter in the closet, the two of them waiting for the earthquake to hit, for heavy objects to start falling.

The ensuing quake had been nothing, amusingly small, no more damage done than a few drinking glasses broken and a crack in the bathroom wall-by California standards, hardly worth getting out of bed for-though Dulcie had not been able to determine its severity by its preshock tremors.

Now, leaping to the window seat, kneading the pillows, the cats yawned and stretched, ready for a nap-and stopped.

They went rigid, hissing, backing away from the glass.

A smell assailed them, unnatural and alarming.

Not the sweet aroma of little children and candy wrappers and the librarians’ subtle perfume.

A stink of death seeped in around the glass-nor was it the scent of a dead animal, not the smell of freshly killed rabbit or squirrel. No. The smell they tasted, flehming and growling, was the stink of human death.

Crouched and tense, they approached the glass, stood pressed against the window looking down into the depths of the tangled garden.

Beyond the window, the building’s two wings jutted out to form a partially walled disarray of blooms that reached up thick as a jungle beneath the children’s window. Spider lilies, tapping at the glass, were tall and thick, their delicate blossoms curled like reaching hands. Beyond the lilies, flowering bushes glowed, and tangles of blue iris. On the east wall, a mass of climbing yellow nasturtiums shone yellow as sunshine, and above the jungle of blooms the oak trees twisted their sturdy, dark limbs and jade foliage against the morning sky.

Beyond the garden stood Ocean Avenue’s double row of eucalyptus trees and then, across the divided street, the crowded, two-story shops. But it was the flower bed beneath the bay window and what lay crushing the blooms, that held the cats’ attention, that made every hair rise, that drew Joe’s lips back in a keening snarl and made Dulcie catch her breath with a shocked mewl.

Below the jutting window a man knelt. As the cats watched, he reached to touch the two bodies that lay sprawled together unmoving, their fleshy, blue-veined, half-naked limbs shockingly white.

Greeley Urzey knelt stroking Dora’s limp hand, reaching to touch her bare, white leg, her naked limbs heavy and comatose. Both Ralph’s and Dora’s clothes were half-torn off-not as if they had been attacked, rather as if they had flung off their garments in a wild and frenzied dance, an insane gavotte. And across the garden, an erratic path twisted, raw with crushed foliage and flowers, a maddened trail plunging in from Ocean Avenue.

One of Ralph’s penny loafers lay yards away from him among a bed of daisies, its dime gleaming in the morning light. The cats could see, across the street, what might be a sweater dropped on the curb.

They drew back as Greeley clasped together his shaking hands and rose, his whole being seeming to tremble, the expression on his face frightened and confused.

He stood staring uncertainly around the garden, then wandered away up the path, his gait slow and hesitant. As he stumbled along Ocean, the black cat dropped down out of an oak tree and fell into step beside him.

At the same instant, Joe and Dulcie leaped from the window seat and scorched across the library and out Dulcie’s cat door. They reached the front garden just as Greeley and Azrael turned the corner, disappearing into a tunnel of dark, low-growing cypress trees.

The two cats grimaced at the death smell, softened by the scent of crushed lilies. Joe placed an exploring paw on Ralph’s arm.

Dulcie nosed at Dora’s hand-and drew back from the icy flesh. She looked at Joe, stricken.

“Greeley didn’t do this. Greeley didn’t do this terrible thing, not to his own daughter.”

“Maybe he just found them. They’ve been dead for hours, Dulcie. If he killed them, why would he come back?”

“But if he just found them, why wouldn’t he head for the police station? He went in the opposite direction.”

“Maybe he was too upset. Maybe he’ll call the cops from somewhere. Maybe go home to Mavity, call from there.”

“Oh, Joe, these poor, silly people. What did they do, that they would die in such-distress?” She pressed close to him, thinking of the stolen computer printouts, then of Ralph and Dora’s feet beneath the table at Pander’s, Ralph’s penny loafers beside Bernine’s silk-clad ankles, thinking of Dora kicking Ralph when his remarks didn’t suit her.

“Whatever they did, they were just simple folk. Who would kill them?” She stared at the tangle of pale, twisted limbs, shocked by their raw whiteness. The Sleuders were such very bulgy people, their limbs lumpy and misshapen. It must be terrible not to have a nice coat of sleek, concealing fur to cover your fat places and your rawness. She watched Joe sniff at Ralph’s nose and mouth-he made a flehming face, raising his lip and flattening his ears.

He smelled Dora’s face, too, scowling. “Drugs? Were they into drugs?”

“Don’t be silly. Dora and Ralph Sleuder?”

“What else would smell so foreign?”

She sniffed at the dead couple’s faces and backed away sneezing at the strange, pungent odor. “We’d better call the dispatcher.”

As they started toward her cat door, he stopped suddenly, pressing her back.“Dulcie, wait.”

She paused, one paw lifted.“What? It’s nearly opening time; the staff will be coming to work. What’s the matter?”

“Isn’t children’s story hour this morning?”

“Oh! Oh, my! Come on!” She dodged past him. “They’ll be crowding in any minute, running to the window.” And she took off round the side of the building.

Twice a week story hour began at eight-fifteen. The kids came flocking in, breaking away from their parents, laughing and pummelling each other and heading straight for the window seat, leaping into the cushions in a frenzy of enthusiasm, pressing their noses to the glass to look out. Children were always drawn to windows-as surely as kittens were drawn to dangling string. Entering any room, children flocked to the glass as if, like Alice, they expected to find beyond the pane any number of exotic new worlds.

This morning, beyond this glass, they’d find an exotic world, all right-a scene never meant for a child’s viewing. But now, as she leaped for her cat door to call the precinct, Joe barged into her again, blocking her way.

“What?” she hissed, shouldering him aside.

“Listen, Dulcie. What would happen if we don’t call the cops?”

She stared at him, shocked.“The children would be? We can’t let them see those bodies. They’d?”

“They’d start screaming,” Joe suggested. “Screaming, giggling, making jokes to hide their fear and confusion. Their parents?” He licked a whisker and smiled wickedly. “Their parents would see the dead bodies and pitch a fit-that the library would let the children see this.”

He began to purr.“Those parents would put Freda right on the hot seat.”

She looked at him, her eyes widening. She didn’t breathe. What he was suggesting was terrible.

“How embarrassing for Freda,” Joe said softly.

“No!” she said, shouldering past him. “I won’t do that. It would be dreadful for the children.”

“Those kids are tougher than you think. All they’ll need is plenty of hugging and a chance to talk it out with their mom or dad-any good parent could put a positive spin on the experience. Turn a shocking situation into something positive-as long as the kids are hugged and loved.”

“No!” she said, pressing past him.

But again he blocked her, licking his whiskers.“It would be the parents who are stressed. And they’d dump it all on Freda-complaints to the mayor, to the city council, letters to the editor, follow-up editorials. Enough fuss,” Joe said, his yellow eyes burning, “to get Freda fired.”

There was a long silence. Joe’s eyes gleamed with the devil’s own light.

“No, Joe. We can’t! Not frighten the children like that-not to spite Freda, not to spite anyone.” Hotly she slashed at him and bolted through her cat door into Wilma’s office where she could call the station.

But she was too late.

As she leaped for Wilma’s office she heard two librarians talking, heard Freda call out as she came in through the back door, and the next moment she heard children running up the walk past the hidden, flower-shrouded bodies, heard them racing across the reading room straight for their window seat.

18 [????????: pic_19.jpg]

THE LIBRARYand garden were crawling with cops. From the roof, Joe Grey watched three medics kneel among the lilies beside the bodies of Dora and Ralph Sleuder. Unable to observe all the action from inside, he had streaked up the back of the building to the roof, leaving Dulcie inside on the book stacks doing interior surveillance. The police action upon entering the garden had been swift and precise as each man swung to his appointed job.

But now the medics, unable to help the deceased, rose again and moved away, nodding to the police photographer. He, pushing back his shoulder-length black hair, knelt among the flowers to shoot close-ups first of the victims’ faces, then of their raw white limbs, recording from every possible camera position; loading new film, at last he turned from the bodies to photograph the surround, the window above the corpses, the white stucco wall, and the garden itself, calling an assistant to part the lilies so he could shoot the earth beneath. Across the garden, Freda Brackett’s angry accusations rose sharply.

She stood before the library’s open front door, toe to toe with Max Harper, her words burning like flames. Harper listened to her harangue without speaking, his thin face frozen into complicated lines of distaste that made Joe laugh. Didn’t Freda see the deep anger in the police captain’s eyes-and the spark of cold amusement?

“What kind of police forceisthis, Captain Harper, to let such a shocking crime occur practically inside the library! This is beyond excuse. You have no idea the damage this will cause the children. What kind of police would subject children to this nightmare? Any well-run police force would have prevented this shocking event. You?”

Joe ceased to listen to her-as he suspected Harper had, too. The aftermath of the Sleuders’ deaths was turning out pretty much as he’d thought-and as Dulcie had feared. The children, on arriving for story hour and discovering the bodies, had crowded against the window, pushing each other out of the way, shocked at first, then quickly out of control. Staring down through the glass, smearing it with their noses and with sticky fingers, they screamed then laughed, working themselves into a furor of shrill giggles that did not abate until their parents dragged them away. Not even the ululation of sirens careening through the village had quieted them, nor had the arrival of the ambulance and four police cars skidding to the curb; they only shouted louder, fought harder to see every detail.

Out beyond the garden, two officers were clearing the street and putting up cordons at the ends of the block. At both corners, pedestrians had gathered, idle onlookers drawn to tragedy, some out of empathy but most with prurient curiosity. Of all those who crowded to look, Joe was the only observer enjoying a rooftop vantage. Lying with his chin propped on his paws and his paws resting on the roof gutter, his alert gray ears caught every whisper.

He watched the evidence officer lift lint and debris from the bodies and the surround and mark the evidence bags as to content and location. Watched him go over the victims’ clothes with the department’s tiny vacuum cleaner and wondered if any lint had fallen from Greeley’s clothes when he knelt over Dora-or, for that matter, if the lab would find black cat hairs-or traces of their own fur where he and Dulcie had sniffed at the victims’ faces.

Well, so Harper found cat hairs. So what was he going to do? There’d been cat hairs at other murder scenes. He watched the fingerprint specialist dust the deceased’s clothing and skin and the window and the slick green lily leaves, carefully lifting prints. Watched the forensic pathologist arrive-a white-haired man stepping out of an ancient gray Cadillac-to examine the bodies, place bags over the victim’s hands, and wrap Dora and Ralph for transport to the morgue. As the courthouse clock chimed ten-thirty, the forensics team moved inside the library, and so did Joe Grey, heading for the book stack where Dulcie sat twitching her tail, highly amused asshe listened to a little group of irate mothers.

Lieutenant Brennan, heavy in his tight uniform, stood talking with the five women and their excited preschoolers, the little ones wiggling and shouting. Three-year-old James Truesdel wanted to know why those people were asleep in the garden, and Nancy Phillips, with five-year-old superiority, told him they were not asleep, they were dead.Shewanted to know:“How did they get dead, with their clothes off?” And five-year-old Albert Leddy, trying to drag his mother back toward the window seat from which he had been extricated, pitched such a tantrum, kicking his mother in the shins, that if he’d been a kitten Dulcie would have whacked him hard and nipped his nervy little ears.

But she had to smile, too, because from the temper of the parents, the pro-library cat group had snatched the day just as Joe had predicted, had grabbed opportunity by the tail. As Freda Brackett left Captain Harper and came back inside, nine parents converged on her, and James Truesdel’s mother began to question her in a manner that indicated there would soon be a hotly phrased letter in theGazette.

Behind Freda, Bernine Sage manned the three constantly ringing phone lines-word traveled fast in the village-giving dry, uninformative answers. It was hard to tell whether Bernine was an island of efficiency or of total indifference. Dulcie glanced up to the door as a young man bolted in, having talked his way past the police guard.

Danny McCoy was disheveled and breathing hard, his red hair tousled; having obviously rushed over from theGazetteoffices, he exchanged a look of complicity with Mrs. Leddy.

Danny, too, was a mover and shaker on Dulcie’s behalf. He had done several columns supporting the library cat and had made a big deal that library cats were a growing trend across the country. He had done a really nice article on the Library Cat Society, interviewing its president and several of its members and quoting from the society’squarterly newsletters about the popularity of individual library cats in Minden, Nevada, Eastham, Massachusetts, and, closer to home, El Centro. Now, deftly trapping Freda between the checkout desk and a book cart, he began with the standard questions: Who had found the bodies? What time where theydiscovered? Then he moved on to the question of why the children had been allowed to see the murder victims, why they had not been supervised, to avoid such ugly experience.

“We didn’t know the bodies werethere,“Freda snapped. “One does not come to work expecting to find dead bodies outside the children’s room. The police are supposed to patrol that street. Why didn’ttheysee the bodies? This Captain Harper was extremely lax to allow such an occurrence. Thisis not New York City. This is a small, quiet town. What else do the police have to do, but keep the streets and public buildings safe?”

“But, Ms. Brackett, why were the children allowed to view the corpses?”

“I told you. We didn’t know they were there! Can’t you understand me? It was thechildrenwho discovered the tragedy.Wedon’t go into the children’s room first thing in the morning. We are far too busy preparing to open the library, preparing the checkout machine, clearing the bookdrop, starting up the computers?”

“No one looked out the window before the children arrived?”

“Of course not. Why would we? Don’t you listen? We had no reason to look out. The children’s librarian was at her desk getting ready for story hour. This work takes a good deal of preliminary attention. My staff does not have time to dawdle, gawking out windows, Mr. McCoy.”

“So you let the children run in there, without any supervision, and view a shocking and frightening death scene.”

Dulcie smiled with appreciation. Danny was being totally unfair. Taunting Freda and shaping his own biased agenda. The article he was preparing to write would be scathing-he was going to cream Freda.

Purring and rolling over, she watched Joe slip in the front door and across the reading room behind the feet of several officers. He made one leap to a reading table, another to the top of the book stack, landed beside her with a soft thud, purring.

“Where’s Mavity?” she whispered. “Did someone go to find her, to tell her about Dora and Ralph? Did they go to look for Greeley?”

“Harper sent an officer to find Mavity. I don’t know about Greeley.” And he settled down to watch Danny torment Freda, the young reporter playing her as skillfully as any cat baiting an angry rat.

“Exactly what degree of damage, Ms. Brackett, might this event have done to the children? Is it possible, would you say, that some of the children will need psychiatric help? Perhaps trauma counseling? Is the library insured for that kind of?”

“The city sees to our insurance, Mr. McCoy. I don’t have time for this foolishness. If the children glimpsed a murder scene, that is no different from what they see on television.”

Mrs. Truesdel moved closer to join them.“That is not what you told Captain Harper, Ms. Brackett. You said the children would probably need therapy. And as far as television,” Mrs. Truesdel said, “I don’t let my five-year-old watch violent TV. Nor do my friends. Wetryto protect our small children from undue violence. Certainly we don’t expect them to witness two shocking deaths during story hour.”

“This experience,” Danny said, “will give them far worse nightmares then any TV show.” He moved closer to Freda. “Certainly this ugly look at death has been far more harmful to the children than, say, finding a little cat in the library.”

“Dead bodies, Mr. McCoy, seen through a window, cannot bite the children or communicate to them some life-threatening disease.”

“I don’t follow you. The library cat is healthy. What disease do you think she?”

“Rabies, Mr. McCoy. Lyme disease. Cat scratch fever-all of which can kill, if not treated. In the past year, in this county alone, there have been fifteen cases of rabies. And the statistics on Lyme disease?”

“But Dulcie has had her rabies shots. She has excellent veterinary care-she’s not a diseased stray off the streets. And to my knowledge there have been no cases of Lyme disease in this coastal area.”

“A cat’s bite or scratch,” Freda snapped, “is notoriously filthy.”

“Has she ever bitten or scratched a child?”

“There is always the chance she will. Cats are half-wild creatures; they are never really domesticated.”

Atop the book stack, Dulcie’s eyes blazed. If ever she did yearn to bite and scratch, this was the moment. If ever she abandoned her domesticated ways, now was the time.

Beside her, Joe was nearly choking with laughter, his ears and whiskers twitching, his mouth open in a wide grin.

Soon Danny, having taken enough quotes from Freda for a scathing article, smiled sweetly at her, turned away, and approached three other mothers and their children. He was deep into conversation with them, writing down their comments, when another squad car pulled to the curb and an officer hurried up the path looking for Captain Harper, who stood just inside the door talking to the photographer.

“We didn’t find Mavity Flowers,” he told Harper. “She wasn’t at home or at work up at Damen’s apartments. And we haven’t found Greeley Urzey.”

Joe and Dulcie looked at each other. Dulcie whispered,“Has Greeley skipped?Didhe do it?”

“No way, Dulcie. He?“Joe paused, scowling. “Here comes Clyde. He doesn’t look too happy.”

Hurrying up the walk, stepping over the yellow ribbon barrier and past the police guard, Clyde, like Danny, was disheveled and red-faced. Rushing in, nodding to Harper, he spotted Joe atop the book stack.

Sprinting across the room, he snatched Joe by the scruff of the neck and swung him down onto his shoulder, giving Joe a glare that would turn a Doberman to stone.

“Claws in,” he hissed. “Put your clawsin.And stay right there. Not a move. Not a snarl out of you.”

Joe was shocked and hurt. What had he done? And he could say nothing. In public, he had no chance to defend himself.

Clyde looked up at Dulcie more gently.“Would you two like some breakfast?” He reached up for her. She gave him an innocent green gaze and slipped down willingly into his arms, soft and innocent, her claws hidden, her little cat smile so beatific Joe thought he’d throw up; he turned away from her, disgusted.

“It’s time you two were out of here,” Clyde said softly, meaning:Stay away from this! Leave it alone! Forget it.Carrying them out, Joe on his shoulder and Dulcie in his arms, he hurried around the block to his car and plunked them down in the ragged front seat. He was driving his latest acquisition, a battered ‘32 Ford that sounded like a spavined lawnmower. Starting the engine with a deafening clatter, he headed for Wilma’s house.

When Clyde had sold his antique red Packard touring car to help pay for the apartment building, he’d started driving an old Mercedes he’d fixed up. The car was all right except for its color. Joe had refused to ride in the baby pink Mercedes. Clyde himself had taken all the ribbing he could stand, then sold the Mercedes and finished up the last details on the yellow ‘29 Chevy convertible in which he had escorted Charlie to the gallery opening. But then he’d picked up this Ford; he always had to have some old clunker to refurbish. Eventually he would turn it into a beauty, but meantime a ride in the heap was like being transported in a bucket of rattling tin cans. Driving to Wilma’s, Clyde didn’t speak to them. They crouched together hunched and cross as he parked at Wilma’s curb.

She was on her hands and knees in the garden, transplanting gazanias, thinning out the low yellow flowers. As Clyde killed the rattling engine, the cats leaped out.

Wilma sat back on her heels, looking them over, her eyes widening with suspicion.“What?” she said. “What have they done now?”

Dulcie stared at her, hurt.

Joe didn’t wait to hear Clyde’s biased accusations. He shot past Wilma through the garden and around the house and up the hill at the back. To hell with humans.

Soon Dulcie came trotting along, looking chastened, and they took off up the hills to hunt-to let the atmosphere cool down.

19 [????????: pic_20.jpg]

CHARLIE WASon a ladder painting the downstairs front bedroom when she saw Max Harper’s police unit pull up out in front. As he came across the patio, something about his drawn look and the resigned set of his shoulders brought her down the ladder. Wiping her hands, she stepped to the open door.

Lieutenant Brennan had been up earlier looking for Mavity, but he wouldn’t tell her why. She’d told him to try Mavity’s cottage, that very likely Mavity had slept in, that she did that sometimes, that when she woke up she’d phone the apartments frantic and apologetic. But now, watching Harper, a chill held Charlie. His solemn expression made her stomach lurch.

She hadn’t gotten to work herself until ten, had made a run around the coast to Hudson’s Building Supply to pick up an order of some special tile and paint, some varnish, five gallons of mud, and some finishing nails. She’d had a cup of coffee with the owner, John Hudson, had helped him load her order then headed back. When she got to work, Mavity’s VW wasn’t parked in front, nor had Pearl Ann seen her.

Harper stopped in the open doorway.

“Clyde’s not here,” she said, motioning him on in, searching the captain’s solemn brown eyes.

“Clyde’s at the library,” he said. “Or he was. He left just before I did. I’m looking for Mavity.”

“Didn’t Brennan find her? He was here.”

Harper turned from her, wandered the big room, studying the sanded Sheetrock and the half-painted ceiling. The units were being done so piecemeal that sometimes it even confused her, one room finished and painted while the next room was hardly started; but with their crew, it seemed to be working. Max turned to look at her, his back to the windows.

“What is it?” she said softly.

“Mavity’s niece and her husband. They were found dead this morning.”

“Dora and Ralph?” She stood a moment trying to take that in. Dora and Ralph Sleuder? “Was-was there an accident? A car accident?”

“We found them in the garden outside the library.”

“The library garden? I don’t understand. How could? Why would??”

“The call came in around eight forty-five this morning.”

She tried to collect herself.“What happened? An accident in the garden? But I didn’t see anything-well, but I left around seven.” She knew she wasn’t making sense.

“You were in the garden?”

“No. Across the street.”

“Oh, yes, you moved into that apartment above Joan’s Antiques.”

She nodded.“I drank my coffee looking out.”

“And you saw nothing unusual?”

“The garden was-I saw no one there. I thought I saw something move inside the window, but it was just those pillows against the glass. Dora and Ralph can’t be dead.”

“You thought you saw something moving?”

“I think it was just the pillows-or it could have been the cat, she sleeps in the window sometimes.”

“And you didn’t see anyone in the garden? Or on the street?”

“I didn’t notice anyone. But I was only at the window long enough to drink my coffee.”

“And you saw nothing different about the garden?”

“No.” She thought a minute. “Yes. There was some kind of shadow in the lilies. As if something had crushed them. They’re so thick and tall, it’s hard to be sure. But there seemed to be a dark place, as if maybe a dog had slept there and broken the flowers.”

Harper was quiet, watching her.“Did you know the Sleuders well?”

“No. I met them the day after they arrived, they came up to see the apartments-rubbernecking, I guess. Mavity didn’t seem too happy about it.”

“Have you any idea if they were into drugs-anything Mavity might have said?”

Charlie stared at him.“Drugs? Those two country people? My God, I wouldn’t think so. Are you saying-what? They died of an overdose?”

“We don’t know yet. Lab’s working on it.”

“Could they have taken-could it be some medication? I can’t imagine drugs. Oh, poor Mavity. Have you told her? No, you came to find her. Have you been to the house?”

“I sent Brennan earlier. No one was home.”

She snatched up her purse and keys.“We have to find her. She could be?” She looked at him imploringly. “I want to find Mavity.”

In the squad car, as Max spun a U-turn and headed down the hill, he described for her the murder scene outside the children’s room. It sickened her to think of Dora and Ralph lying there in the garden dead, half-naked as if they might have been on some wild and terrifying high.

“PCP could do that,” Harper said. “Or crack, or one of the designer drugs.” His words made her see Mavity lying dead, too; she couldn’t shake her concern.

They found Mavity’s VW parked in front of her cottage. Mavity was inside, perfectly safe, just finishing breakfast. Charlie grabbed her and hugged her. The little woman stepped back from Charlie, puzzled.

“I just called the apartments,” she told Charlie. “I know I’m late. I’m sorry, I meant to call earlier but? I went for a walk down the marsh,” she said lamely. “The time got away from me.” She frowned at Charlie and at Harper. “What? What is it?”

Harper glanced toward the sitting room. Mavity motioned them in, past the kitchen. He sat on the couch taking Mavity’s hand and easing her down beside him. Her short white hair was rumpled from the sea wind. Her face had gone deadly solemn.

“Mavity, did Dora and Ralph come home last night?”

“No. That’s why I went to the beach. I was looking for them.”

She twisted the hem of her white uniform jacket and folded it into a knot.“I thought maybe they got up early, didn’t eat breakfast, or went out to eat, and that they were sitting out on the beach. But I?” She looked at him intently. “They’ve never stayed away overnight. And Greeley’s gone, too. But Greeley does that. Out at all hours, that’s no surprise.”

“Were Dora and Ralph home for dinner last night?”

She smoothed her jacket hem and clasped her hands together.“No. Two nights running, they’ve gone out alone in the evening. Didn’t tell me where, didn’t tell Greeley.”

“Sunday night was the first time?”

“Sunday, yes. They left before I got home from work, and they came home around nine-thirty. They were all dressed up. They went right to bed, wouldn’t say where they’d been. What is this about? Where are they?”

Charlie sat down beside her, glancing across her to Max.

“Mavity,” Max said gently, “there’s been an accident.”

She watched him, said nothing.

“Dora and Ralph were found this morning. They were found together. They’re dead, Mavity. I’m so sorry.”

“They can’t be dead. I saw them just last night, all dressed up. They were fine last night.” She reached for Charlie’s hand. “There must be some mistake. I saw them just last night.”

Charlie took both Mavity’s hands in hers, held them tightly.

Mavity looked at them nakedly.“A car accident? Was it the taxi? Was there an accident with the taxi?”

“No,” Harper said. “Where did they go to dinner? Why didn’t you and Greeley go?”

“We weren’t asked-neither time. They wouldn’t say where they were going.” She was squeezing Charlie’s hand so hard that Charlie’s fingers popped.“Was there an accident?”

Charlie glanced helplessly at Harper.

Max said,“No. It was not a car accident. You’re sure they didn’t come home last night?”

“I don’t think so. But Dora always makes the bed, so they might have been here. But Greeley-Greeley wasn’t home. He does that. Goes walking at night. Walking all night with that cat. Says it calms his nerves.”

“When you got up this morning,” Harper said, “no one was here? No beds had been slept in?”

“The beds were made up. No one was here, no dirty dishes in the sink. Neat as a pin.” She began to shiver.

Charlie lifted a folded blanket from the end of the couch and wrapped it around the little woman.

“Were they upset about anything?” Harper asked her.

Mavity just looked at him.

Charlie squeezed her shoulder.“Mavity?”

“Nothing really. Just-Greeley and Dora had a fight. Greeley left angry, really mad-but Greeley has a short temper. He doesn’t stay mad. He gets right over it.”

“What was the fight about?” Harper said patiently.

She shook her head.“No one would say. Wouldn’t tell me. That really hurt. All the secrecy. Secrets about where they were going. Secrets about why they fought.

“I can’t imagine what they couldn’t tell me. I would have driven them if they’d wanted. But no, they didn’t want me to bother; they had to have a cab. Was it the cab?” she repeated. “Did it have a wreck?”

“No,” Charlie said, “they weren’t in a wreck. They may have gotten sick suddenly.”

“Sick?” She looked at them, puzzled. “Sick from the food? From their dinner?”

“We’re not sure what happened,” Harper said. “There will be an autopsy. Were-were they into drugs, do you know?”

“Drugs?“Her eyes blazed with shock.“Dora and Ralph? Of course not.I can’t imagine such a thing.” She hugged herself, seemed unable to get warm despite the blanket. “How can I tell this to Greeley?Drugs?Oh, you’re mistaken.”

“The autopsy will tell us,” Harper said.

“I don’t know how to tell Greeley that Dora? She’s his only child. She-he didn’t see her often, but she’s-she was all he had.” Mavity shook her head. “Greeley will think it’s his fault.”

“Why?” Harper said.

“Because they fought, because he left the house angry.”

“And you have no idea what they fought about?”

“It was going on when I got home. I guess they didn’t hear the car. Greeley was shouting at Dora, that she was making trouble for nothing, that they had no right-then they heard me on the porch and that was the end of it, when I came in. Greeley stomped out with that cat following him, and thenDora and Ralph left all dressed up again, wouldn’t say anything more.”

Charlie rose, stepped into the kitchen, rinsed out the coffeepot, and refilled it. Mavity said,“It was only a family tiff. Maybe Dora and Ralph, going out alone, made Greeley mad. Who would they go with? They don’t know anyone in Molena Point.”

“And Greeley was out all night,” Harper said.

“I would have heard him come in. He sleeps on the couch right here, and me on the cot. And he always leaves his bed unmade, leaves a mess for me to straighten, sheets half on the floor.”

“Are his clothes still here? His luggage?”

“He only has the one bag.” She rose and peered in between the recliner chair and the television. “It’s here.” She picked up the bag, looked in. “Full of clothes.” She went to check the bathroom.

“Shaving kit’s there on the sink.”

Harper said,“Does he always travel so light?”

She nodded.“He never packs much in the way of clothes, says he can buy what he needs. He would have checked the one bag, though, because he carried that cat on board. Right in the cabin, in its cage-one of those carrier things.” She opened the washing machine, which stood in a corner of the kitchen, and peered in.

“Left a shirt to be washed, some socks, and a pair of shorts.” She looked across at Harper. “Greeley wouldn’t go away for good-back to Panama-and not tell me.” She pressed her fist to her lips. “Captain Harper, where is Greeley? Greeley has to be all right-Greeley’s all I have now.”

“We don’t know where he is,” Harper said. “I’m sure he’ll turn up. My officers are looking for him.”

They drank their coffee in silence. Max did not light a cigarette but Charlie could tell he wanted one. He asked Mavity if he could search Dora and Ralph’s belongings.

“Yes. But what for? Well, it don’t matter. They can’t complain now,” she said, her voice shaking.

“Maybe I’ll find something to tell us where they went last night, maybe some scrap of paper with an address, something to help us understand what happened.”

“Their bags are in the bedroom-their clothes are in the closet and scattered all over.”

Harper rose.“I’d like both of you to come in while I search.”

They made a little procession, carrying their coffee cups into the small bedroom. Harper’s lean figure moved neatly among the clutter. Charlie stood in the bedroom doorway sipping her coffee, watching Max search for drugs as well as for evidence of the Sleuders’ dinner destination. She didn’t like having to witness this. The necessity for a search, coupled with Mavity’s own distress, made her feel frightened and sick.

She watched him examine each item of clothing, going through pockets, sorting carefully through the contents of each of the Sleuders’ five bags and examining the bags themselves, the pockets and the lining. It was in the last bag, a big duffle, that he withdrew a thick packet of legal-size papers divided into two stacks, each held by a metal clip.

“Mavity, I’d like to keep these as evidence. I’ll give you a receipt for them.”

“Sure you can keep them. What are they?”

Harper looked at her, surprised.“Didn’t you know that Dora had your financial statements?” He handed one of the packets to her.

She stared at the papers, at her name and address beneath Winthrop Jergen’s letterhead. “These aremystatements, from Mr. Jergen.” She looked at Harper, puzzled. “Dora took my statements? Why would she do that? These are none of her business. Dora wouldn’t?”

She hurried to the front room. They watched her open the bottom desk drawer, removing a similar stack of legal-size papers.

“But my statements are here.”

She looked hard at Harper. Carefully she examined the two stacks.

“She copied them. See where I made some little notes? On the copies, you can barely see the pencil marks.”

She sat down on the couch, looking very small.“Why would Dora do that? What could she want with my statements?”

Harper handed her the other set of legal-size papers that he had taken from the Sleuders’ duffle bag. These statements had a different letterhead, under the name Cumming, and were dated the previous year, detailing the Sleuders’ own stock earnings.

She looked at them, looked up at him.“I don’t understand. Dora and Ralph had some investment problems last year, about the time these are dated.”

“What kind of problems?”

“They were cheated of a lot of money. The men were caught, and one of them went to prison.”

“Is that the name of the firm that cheated them?”

“It could be. Yes, I think it is.”

“You said only one of the members was convicted?”

“Yes. Dora was very upset because the other man, Warren Cumming, went free.”

“Did Greeley know about the swindle?”

“Oh, yes. He wrote me all about it-he was furious. And of course Dora called me several times. She’d get so angry, with the trial and all.” She looked again at the Sleuders’ statements.

“Look here, at Dora’s little squiggly marks beside some of these stocks. I have some of the same stock. Coca-Cola, Home Depot. Maybe,” she said, “maybe Dora was comparing how much she and Ralph made on that stock-before they were swindled-with how much I’ve made. It doesn’t really make sense, but Dora’s-was funny that way. And she was so bitter about their loss. Well, anyone would be bitter!”

Harper put his arm around her.“Later today, when you feel up to it, would you come down to the station and give me a formal statement?”

“Yes, if I have to.” She was very pale. “I’ll look for Greeley first, and then I’ll come. I-I’ll need to make arrangements-funeral arrangements.”

“Not yet,” Harper said. “I’ll let you know when you can do that. You don’t have any idea where Greeley might have gone? Where he might have stayed last night?”

“No. He’s a night owl. But he can’t go very far without a car-he’s too cheap to take a cab.”

She moved away from Harper, looking up at him.“Thank you, Captain Harper. Soon as I get myself together I’ll drive around the village, see if I can find him. I don’t know how I’m going to tell him about Dora.”

Charlie stayed with Mavity for a while after Harper left, making her a cup of tea and fetching her an aspirin from the medicine cabinet. When Mavity felt better, she drove Charlie up to work, then went to look for Greeley.

Charlie, getting back to work, kept puzzling over Dora and Ralph. They had seemed such simple folk, plain and uncomplicated, not the kind to deceive Mavity, and surely not the kind to be into drugs. That strange twist, if it was true, put a whole new light on Dora and Ralph Sleuder.

Pulling on her painting shirt and climbing back on the ladder, she was unable to stop worrying over the Sleuders, unable to stop wondering what Harper would uncover when he looked into their background-wondering how much Mavity might not have known about her dead niece.

20 [????????: pic_21.jpg]

YOU’D THINK he’d have the courtesy to call me,” Mavity complained, “but not Greeley. Always been that way. Walk out, gone a couple of days, and then home again and never a word.” She’d pulled herself from the shocked, quiet state she’d been in that morning and was herself again, cross and abrasive, and Charlie was glad to hear the little woman grousing. They were in the back apartment, in the kitchen-office. It was three-thirty in the afternoon and Mavity, after searching futilely for Greeley, had just gotten to work.

“Ever since we were in high school, he’s gone off like that. Drove Mama crazy. She called the police once, reported him missing, and when Greeley found out, he pitched a fit. Left home for three weeks, no one knew where.” Mavity shook her head. “Mama never did that again-she just let him ramble.” The little woman was wound tight, her voice brittle with worry. She had shown up dragging her cleaning things. “I need to do something. I can’t bear to stay home by myself. I left him a note, to call me up here.”

“If you feel like it, you can go up and help Pearl Ann. Mr. Jergen wanted some extras, and it had to be today. Some repairs-he wants the work done while he’s out. Pearl Ann has a dental appointment so she can’t stay too long, then she’s catching the Greyhound to San Francisco.”

“San Francisco? Pearl Ann never goes anywhere. I’ve never known her to do anything but tramp the cliffs. Hiking, she calls it. Why in the world is she going to San Francisco?”

Charlie laughed.“This will be her first trip to the city, and she seems thrilled. It’ll be good for her. She wants to see the Golden Gate, Coit Tower, all the tourist stuff. I’ve never seen her so talkative. She even showed me the silk pants and blazer she bought for the trip.

“She’ll have time to do Jergen’s extras, if you help her. He wants the refrigerator cleaned, said the ice tasted bad. Pearl Ann missed it last week. And he wanted some repairs in the bathroom, said a towel rack had pulled out of the wall and the shower is leaking. It needs caulking-these old tile showers. I told him Pearl Ann had to leave early to catch her bus, but what does he care? You sure you feel up to working?”

“I’ll feel better keeping busy. There’s nothing I can do about Greeley, only wait. The police are looking for him,” Mavity said darkly. Finishing her coffee, she headed toward the stairs carrying her cleaning equipment, and Charlie left to take care of the Blackburn house, do the weekly cleaning and half a dozen small repairs. This was her regular work, the kind of miscellaneous little jobs for which she had started Charlie’s Fix-It, Clean-It and for which she was building a good reputation in Molena Point. What her customers valued most was being able to make one phone call, have the house cleaned and the yard work and repairs tended to all at once. One call, one stop. Her customers didn’t know that every repair was a challenge, that she carried an entire library of helpful volumes in the van, detailed instructions to refer to if she ran into trouble. Only three times, so far, had she been forced to call in a subcontractor.

She was urging the old Chevy up the hill when she saw two cats racing through the tall grass and recognized Joe Grey’s tailless gallop and his flashy white markings. Beside him, Dulcie blended into the grassy shadows like a dark little tiger. It still amazed her that they traveled so far. The freedom of their racing flight made her itch for paper and charcoal, and when they vanished into a tangle of Scotch broom, she slowed the van, watching for them to reappear.

They came out of the bushes suddenly and sat down near the street, regarding her van as she moved slowly by. They looked almost as if theyknewthe vehicle, as if they were quite aware that she was at the wheel and wondered what she was gawking at.

She stopped the van and let it idle, to see what they would do.

They glanced at each other, a strange little look between them, then they rose again and trotted away. Turning their backs, they disappeared into the meadow grass as if dismissing her.

Driving on, she couldn’t rid herself of the notion that Joe and Dulcie had cut her dead. Had not wanted her snooping, had all but told her to mind her own business. Even after she began the Blackburns’ repairs she kept seeing the two cats turning to look at her, seeing their impatient, irritated expressions.

The Blackburn house was a small, handsome Tudor with gray stone walls, brick detailing, and a shake roof. Letting herself in, she did a light weekly cleaning, fixed the sticking latch on the back gate, and put new washers in a dripping faucet. Mrs. Blackburn had left her check on the hall table with a plate of chocolate chip cookies and a note.

Charlie, Becky made a ton of these for school, and I snagged a few. There’s milk in the refrigerator.

She sat at the Blackburns’ kitchen table enjoying the cookies and milk, then put her plate and glass in the dishwasher and headed back for the apartments.

She arrived just after six. Mavity had left, her VW Bug was gone. She checked the work Pearl Ann had finished, her patches on the back wall of the building so cleverly stippled that, once the wall was painted, no one would ever guess there had been need for repairs. As she headed out again through the patio, she heard a little clicking noise.

Glancing above her, she saw that Winthrop Jergen’s windows were open, the louvered metal shade blowing gently against the molding.

She wondered if Pearl Ann had missed her appointment and was still there, because Jergen never opened the windows. Strange that both Pearl Ann and Mavity would forget to shut them, considering the angry exchanges they’d had with Jergen. Though she could hardly blame Mavity for forgetting, with the events of the morning.

Heading up the stairs, she knocked twice and when Jergen didn’t answer she let herself in. He didn’t much like her having a key, but as long as she contracted to clean for him, both she and Mavity had keys. She thought, when she pushed the door open, that he must be there after all, and she called out to him, because beyond the entry she could see the glow of his computer screen.

He didn’t answer. But she could see a spreadsheet on the screen, long columns of numbers. Her attention focused on the room itself, on the overturned lamp hanging off the desk by its cord, on the toppled swivel chair lying amidst scattered in-boxes and file folders. On Winthrop Jergen lying beside the chair, his blood staining the papers and seeping into the Kirman rug.

Charlie remained absolutely still. Looking. Trying to take in what she was seeing.

He lay twisted on his side, his white shirt and pale blue suit blood-soaked. His throat was ripped open in a wide wound like a ragged hank of bleeding meat.

A cleaning cloth lay beside him in a pool of blood, the kind of plaid mesh cloth that she bought in quantity. Though he couldn’t possibly be alive, she knelt and touched his wrist. There was, of course, no pulse. No one could live with that terrible wound, with their throat ripped away. She felt nauseated, could feel the cookies and milk want to come up.

Stepping carefully around Jergen’s body, trying not to be sick, trying to stay out of the blood, she moved to the desk, fished an identical cleaning cloth from her pocket, and used it to pick up the phone.

But then she quietly laid it down again and grabbed up a heavy postal scale and turned to face the room, appalled at her own stupidity. If the killer was still in the apartment, she had to get out.

What was she was going to do, fend him off with a postal scale?

But she had no other weapon.

Warily she moved into the bedroom, checking the closet, then the bath. Finding those spaces empty, she approached the kitchen, knowing she should run, get out-knowing this was crazy, that this could not be happening. It was bright afternoon in a village as respectable and civilized as a cup of afternoon tea. Through Jergen’s front windows, the low sun gleamed gently, sending sparkles across the calm sea and across the village rooftops; this was Molena Point, tame and quiet, not New York or L.A. with their news of bloody daytime murders.

Finding the kitchen empty, she returned to Jergen’s desk, and using the cleaning rag to pick up the phone, she called 911.

But even as she dialed, she wondered if she’d locked the front door behind her. And, waiting for the dispatcher, she laid down the receiver and fled to the door and locked it.

She returned to the desk to hear the dispatcher shouting,“Hello? Hello?”

Standing over Jergen’s body, holding the phone in the dustrag, she began to shiver. The metallic smell of blood and the smell of other bodily releases sickened her. She gave the address and stood staring down at Jergen’s bloody face and bloody, torn throat, unable to hang up or to look away.

The only dead people she had encountered in her twenty-eight years were those from whom all signs of violence or distress had been gently wiped away, bodies thoughtfully groomed and arranged in the clean satin lining of expensive caskets-an elderly neighbor when she was twelve, her mother’s cousin Marie two years later. Her father, when she was eighteen, and her mother when she was in art school. All the deceased were dressed in their Sunday best, their hands calmly folded over their demure chests, her mother’s gold wedding band gleaming on her pale finger.

In the room’s silence, the faint hum of the computer was like a thin voice whispering to her. Moving past the end of the desk and the two low file cabinets, she saw, for the first time, what appeared to be the murder weapon; though for a long moment she looked at it uncomprehending.

On the rug beside the file cabinets lay the metal divider from an ice cube tray. Blood covered its protruding aluminum handle and had run down into the little squares turning them as red as if someone had ejected a double line of red ice cubes-blood ice cubes. There should be a little wooden stick in each like the frozen orange-juice suckers that mothers made to keep their kids from eating junk.

Sirens screamed, coming up the hill. She backed away from the bloody kitchen utensil and moved unsteadily to the wide window beyond the couch. Standing at the glass, she watched the emergency vehicle careen into the lane, followed by two squad cars, watched two medics jump out loaded with an oxygen tank and black bags-as if her report of death had been faulty, as if the caller might have misjudged the condition of the victim. As if Winthrop Jergen still had a chance at life. Behind the medics, Max Harper swung out of his police unit, and two more uniformed officers from the other squad car double-timed through the patio as she hurried to unlock the door.

21 [????????: pic_22.jpg]

HIGH UP THE HILLS,a narrow hunting trail led beneath a tangle of toyon bushes, a track no wider than a cat’s shoulders, and along the path in a spill of sunshine, Joe and Dulcie crouched feasting on a fat mouse, the last of five sweet morsels they had caught within the hour skittering among the roots and leaves. Above the cats, the toyon’s hollylike berries were hard and green, having just emerged from their summer blossoms; the afternoon was warm and still, the only sound was the twittering of some sparrows pottering among the upper leaves.

Suddenly sirens screamed, blasting up from the village.

Rearing tall so they could see down the hills, the cats watched an ambulance careen up the winding streets followed by two police units, and skid into the dead-end street below Clyde’s apartments-and they took off down the hills, Joe with visions of Clyde falling off the roof, Dulcie’s sudden fear involving the power saws. Bolting down the slopes, charging through bushes and tall grass and across the last street, they scorched past the hot rubber stink of the ambulance andsquad cars and into the patio.

Men’s voices from above them, from Winthrop Jergen’s open windows. The police radio. Max Harper’s quick commands-and the faint but unmistakable smell of human blood. Racing under the stairs and up the inner wall, they slipped beneath Jergen’s sink and pushed the cabinet door open.

The smell of blood, of death.

Slinking across the linoleum, they crouched at the edge of the living room. The instant the uniforms’ backs were turned, they bolted under the cherry credenza, peering out at Winthrop Jergen’s sprawled body. The smell of his shaving lotion mixed strangely with the stench of death.

The lamps were all lit, every light burning except the lamp that hung over the edge of the desk. The toppled swivel chair and scattered papers and files were all soaked with Jergen’s blood. As the medics rose and moved away, the cats got a good look at Jergen, his throat ripped as brutally as if a leopard or tiger had been at him-but this was not a hunting kill, this was the result of human malice.

As the photographer got to work, the flashing strobe lights nearly blinded the cats, forcing them to squeeze their eyes shut. The after-flashes, the blazing white reverse-images of Jergen’s body, were as eerie as if his light-propelled spirit kept flashing back, trying to rejoin his corpse.

Beyond the windows, clouds had begun to gather, dimming the late afternoon. The tangle of officers’ feet moving carefully across the Kirman rug, skirting around the body, Charlie sitting quietly on the couch out of the way, and the familiar forensics routines filled the cats’ vision and minds as the photographer shot his last roll and Officer Kathleen Ray began to collect evidence, her darkhair swinging around her shoulders. The first item she bagged, lifting it carefully from the floor beyond the file cabinets, held the cats’ complete attention.

A device from the freezer, the thing that held the ice cubes, but covered with blood, dripping blood, its handle sticking up like a bloody knife, making them see too vividly a human hand jabbing and jabbing that blunt instrument into Jergen’s soft flesh.

The cats’ own bloodthirst was normal; it was the way God had made them. They were hunters, they killed for food and to train their young-well maybe sometimes for sport. But this violent act by some unknown human had nothing to do with hunting-for a human to brutally maim one of their own kind out of rageor sadism or greed was, to Joe and Dulcie, a shocking degradation of the human condition. To imagine that vicious abandon in a human deeply distressed Dulcie; she did not like thinking about humans in that way.

Pushing closer to Joe, she watched Officer Ray’s familiar procedures, the tweezers, the tedious routine of picking up each fleck of evidence, the bagging and labeling, and slowly the thoroughness of her actions began to ease Dulcie. She imagined the intricacies of the laboratory studies that would follow, the carefully established methods, and a sense of rightness filled her.

Then the fingerprinting began, the black powder, the lifting tape, the fingerprint cards, all carefully thought out and calming, techniques that were the result of a wonderful human intelligence.

Humans might be sense-challenged, without a cat’s balance and keen hearing and superior sense of touch, to say nothing of the cat’s night vision, but the human’s inventiveness and mental skills made up for those failures-people might be capable of brutality, in a shocking short circuit of the human spirit, but the best of mankind were still wonderful to observe.

And,she thought,what are we-what are Joe and I, that we can understand the achievements of humankind?

By the time the forensics team had finished, night had closed around the apartment, the black windows reflecting the blaze of lights within, turning the room stark and grim. The coroner arrived, completed his examination and bagged the body, and slid it onto a stretcher. As the paramedics carried it out, Officer Ray collected the last bits of evidence from where the corpse had lain. No one had touched the computer, except to lift fingerprints from the keyboard and monitor. The screen still glowed pale green, etching into the delicate glass the image of a financial spreadsheet.

Max Harper had sent Officer Wendell over to Mavity’s cottage to take her down to the station, and patrol units were looking for Pearl Ann. Harper sat with Charlie on the couch, questioning her. “Did youseeMavity and Pearl Ann come up here to clean?”

“Pearl Ann was up here. I could see her through Jergen’s bathroom window, probably repairing the towel rack. Mavity was headed for the stairs when I left, carrying her cleaning things. But, no, I didn’t see Mavity enter the apartment.”

“What time was that?”

“Around three-fifteen, I think. I got to the Blackburns’ about three-thirty. I usually take Mavity with me; she cleans while I do the repairs. But today-Jergen had asked for some extras, so I sent her up to help Pearl Ann.”

“What sort of extras?”

“Clean the refrigerator, fix the towel rack that had pulled out of the bathroom wall, and repair a leak in the shower. He said he had a late afternoon appointment up the coast, wanted the work done while he was out. Mavity was going to do the refrigerator while Pearl Ann took care of the repairs.”

“And did you see his car, before you left for the Blackburns’?”

“I wouldn’t have; he keeps it in the garage. I thought he was gone. I?”

“What?”

“I think he must have been gone. Or-or already dead. Pearl Ann had the windows open, and he would never have allowed that.”

“You didn’t see his car when you came back from the Blackburn place?”

“No. Isn’t it in the garage?”

“There’s a black Mercedes convertible parked down the street. We passed it, coming up. I’ve sent Brennan to check the registration and to check the garage.”

Officer Ray came out of the master suite to say that the towel rod had been reset and that there was fresh caulking around the bottom of the shower and between some of the tile. Soon Lieutenant Brennan returned. The garage was empty. He had run the plates on the black Mercedes parked down the street. It belonged to Jergen. Harper returned his attention to Charlie.

“What time did you get back from the Blackburns’? Were the two women still here?”

“Around six-thirty. They were both gone. I came up to close the windows, and he-I found him.”

“You realize I have to consider you a suspect, Charlie, along with Mavity and Pearl Ann.”

“That’s your job,” she said quietly.

“Was anyone else in the building when you left? Clyde or any other workers?”

“No, just Mavity and Pearl Ann. Clyde hadn’t planned to come up. He had a busy schedule at the shop.”

“Do you have an address for Pearl Ann?”

“It’s that old brick office building down on Valley, across from the mission.”

“The Davidson Building?”

“Yes. She rents a room above those pokey little offices. But she’ll be on her way to San Francisco by now; she planned to spend the weekend.”

“How long have you known about her weekend plans?”

“For weeks. She was really excited-she grew up somewhere on the east coast and she’s never seen San Francisco.”

“How long has she been in Molena Point? How long has she lived at the Davidson Building?”

“Four months, more or less-to both questions. Said she moved in there the day after she arrived.”

“She picked a great place to settle.”

“She’s very frugal with money. I think she doesn’t have much.”

“How long has she worked for you?”

“The whole four months.”

“Married?”

“No, she’s single. And she’s a good worker.”

“What kind of car?”

“She doesn’t have a car-she walks to work.”

“What brought her to the west coast? Where does she come from?”

“Arkansas maybe, or Tennessee, I’m not sure. She told me she wanted to get as far away from her overbearing family as she could.”

“How old is she?”

“Twenty-seven.”

Harper made some notes.“Did you and Mavity talk about the sheaf of statements we found in Dora Sleuder’s luggage? Did she give you any idea why Dora might have them?”

“We didn’t talk, no.” She looked at him questioningly.

“Did Mavity keep a gun?”

“No. She’s afraid of guns.” She looked at Harper, frowning. “But that-that terrible wound? Mavity couldn’t? A gun couldn’t cause that?”

“So far as you know, she did not have a gun?”

“Well, she might. She told me once that her husband kept a gun, that after he died she was afraid to touch it. She asked Greeley to lock it away for her in a strongbox at the back of her closet. She said her husband had always kept a strongbox, a little cash laid by at home in case of some emergency.”

Beneath the credenza, the cats tried to follow Harper’s line of thought. Was he guessing that Jergen’s throat could have been tornaftera bullet entered and killed him, perhaps to confuse the police?

The cats remained hidden until Harper had sealed Jergen’s apartment and Brennan had secured the stairs with crime scene tape. When everyone had gone, Dulcie leaped to the desk.

Though the officers hadn’t touched the computer, Captain Harper had called the FBI in San Francisco, arranging for a computer specialist to examine the files. The file on the screen said BARNER TAX-FREE INCOME FUND and was in Winthrop Jergen’s name.

“How much will the Bureau agent find,” Dulcie said, “if he doesn’t have Jergen’s code? And, more important, if he doesn’t have Pearl Ann’s code?” She sat down beside the phone. Lifting a paw, she knocked the receiver off.

“Hold it,” Joe said. “Harper’s still down there. The police units are still out front-they must be searching the building.”

“I’ll call him when he gets back to the station.” She lifted the receiver by its cord, biting gently, and used her paw to maneuver it back into the cradle. Turning, she sniffed at the computer. “The keyboard smells of Pearl Ann’s perfume.”

“Could be an old scent-she cleans around the desk.”

“Cheap perfume doesn’t last very long.” She took another sniff and then leaped down, avoiding the bloodstained rug. Leaving the scene, the cats were soon following Max Harper through the lower apartments, padding along in the shadows beyond where lights had been switched on and well behind the photographer as he made bright strobe shots of the various footprints that had been left in the Sheetrock dust.

Too bad the department would have to labor to identify each set of prints, procuring shoes from everyone involved. Enough fuss to make a cat laugh, when Joe or Dulcie could have done the job in a second.

No amount of sweeping could eradicate the fine white Sheetrock dust that impregnated the plywood subfloor, and the cats, living close to the earth, knew intimately each set of prints left there: Charlie’s and Clyde’s jogging shoes, Pearl Ann’s tennis shoes, the boot marks of the two hired carpenters, the prints of various subcontractors. Their quick identification could have been a great help to the police.How unfair it is,Dulcie thought,that canine officers can gather evidence that would stand up in court, but a cat can’t.

A drug dog’s sniffing out of evidence was accepted even if he didn’t find the drug-he need only indicate to his handler that the drug had been there, and that was legitimate testimony. But similar intelligence, given by a feline volunteer, would be laughed at.

Just one more instance,Dulcie thought,of prejudice in the workplace.

Silently they watched the officers bag the workmen’s trash, the drink cans and candy wrappers and wadded-up lunch sacks, and scraps of wallboard and lumber. They bagged, as well, Mavity’s insulated lunch carrier and thermos, and Pearl Ann’s duffle bag containing her dirty work clothes.

Pearl Ann would have changed clothes for her trip, leaving her duffle to take home on Monday. But Mavity’s oversight was strange; Mavity never forgot that lunch bag.

Officer Wendell returned to tell Harper that Mavity was not at home, that there was no sign of her car and no answer when he pounded, and that her door was locked.

“I looked through the windows. The house was very neat, the bed made, three cups and saucers in the sink. I took a turn through the village but didn’t see her VW.”

Watching from behind a stack of crated plumbing fixtures, Dulcie licked her paw nervously.“WasJergen stealing from Mavity? Could she have found out and been so angry that she killed him? Oh, I don’t like to think that.”

“Whoever thrust that ice tray divider into Jergen’s throat, Dulcie, had to be bigger and stronger than Mavity.”

“I don’t know. She’s pretty wiry.”

“She might have shot him first.”

“I don’t think she shot him. I don’t believe she would hurt anyone. And where was Pearl Ann? Had she already left when his killer entered the apartment?” She dropped her ears, frightened. “Was Mavity there alone? Did she see the killer?”

“Come on, they’re leaving. Let’s check the bathroom.”

But the bathroom where Pearl Ann usually showered and changed was spotless. The shower was completely dry, not a drop of water.

Usually when Pearl Ann cleaned up, she left the shower floor wet, with Sheetrock dust or paint or plaster on the bathroom floor where she’d pulled off her work clothes.

“Maybe,” Dulcie said, “she didn’t want to pick up any dirt on her clean new clothes. Maybe she mopped up with paper towels, before she got dressed.”

“But why would she dry the shower, too? And there are no paper towels in the bathroom trash basket.” Nor did they remember the police taking any trash from the bathroom.

“And there’s something else,” Dulcie said. “Can’t you smell it?”

“I do now,” Joe said, sniffing at the shower and grimacing. Over the scent of soap and of Pearl Ann’s jasmine perfume came a sharp, male odor. A man had used the shower, and recently. Even a careful wiping-up hadn’t destroyed that aroma.

“So Pearl Ann had a man in the shower,” Joe said. “So maybe she didn’t go up to the city alone. Is that a crime?”

“Did you ever see her with a date? You’ve never seen anyone come by here to pick her up.”

“She still could be seeing someone, or maybe living with someone-maybe wants to keep it quiet.”

“Could one of the subcontractors have been here and used the shower?”

“There was no sub scheduled for today,” Joe said. “Have you ever seen one of the subs use the shower?”

She switched her tail impatiently.“We have to call Harper-tell him there was a man in the shower and give him the codes for the computer. This could be the key to the whole puzzle.”

“Before we make any calls and upset Harper, let’s have a look at the Davidson Building-check out Pearl Ann’s room.”

“Don’t you think Harper went over there to search? There’ll be cops all over the place.”

“He won’t search without someone at home,” Joe said. “You know how he is. Even if he gets a warrant, he won’t go in until Pearl Ann gets back. Says it protects the evidence, saves a lot of fuss in court.” His yellow eyes burned with challenge, his expression keen and predatory. “Come on, Dulcie, let’s go toss Pearl Ann’s place-we’ll never have a better chance.”

22 [????????: pic_23.jpg]

AS A BLUE-CLAD morgue attendant rolled the gurney bearing Winthrop Jergen’s corpse into the cooler to await the coroner’s knife, as Captain Max Harper sat at his desk in the Molena Point Police Station filling out his report on Jergen’s death, and as Joe and Dulcie padded along the top of the fence behind the Davidson Building where Pearl Ann Jamison rented a room, along the lighted village streets Mavity’s worried friends searched for her. Charlie, driving slowly past the crowded shops and cottages, stopped frequently to shine her flashlight among bushes and around porches, thinking she might find Mavity wandering confused and frightened. She kept picturing Mavity standing in the shadows of Jergen’s hall watching some faceless assailant stab and stab him-then running, terrified.

She was aware of Wilma searching high above her up the dark hills; she caught frequent glimpses of Wilma’s car lights winding back and forth along the narrow streets and the beam of her flashlight sweeping the houses and the open meadows.

But next time she glanced up, Wilma’s lights had stopped-they were stationary, seemed to be somewhere above the apartment building.

Had she found Mavity?

But then the light swept slowly across the houses and grassy verges as if Wilma was walking the area, searching it again, though they had looked above the apartments earlier, thinking that Mavity might have run up there to escape Jergen’s killer.

Wilma, leaving her car, moved among a tangle of gardens and slipped up driveways to shine her beam in through garage windows; she peered into cars parked on drives or in streets to see if they were empty, hoping no one saw her from some darkened house. She didn’t need anyone calling the station, reporting a prowler. She couldn’t stop thinking that Mavity, having witnessed Jergen’s murder and able to identify the killer, had hidden up here.

Yet Mavity could have been struck down by the killer and dragged away, dumped anywhere-the far foothills, the bay?

Or had Mavity, driven by hurt and rage because Jergen cheated her, hefted that ridiculous weapon and flung herself at him with enough force to drive the blunt instrument into his soft flesh?

Before she left home, Wilma had examined an ice tray divider from her refrigerator, hefting it, trying to imagine killing with it.

She had put it down again and turned away sickened, appalled at her own lack of faith in her friend.

Earlier this evening as she walked the streets looking for Mavity, she had met Sue Marble closing up her Latin American Boutique, turning out the lights, dimming the window spots that shone across the display of native art. Sue hadn’t seen Mavity for over a week. Wilma didn’t stress the urgency of her search, didn’t mention the murder.

Sue was full of friendly energy, her complexion rosy, her bobbed white hair gleaming.“I have something for you.” She had unlocked her shop again and hurried inside, returning with two signed petitions in support of the library cat, her apple face alight with the accomplishment of having gotten fifty more signatures.

“Don’t you tell Freda I did this. I’m supposed to be Freda’s friend. She’d pitch a fit if she knew I was getting signatures. But I just can’t agree with her about your little library cat. The way she’s acting almost makes me want to drop her-except she’s the only friend I have who likes to play Scrabble. I don’t know why she’s so down on cats.

“That black cat that visits me, he’s such a handsome fellow. Comes right on in the shop, so regal.” She laughed. “I’m a sucker for a friendly kitty. I thought at first he was a stray, but he was too sleek and well-fed. And then his master came in, that nice Greeley Urzey, and?”

“When was this?” Wilma asked.

“Oh, a couple of weeks ago.” Sue colored slightly. “Greeley comes from Panama, so we had a nice visit. Would you believe we know some of the same people?” She pulled the door to, locking it. “I told him I’ll be off on another buying trip, as soon as I can find an apartment and get moved.”

“I didn’t know you?”

“I can’t stand the noise another minute, Wilma-that trumpet player next door practicing all the time and now a friend has moved in with him, andheplays thedrums.Can you imagine the noise? The police can’t be there every minute. And I can’t bear the thought of swearing out a warrant-the ideaof starting that kind of battle is just too much-I would really rather move. Dear me, is it urgent that you find Mavity? Is anything wrong? I could help you look.”

“Nothing at all, of course not. Did you know that Clyde’s apartments will be ready soon? He might be willing to hurry one up for you.”

“Oh, yes, the girl who draws the wonderful cats-she’s doing them up, isn’t she? Charlie Getz? Well, of course, she’s your niece. I remember seeing her van up there. Are the apartments nice?”

“Lovely big rooms,” Wilma said, “and a wonderful view down over the village.” She didn’t mention that Winthrop Jergen’s apartment might be for let soon. Sue would hear that on her own.

Tucking the petitions into her pocket, she thanked Sue and went on her way searching for Mavity.

The brick walls of the Davidson Building were black with grime, its closed windows caked with years of accumulated dirt. The plain, two-story building was constructed in the shape of a long U; a garbage-strewn alley separated its two parallel wings, closed at one end by the building itself, and at the other end by a board fence, atop which cats now crouched looking up at the impenetrable two floors rising above them.

No window was lighted on either floor to indicate human presence save, at the upper level, halfway down, one window reflecting a weak, greasy glow barely visible behind the dirty pane.

Padding along the top of the fence, the cats studied the metal fire escape that hung above them, folded against the bricks. They could see, just above it, a row of narrow, jutting bricks running the length of the building at the base of the upper windows, apparently a halfhearted attempt at architectural detail-otherwise, the structure was as plain as a prison. Nor was the little ledge much of a walkway, maybe wide enough for a broad-shouldered mouse.

They had already circled the building from the sidewalk. The front door was solidly locked, and there was no other way in. They had swung from the door’s latch, pressing and pawing, but nothing gave. Now there was nothing left to try but the fire escape.

Crouching, Joe sprang high, grabbing the metal with his claws, fighting to gain purchase on the rusty steel. Dulcie followed him, and together they twisted and raked at the bars until they had pulled themselves up into the center of the folded tangle then onto the brick ledge above.

Precariously balancing, they pawed at the first window, but it was stuck or locked or nailed shut.

Padding around the corner on the thin ledge, they clung close to the long wall, leaning into the bricks, stopping at each dirty pane of glass. All the windows were stuck, and they couldn’t see much through the grime. Most of the rooms looked empty. They made out the dim lines of an overstuffed chair, and in another room, when they had pawed dirt from the pane, a lone, unmade bed, its graying sheets wadded in a bundle on a stained mattress. The window halfway down the building where the thin light burned was caked with dirt as thick as garden soil. Dulcie pawed at it irritably.

“Lick the window.”

“I’m not licking it. You lick it.” She pressed her face against the glass. “And what’s to see? A bunch of dusty boxes stacked up.” She didn’t like schlepping along the precarious ledge past blind windows where, behind the dirty film, anything could be observing them. She didn’t likelooking down at the dark alley, either, with its jagged cans and broken glass. Contrary to popular human opinion, a cat certainly could fall from high places-or could be pushed. She had the feeling they were being watched, that something was tracking their progress.

Slipping past the light they gained the corner and padded along the short, connecting wall. They had started up the other side when, across the way, the lighted window slid open.

Against the dull glow, a man stood silhouetted. His voice was grainy, thin.

“Come in, you two. Come on in here, if that’s what you want.” He shoved the window higher, and the light picked out his gnarled hands and wrinkled leather jacket. “Come on in-or go away and quit snooping.” Reaching down, he fetched a cardboard box from somewhere beside his feet and fixed it under the raised window.

So this was where the old man was hiding. Had he been here ever since they saw him leaning over Dora and Ralph’s bodies? They remained still, not sure whether to run from him, along the narrow ledge, or to go back and step inside.

“Come on, you cats. Get a move on.” He leaned farther, peering across at them. “I know what you are. Do you think I wouldn’t know?”

Joe glanced back at Dulcie, where she crouched behind him.

“Who you looking for?” Greeley said. “There ain’t nobody here but me-and my friend.” Slyly he glanced around to the shadowed crates behind him.

“Who you looking for?” he repeated. “Or are you just out for an evening’s stroll, in this delightful portion of the village?”

“We weren’t looking for you,” Joe said coldly. Dulcie stared at him, shocked, and wanted to slap a paw over his mouth.

But why not speak? Obviously Azrael had told Greeley all about them-thank-you very much. And now from the shadows behind Greeley, a voice mumbled, and Greeley laughed harshly.

“Who you looking for, then, if not me?” Greeley said rudely.

There was another comment from behind him, and his eyes widened.“You cats looking for Pearl Ann? Is that it? You come looking for Pearl Ann Jamison?”

They hunched lower, crouching single file on the narrow ledge.

“You two don’t want to mess with Pearl Ann. You don’t know half about her. What you want with her?”

Joe glanced behind him at Dulcie. She would have to turn around and go first if they were to return the way they had come and approach Greeley.

She flattened her ears, shook her head. She didn’t want to do that.

“Go on, Dulcie. Move it. We can’t stay here all night.”

She crouched, frozen.

He flipped around on the ledge, seeming to hang in midair, then crouched on the ledge facing her, waiting for her to turn back.

She hunched, staring at him, their noses inches apart, her green eyes huge and uncertain. He had seldom seen her afraid-fear was not her nature. Irritated, he tensed to spring over her along the thin protrusion.

She glared at him but at last she switched ends, flipping around precariously on the thin bricks, holding her breath as her three paws struck empty air then hit the bricks again, and she started back reluctantly toward Greeley. At every step she wanted to beat it out of there.

“Go on,” Joe growled. “Hurry up.”

She padded a trifle faster.

“Move it, Dulcie. What can he do to us?”

She could think of a number of things.

“Goon.Show a little spine.”

That moved her. She gritted her teeth and headed fast for Greeley, racing along the bricks, her tail low, her ears plastered tight to her head.

As she reached the window the old man stepped aside, and she warily slipped beneath the raised glass, dropping to the floor and backing away from Greeley. Beside her Joe hit the floor with a heavy thud. Immediately Greeley slammed the window. They heard the lock slide home.

23 [????????: pic_24.jpg]

THE SMALL, crowded room was shut tight, the window bolted, the door securely closed. Around the cats towered cardboard cartons labeled Scotch, rum, bourbon, and vodka, either the supplies for a huge private party or perhaps the extra stock of a nearby liquor store. The room stunk of booze as if Greeley had been happily sampling the various brands. The only light was from a battery-operated lamp of the kind kept for emergency power outages. Anyone who had been through a California earthquake or considered such matters maintained a stock of battery-powered lamps, a radio, bottled water, and emergency food and medical supplies. The cats saw none of these other essentials, only enough booze to weather any quake, and the squat lamp, its light reflecting from the eyes of the black tomcat where he crouched atop the tallest stack of boxes glaring down at them: an ebony statue, the greatel primo gato.

In the far corner an old, stained mattress lay nested between the cardboard cases, fitted out with a limp pillow ticked in gray stripes, and a wrinkled army blanket laced with moth holes. On a box beside the bed stood four cans of beans, with a can opener, a dirty paper plate, an open bag of chips, and a pair of dirty socks.

The opposite corner of the room served as a depository for trash and empty cans.

Greeley’s shirt and pants were wrinkled and stained, and he smelled not only of rum but desperately in need of a bath.

“What you want, you cats? You didn’t come to this dump sightseeing. Why you looking for Pearl Ann?”

But then the old man’s face crumpled. “You didn’t come to make condolences, either.” He stared hard at them. “You saw her, didn’t you. You saw her dead-Isaw you looking!” He sat down on the mattress, eased a bottle of rum from under the blanket and upended it, taking a long pull. He was so pitiful that Dulcie wanted to pat his face with a soft paw.

“Ought to have swish ‘n’ swash,” he said and took another swig. “But you need a coconut for that.” He giggled at a joke the two cats didn’t understand; they watched him, unblinking.

“What, for Christ’s sake?” he shouted at them. “What you staring at?” He leaped up suddenly, lunging at them. Dulcie flipped away but Joe crouched snarling, ready to strike.

Greeley paused, uncertain.

“Pearl Ann Jamison,” Joe hissed. “Where does she live? Which room?”

Greeley’s laugh blasted the air, drowning them in the stink of rum. “I knew it. What you looking forherfor?”

He sat unsteadily on a carton.“She rented the last empty room. AllI could get was this storeroom.”

He smirked at them, pleased.“Rental office let me have it cheap, when I tole ‘em I was teetotal.” And he belched and scratched his belly.

“So what do you want with her?” he said roughly. “You tell me what’s your business with this Pearl Ann, maybe I’ll show you which room.”

For a moment, no one spoke; the three cats and the old man stared at each other, caught in a vacuum of silence. Then Greeley dug three paper cups from an open carton and set them in a row on the floor.

Pouring several inches of rum into each, he pushed two toward Joe and Dulcie.“Drink up, folks,” he said, cheerfully lifting the bottle.

The biting smell of rum burned the cats’ noses, made them back away. The old man stood up abruptly, catching himself against the cartons, and on tiptoe he reached to slide the third cup across the cartons to Azrael. Azrael turned his head and slitted his eyes against the fumes.

Greeley drained the bottle. And his face crumpled, tears streaking down.

“They were into something,” he said softly. “Dora and Ralph. Playing cop maybe. Or maybe blackmail.” He hiccuped and leaned against the cartons, scowling at the floor. He was silent for so long they thought he’d gone to sleep.

But suddenly he snatched up the battery light.“Well, come on!” He glared down at them, his red eyes watery. “I got a key to Pearl Ann’s place, if that’s what you’re after.”

His boozy laugh cracked.“Shedon’t know I got it. Azrael fetched it. No trick at all for him to slip in through the transom. She thought she lost her key,” he said, smirking. “She got another from the rent office. And what do they care?” He unbolted the door and led them down a narrow, dark hall that smelled of mice and human urine.

Padding warily after him along the dirty linoleum, Joe and Dulcie heard a loud thump behind them as Azrael hit the floor. They turned to see the black torn swagger out, taking up the rear like a guard walking behind two prisoners.

Pearl Ann’s room was at the far end of the gloomy hall. Twisting a skeleton key in the lock, Greeley shoved the door open; when the cats hesitated, he laughed.

“Scared, huh? Scared I’ll lock you in?” He slapped his knee, giggling, then crossed the room. Pounding on the window frame, he managed to loosen it. Lifting the bottom half, he propped it open with a dented metal wastebasket. “There, that suit you better?”

They padded into the close, sour-smelling room. In one corner stood an iron bed neatly made up with a worn chenille spread faded to the color of a grimy floor mop. The scarred dresser was of the waterfall era that had been popular in the forties, an incredibly ugly piece but one that had enjoyed a recent revival. Joe leaped to its top, onto a film of dust.

It appeared that Pearl Ann had not lived here alone. Before the mirror were two rows of toiletries, one for a man, one for a woman: hair spray and jasmine cologne on one side, can of shaving cream and bottle of shaving lotion on the other.

Two pairs of men’s shoes stood in the open closet next to Pearl Ann’s jogging shoes, all as neatly aligned as the shoes of soldiers placed for inspection. Above these hung a man’s trousers and jeans and polo shirts and, in her half of the closet, four pastel jumpsuits of the kind that Pearl Ann favored for work, a skirt, and two blouses. In the tiny bathroom, which had no counter space but only a basin, the thin scent of shaving cream and aftershave was mixed with Pearl Ann’s perfume. The man’s odor was strongest around the bed. As the two cats inspected the room, Greeley stood leaning against the door frame with a strange little smile on his face, as if he were secretly amused. Azrael had remained in the hall, separating himself from their investigation with a barrier of disdain.

They had not told the black torn the results of their surveillance at Pander’s restaurant, or who Dora and Ralph’s host had been; they had not sought him out, to tell him, and Azrael had not come to them. Maybe, Joe thought, Azrael had gone to Pander’s after all, had watchedthemwatching Dora and Ralph. He didn’t like to think that he had been so unaware, so blind to the dark tom’s presence.

Now, searching for he knew not what, pawing open the drawers of the waterfall dresser, Joe found only a man’s Jockey briefs and socks. No lady’s panties or stockings or nighties-as if Pearl Ann didn’t have much, as if she’d taken what little she owned with her to San Francisco.

In the doorway, Greeley looked increasingly smug, harboring his amusing little secret. Joe, losing patience, leaped onto the dresser and fixed him with a hard stare.

“You can keep your own council if you choose, Greeley. Or you can trade it.”

“What could a cat trade? What would a cat have that would interest old Greeley?”

Joe turned his back and began to wash.

“Well, what?” Greeley shouted.

“This is about your sister,” he told Greeley.

“What about my sister?”

Joe looked back at him, remote and ungiving.

“What about her!” Greeley snapped.

“She’s gone,” Joe said. “She disappeared. You tell me about Pearl Ann-tell me what you’re grinning about-and I’ll tell you about Mavity.”

“Gone where? What do you mean, gone?”

“The cops are looking for her.”

“You’re lying. Why would the cops? I don’t believe you. Mavity wouldn’t be into anything the cops care about. She’s as straight as a fencepost. You cats are such liars.”

“What do you know about Pearl Ann?”

“You, first. Can’t trust a cat to keep a fair trade.”

“She might be wanted for murder,” Joe said shortly. “Or she might have been murdered. Murdered, while you wallowed here frying your brain in rum.”

“You stupid cat-you think I believe what a cat says?”

“She vanished from Winthrop Jergen’s apartment this afternoon.” Joe looked at Greeley with distaste. “Jergen was found with his throat torn open. And Mavity has disappeared.”

Greeley had turned very pale.“She wouldn’t kill anyone. No matter what he did, she wouldn’t kill him.”

Joe stared at him.

Greeley looked back a long time, his glance flicking to Azrael, to Dulcie, to the window.

“Fair trade,” Joe said. “Your turn.”

Greeley picked up a straight chair from beside the dresser and set it beneath the overhead light.

“Pearl Ann Jamison,” he said. “What a sweet little lady.” Standing on the chair, he tipped the plastic light cover askew, reached inside, and drew out a thick envelope. Climbing down, he nearly toppled the chair, caught himself against the bed. Glancing out the door at Azrael, almost as if asking permission and receiving only a haughty look from the black cat, he tossed the packet on the chenille spread.

“My partner saw her hide this. He loves looking in windows. He’s a regular voyeur.” Withdrawing the contents of the envelope, he spread it across the chenille. Joe looked down from the dresser as Dulcie leaped up onto the bed. They studied with interest an airline ticket, a fistful of credit cards, and three driver’s licenses.

The airline ticket was partially used, the stub indicating that the holder had traveled from Georgia to L.A., then L.A. to Molena Point. The date of arrival was about the time Pearl Ann had applied for a job with Charlie. The return portion didn’t show any reservation. The ticket had been issued in the name of a Troy Hoke.

There was a Georgia driver’s license and a Visa and social security cards for Troy Hoke, a second set for a Terrill John, a third set for William Skeel. The pictures were all of the same man: a thin, familiar face, long brown hair tied back in a ponytail. There was no ticket, and no license or charge card or ID for Pearl Ann; presumably she had her cards with. her. Greeley leaned against the dresser, giggling.

Dulcie looked the cards over with widening eyes, her ears sharp forward, her tail twitching. Suddenly she leaped for the closet.

But Joe was ahead of her, sniffing at the lineup of shoes.

“All the same size,” Joe said.

“And all the same stink,” she replied. The cats looked at each other, their eyes dark with excitement.

Greeley began to laugh.

“You got it, you cats. You got it! You been looking for Pearl Ann Jamison.” He guffawed, emitting rum-laced fumes, rocking back and forth.

“You got it. This Pearl Ann Jamison,” Greeley shouted, spittling rum-laden spray, “this Pearl Ann fits them Jockey shorts just fine.”

24 [????????: pic_25.jpg]

AT THREE A.M., Max Harper pulled into Sam’s All Night Burger up on Highway One. He’d been looking for Mavity Flowers but, spotting Clyde’s yellow ‘29 Chevy, he had wheeled in and parked beside it. He sat a moment admiring the car’s gleaming finish and boxy, trim lines. Clyde had been working on this one for two years, and she was a beauty. Not many women had this much attention lavished on them-or turned out as elegant, either.

Clipping his phone to his belt beside his radio, he locked the unit and headed into the restaurant. Stopping at the counter to order cherry pie and coffee, he moved on back, where Damen sat hunched over a sandwich and coffee. Sliding into the booth, he picked up the menu out of habit.“Any luck?”

Clyde shook his head. He looked dead for sleep.“Not a sign of Mavity. And I haven’t seen Wilma or Charlie for a while. If either one found her, they’d take her back to Wilma’s. Her phone doesn’t answer.”

“I saw Wilma around midnight, up on Ridgeview. She had hoped Bernine would ride with her, said she guessed Bernine had gone out.”

“Only Bernine Sage would party while her latest love interest lies cold in the morgue.”

“He isn’t her love interest anymore-he’s no use to her now.” Harper reached for a cigarette, tamped it, stuck it in his mouth unlit. “I wired Atlanta on this Warren Cumming. As Mavity said, charges against Cumming were dropped. His partner, Troy Hoke, was convicted, did a year for theft by fraud against Dora and Ralph Sleuder and five other victims. He’s been out just over six months.

“Shortly after Hoke’s trial, Cumming left the state. Gave a Florida forwarding address, a private postal box. Forfeited on the lease of his Atlanta apartment, closed his bank account, took the balance in cash.”

“Big money?”

“Very small. I’m guessing he had larger accounts in other names and that the Florida move was a red herring.”

Billie, the straw-blond night waitress, brought Harper’s pie and coffee. She was sixtyish and smelled of stale cigarettes, her thin face dry and deeply lined. Setting the pie down, she spilled cherry juice on the table. Scowling, saying nothing, she wiped it up.

“What’s with you?” Harper said.

“Fight with LeRoy,” she said shortly. She looked hard at Harper. “What’s with these guys? Does he have to mess around with that stupid motorcycleallthe time?”

“Better than another woman,” Harper told her.

“I don’t know, Max. Perfume is easier to get out of the laundry than grease.”

Harper tried to look sympathetic. When she’d gone, Clyde said, “Why doesn’t she leave him?”

“Never will. She just likes bitching about him.” But he looked distressed, too. Despite dealing with the dregs of the world, Harper never got used to people staying in a bad marriage. His own happy marriage had ended far too soon, when Millie died of cancer; he didn’t have a lot of sympathy for people who put up with anything less than a completely wonderful union. To Max’s way of thinking, it was better to be alone. He tasted his pie, ate half of it before he spoke again.

“After Hoke was released, he received several phone calls to his Atlanta apartment.” He glanced up at Clyde. “All were placed from the Sleuders’ phone. And a few days after the last call, he left the state. That was four months ago.”

Clyde had stopped eating, was quiet.

“Shortly before the Sleuders flew out here on vacation, they placed several calls to a Molena Point pay phone a block from the Davidson Building.

“The way I see it, Dora Sleuder stumbled onto Cumming’s whereabouts by chance. Try this: Dora makes a casual phone call to her aunt-evidently they talked once or twice a month, family stuff, keeping in touch. During the conversation, Mavity mentions her new investment counselor, brags about howwell she’s doing.

“She tells Dora how wonderful Jergen is and describes him-you know Mavity, going on about Jergen’s youthful looks and silver hair. The description fits Cumming, and Dora starts asking questions.”

Clyde nodded.“Like, how old is he? How does he dress and talk? How he furnishes his office, what kind of car he prefers?”

“Exactly. Now assume that Mavity’s description was so much like Cumming that it got Dora and Ralph wondering, made them decide to check up on this Jergen.”

“But?”

“They knew that Hoke was just out of prison-they’d kept track of him. And they knew he’d be burning to get at Cumming, for setting him up. Hoke did all the time for that scam. Cumming didn’t do a lick.

“Dora and Ralph decide that this Jergen could be Warren Cumming, and they sick Hoke on him, encourage Hoke to come on out here and take a look.”

“But how did they find Hoke? Through his parole officer?”

Harper nodded.“We have the parole officer’s phone record, and we’ve talked with him. He remembers a woman calling him, said she was Hoke’s niece, that Hoke had some things of her mother’s that he’d put away before he went to prison, that she wanted to get them back. Parole officer wouldn’t discloseany information, but he took her phone number, passed it on to Hoke-he’s obliged to do that. Figures he’ll watch developments. This officer keeps good records, the Sleuders’ number was there in his logbook.

“So Hoke calls Dora, and she tells him about Winthrop Jergen. According to Hoke’s phone bill, they talk for over an hour. The next day Hoke moves out of his apartment, leaves Atlanta.”

Harper slipped a photograph from his pocket, handed it across.

The man in the picture was thin and pale. Light brown hair, long and tied back. One low shoulder. A bony face, thin eyebrows.

Clyde stared.“The guy who hangs around the apartments. Mavity calls him ‘the watcher.’ This is Troy Hoke?”

“Yep. And we have Hoke’s prints, from the Atlanta file.” He mopped up cherry juice with a forkful of crust.

“Did they match the prints from the murder scene?”

“The only prints we got at the scene were for Jergen himself, and for Mavity and Charlie.”

“You didn’t get Pearl Ann’s prints? They should be all over the place. She cleaned for him regularly, and she did the repairs. Except?” Clyde thought a minute. “Pearl Ann wears gloves. Has some allergy. Gloves to work on the Sheetrock, to clean, to paint.”

“Charlie told me that. Rubber gloves or sometimes a soft leather pair.”

Clyde nodded.“She takes them off several times a day, to put on some kind of prescription hand cream.”

He looked intently at Harper.“Sounds like this will nail Hoke-but what about Mavity? It won’t help us find Mavity.” They were speaking softly. At three in the morning, the restaurant was nearly empty. Down at the far end of the counter two men in jeans and plaid shirts sat eating, intent on their fried eggs. In a booth near the door, an elderly couple was drinking coffee, each reading a section of a newspaper. At the counter near them, a striking blond was nibbling at a sandwich and sipping orange juice. As Harper signaled for a refill of coffee, his cellular phone buzzed. Picking it up, he started to speak, then went silent.

Watching him, Clyde thought the call was being transferred. The blond got up from the counter, wrapped her unfinished sandwich in a paper napkin, paid her check and left. Clyde watched through the window as she swung into a Chrysler van with the windows open and a huge white dog hanging his head out, watched her feeding the dog little bites of the sandwich. Across from him, Harper had stiffened.

Harper felt his blood go chill. The voice on the line was female, a smooth voice, a velvety, insinuating voice that made the hackles on his neck rise. He could never get used to hearing this woman. He didn’t know her name, had never seen her, didn’t know anything about her, but every time she called, the nerves in his stomach began to twitch.

“Captain Harper? Are you still there?”

He said nothing.

“Captain Harper, you have just sealed the scene of a murder up on Venta Street.”

“Have I?”

“Your men didn’t touch the computer. You left it on, and you have a Bureau man coming down early in the morning to check it out.”

Harper remained silent. The pie in his stomach had turned sour.No onecould know about the Bureau man except his own people and Charlie Getz. He tried to figure who, in his own department, would breach security, would pass along such information. The officers at the scene had been Brennan, Wendell, Ray, and Case. The two medics had left before he called the Bureau.

The caller was waiting for him to respond. He motioned for Clyde to listen. Clyde came around the table and sat down, shoving against Harper, jamming his ear to the phone.

“Captain Harper, there are two code words for the computer that your Bureau man will want. Jergen’s code, to open his financial files, isCairo.

“The second code word was used by Pearl Ann Jamison. It should open a set of files that Pearl Ann seems to have hidden from Jergen, on his own computer. That word isTiger.I believe those are both Georgia towns; I looked them up on the map.

“In looking for suspects,” the caller said softly, “you need to be looking for a man. Pearl Ann and he are?”

She gasped, Max heard a faint yelp of alarm and the line went dead.

Harper sat frozen, staring at the phone. Clyde exploded out of the booth like he was shot, threw a five-dollar bill on the table and fled out the door.

“Hold it,” Harper shouted. “What the hell?” He stared after Clyde perplexed, watched the yellow roadster scorch out of the parking lot moving like a racing car and disappear down the hill toward the village.

He wanted to go after Clyde. Instead, he sat thinking about that soft voice.

You need to be looking for a man, Pearl Ann and he are?And then the gasp or yelp, a strange little sound, and then silence.

The two arewhat?

Working together? Pearl Ann and a man are working together? Involved? Involved in Jergen’s death? Pearl Ann and who? Troy Hoke? And then that startled yelp, and Clyde taking off like his boots were on fire.

He motioned for more coffee, and dug in his pocket for some antacid. He didn’t want to know where Clyde was headed. He didn’t want to follow the yellow car. He didn’t want to know who the caller was, with the soft and velvety voice.

25 [????????: pic_26.jpg]

IN THE DARKEST CORNER beneath Wilma’s bed, Dulcie crouched, listening to the footsteps coming down the hall, ready to run if Bernine looked under and found her. At the first sound of someone approaching she had abandoned the phone and dived for the shadows, leaving Max Harper shouting through the receiver. If Bernine heard him andpicked up the phone and started asking questions-and Harper started asking questions-all hell would break loose. There was no one else in the house, to have made the call.

But she daren’t leap onto the bed again and try to hang up, there was no time, Bernine was nearly at the door?

She’d waited all night to make this call, waited for Bernine to get off the phone and now here she came when she should be in bed drifting off to sleep.

It had been nearly one A.M. when Dulcie slipped in through her cat door exhausted from listening for hours to drunken Greeley Urzey and breathing his stink of rum in Pearl Ann’s pokey little room. They’d had to listen to him agonizing over Mavity and to his wild plans for finding her, which amounted to nothing, because by midnight he had drunk himself into a stupor. Azrael had looked intensely pleased that Mavity might have met with foul play, his amber eyes gleaming with malice. Pure hatred, Dulcie thought. The cat was filled with hate, that was his nature-loathing for anyone who didn’t worship him.

Racing home, bolting in through her cat door, she’d realized that Wilma wasn’t home; her car wasn’t in the drive or in the open garage. She’d pictured Wilma still cruising the dark streets searching for Mavity, looking for Mavity’s little VW.

Bernine’s car was at the curb, but Bernine had gone out to dinner with a real estate broker. Dulcie hoped she was still out. But then, heading for the phone, she’d heard Bernine’s voice.

Slipping through the dark dining room, she’d caught the scent of Bernine’s perfume and seen her sitting at Wilma’s desk talking on the phone. She’d listened for only a few minutes before she decided Bernine was making up with her estranged live-in. She slipped on into Wilma’s bedroom, wishing they had two phone lines.

The curtains had not been drawn, and the faint light from the distant street lamp bathed the room in soft shadows. The bed was smoothly made. Leaping up onto the flowered, quilted spread, she had settled down to wait.

She’d waited for nearly two hours for Bernine to finish, had slipped periodically out into the hall to listen as the conversation swung from mushy love talk to angry argument to sweet words again in a sickening display of human indecision and female guile. Bernine had moved the phone to the couch, lay curled up onherpatch of velvet, sweet-talking this bozo.

On the bed she’d dozed, waked to listen to Bernine going on and on, to see the light still burning in the living room and beneath the guest room door and feeling her stomach churn with impatience at the delay.

But then at last she heard Bernine leave the living room, head down the hall, and from the guest room she could hear little rustling sounds. Either Bernine was packing to leave or she was getting ready for bed.

Easing Wilma’s bedroom door closed, catching it with her paw just before it latched, she’d leaped to the night table, nosing at the phone.

Her sensible self said,Wait until Bernine’s light goes out-don’t do this while she’s awake.

But she’d waited too long. Her impatient self said,She won’t hear you. What are you afraid of? It’s practically morning, let’s get on with it.

Lifting the headset by its cord, she had dropped it on the pillow, squinched up her paw and punched in Harper’s number, cocking her head to the receiver. Joe was an old hand at this, but she still got nervous. The first time she’d dialed and heard a voice at the other end, she’d felt as weird as if she were communicating with someone on Mars.

When the dispatcher answered, she’d boldly asked for Max Harper.

“Captain Harper is not on duty. Lieutenant Brennan can help you.”

“I have information to give to Captain Harper personally. About the Winthrop Jergen murder. Information that Harper must have before the Bureau agent arrives in the morning. I must give it to him now; I cannot call again.”

It had taken some time for the dispatcher to switch the call to Harper’s cellular phone, a degree of electronic sophistication that further awed Dulcie. The delay made her so edgy that her skin began to twitch, but at last Harper came on the line. She had tried to speak clearly, but she hadn’t dared lift her voice above a whisper.

“Captain Harper, I have some information about Winthrop Jergen.”

Harper didn’t respond.

“Captain Harper? Are you still there?” He didn’t answer, but she could hear him breathing. “Captain Harper, you have just sealed the scene of a murder up on Venta Street. Your men didn’t touch the computer. You left it on, and you have a Bureau man coming down early in the morning to check it out.”

Only silence and his ragged breathing. Her paws began to sweat. She wondered if Harper was nervous, too. This was so strange, the two of them linked not only by the wonder of electronics but by a far greater phenomenon, by a miracle that she hardly understood herself-and that Max Harper could never bring himself to believe. She imagined herself like those photographs where a cat’s face is superimposed over a woman’s face, becoming one, and she almost giggled.

“Captain Harper, there are two code words for the computer that your Bureau man will want. Jergen’s code, to open his financial files, isCairo.

“The second code word was used by Pearl Ann Jamison. It should open a set of files that Pearl Ann seems to have hidden from Jergen, on his own computer. That word isTiger.I believe those are both Georgia towns?”

She was just starting to explain about Pearl Ann and Troy Hoke when she heard the footsteps; gasping a sharp mew, she leaped to the floor and under the bed. Above her Harper’s angry voice had shouted,“Hold it. What the hell?”

Now as the bedroom door opened and the light flashed on, Dulcie’s every muscle was tensed to sprint past Bernine’s feet and down the hall to safely. Thank God the phone above her was silent-yet she’d heard no click as if Harper had hung up. She listened for those sharp beeps when the phone was left off the hook. She was so frightened that the sounds in the bedroom hardly registered: the hush of the closet door opening, someone rummaging among Wilma’s clothes. All she could think wasIf Bernine picks up the phone, what if he’s still on the line? No one could have made that call, no one-there’s no other human in the house. Only the cat crouched under the bed scared out of her kitty mind.Shivering, she listened to thewhishof garments from the closet.

Then she smelled Wilma’s scent, Wilma’s subtle bath powder.

Peering out from beneath the spread, she saw Wilma’s bare feet as Wilma pulled on her slippers. Mewling with relief, she came out, curving around Wilma’s ankles, purring so hard she trembled.

Wilma picked her up, stared into her face.“What?” she whispered, glancing toward the closed door. “What’s the matter?”

“I thoughtI thought you were Bernine,” she breathed, snuggling against Wilma.

Only then did Wilma see the phone lying on the bed. She raised a disapproving eyebrow at Dulcie.“You didn’t get my note?”

“What note? You left a note? Bernine?”

Wilma put her down on the bed, hung up the phone, and went down the hall. Dulcie heard her cross the kitchen and open the back door. She returned with a small, folded paper.“I left it tucked in the frame of your cat door, but only a little bit showing so Bernine wouldn’t notice.” As she moved to pull the bedroom door closed, Dulcie, peering down the hall, saw that Bernine’s light had gone out. Had Bernine gone to sleep? Or was she standing just inside, straining to hear?

Wilma unfolded the paper and laid it on the bed.

Have gone to look for Mavity. Don’t stay here alone. Go over to Joe’s, now, where you’ll be safe.

Dulcie looked at her intently.“Did you really think Bernine would?”

“I don’t know what Bernine would do. But all night, while we looked for Mavity, I worried about you. Twice I swung by. When Bernine’s light wasn’t on, I felt easier. She must have gotten home very late.”

“She came in about one. But she was on the phone for hours, talking to the guy she was living with. Weeping, shouting. Sweet-talking. What histrionics. Maybe she’ll move out. You didn’t find Mavity?”

“No.” Wilma sat down on the bed, tired and drawn. “And when I think of Jergen’s grisly death, I’m afraid for her. If Mavity saw the killer, her life isn’t worth much.” She looked at Dulcie a long time. “What is his death about? What’s happening? Dulcie, what do you know about this?”

Dulcie looked back at her, panicked about what to do.

She had tried to tell Captain Harper, tonight, that Pearl Ann was Troy Hoke. Now, should she tell Wilma?

But what good? Wilma daren’t tell Harper. He’d ask how she knew, and why she hadn’t told him before. And if she said she’d just found out, he’d want to knowhowshe learned Pearl Ann’s secret on the same day of the murder. Wilma’s sudden knowledge would implicate her in a way difficult to talk herself out of.

Wilma did not lie well to law enforcement, particularly to Max Harper. She was too truthful within her own profession. And if she attempted some hastily contrived excuse, Harperwouldbe suspicious. Dulcie looked at her blankly, shrugged, and said nothing.

Wilma was turning down the bed, folding the quilted chintz back while Dulcie prowled across it, when a loud knocking from the back door startled them and they heard Clyde shouting.

Racing for the kitchen, Wilma jerked the door open. Behind her, Dulcie leaped to the breakfast table. Clyde rushed in, his voice loud with alarm.“Where is she? What hap??”

“Shhh,” Wilma whispered, grabbing his arm.“Don’t wake Bernine.What’s wrong?”

Clyde’s stubbled cheeks were dark and rough, his dark hair tangled. The underarms of his jogging suit were sweaty. When he saw Dulcie, he stopped shouting. Pulling out a chair, he sat down glaring at her, his face red with frustration. “You just about gave me heart failure. What the hell were you doing? What the hell happened here?”

Dulcie looked at him, puzzled.

“My God, Dulcie. When you called Harper-when you made that awful, frightened cry, I thought someone was killing you.” He lowered his voice, glancing in the direction of the guest room. “That was bloodcurdling-that was the next thing to a yowl on the phone!”

“You were listening? Where were you?” Dulcie cocked her head. “And how did you know where I was?”

“Where else would you be? Except maybe my house. I came here first?” Clyde sighed. “Youmewed,Dulcie-you almostyowledinto the damned phone. Harper looked amazed, looked? I thought someone had snatched you up and was wringing your stupid cat neck.” He glared hard at her. “These phone calls, Dulcie?”

“I didn’t yowl. I didn’t mew. I simply caught my breath. I thought,” she said softly, “I thought I heard Bernine coming.”

He simply looked at her.

“I thought she’d catch me with the phone. But then it wasn’t Bernine, it was Wilma. What did Harper say?”

“He didn’tsayanything. I don’t know what he said. I was out of there-came flying down here thinking you were being strangled. We were clear up at Sam’s, on the highway. My God?”

Dulcie licked his hand. She was really very touched.“How could I know you were listening? I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Why the hell wouldn’t I be upset? And can you imagine what would happen if Harper heard you reallymeow?With all the questions he already has about you two, don’t you think he’d just about go crazy? Questions I can’t answer for him, Dulcie. Questions I wouldn’t dare answer.”

Clyde put his head in his hands.“Sometimes, Dulcie, between you and Joe, I can’t handle this stuff.”

She patted his hand with a soft paw. He looked so distressed that she didn’t know whether to feel sorry for him or roll over laughing.

But still, she thought, Clyde handled most situations very well. From the moment Joe discovered he was endowed with human speech, that he could carry on a conversation in the English language and read the written word, Clyde had weathered Joe’s-and her own-unusual lifestyle with a minimum of emotional chaos. He had indulged in very few out-of-control shouting spells. He had exhibited no mind-numbing bouts of terror that she knew of. He had even paid Joe’s deli bills without undue grousing.

He had even put up with Joe’s reading the front page first in the mornings and demanding anchovies for breakfast. Not until this morning, she thought, had he really lost it.

She patted his hand again and rubbed her whiskers against his knuckles.“You shouldn’t get so worked up-it’s bad for human blood pressure. You can see that I’m all right. It was just a simple phone call.”

“Asimplephone call? Simple?You should have seen Harper’s face.” Clyde sighed deeply. “You don’t seem to realize, Dulcie, how this stuff upsets Harper.”

Wilma rose from the table. Turning away, she took the milk from the refrigerator and busied herself making cocoa.

“Every rime you and Joe meddle,” Clyde said, “every time you phone Harper with some wild tip, he gets suspicious all over again. And he starts making skewered remarks, laying the whole damned thing in my lap.”

“What whole damned thing?” Dulcie said softly, trying to keep her temper.

“He starts hinting that he wants answers. But he’s too upset to come right out with the real question. And that isn’t like Harper. He’s the most direct guy I know. But this? Dulcie, this stuff is just too much.”

She stared sweetly into Clyde’s face. “Why is helping him solve a crime awhole damned thing,as you put it? Why is catching a murderer, to say nothing of boosting the department’s statistics and impressing the mayor and the city council with Harper’s absolutely perfect, hundred percent record?”

“Can it, Dulcie. I’ve heard all that. You’re beginning to sound just like Joe. Going on and on with this ego-driven?”

“Oh, you can be rude!” She was so angry she raised her armored paw, facing him boldly, waiting for an apology.

She would not, several months ago, have dared such behavior with Clyde. When she first discovered her ability to speak, she had felt so shy she’d even been embarrassed to speak to Wilma.

Even when she and Joe began to discover the history and mythology of their lost race, to know that they were not alone, that there were others like them-and even though Clyde and Wilma read the research, too-it had taken all her courage to act natural and carry on a normal conversation. It had been months before she would speak to Clyde.

Wilma poured the cocoa and poured Dulcie a bowl of warm milk. Clyde sat trying to calm his temper.“Dulcie, let me explain. Max Harper lives a life totally oriented to hard facts. His world is made up of cold, factual evidence and logically drawn conclusions based on that evidence.”

“I know that.” She did not want to hear a lecture.

“How do you think Harper feels when the evidence implies something that heknowsis totally impossible? What is he supposed to do when no one in the world would believe what the evidence tells him?”

“But?”

“Tonight, when Harper’s phone rang, the minute he heard your voice, he went white. If you’d seen him?”

“But it was only a voice on the phone. He didn’t?”

“Your voice-the snitch’s voice-has him traumatized. This mysterious female voice that he links with all the past incidents? Oh, hell,” Clyde said. “I don’t need to explain this to you. You know what he suspects. You know you make him crazy.”

Dulcie felt incredibly hurt.“The tips Joe and I have given him have solved three murders,” she said quietly.

Wilma sat down at the table, cradling her cup of cocoa.

Clyde said,“Every crime where you and Joe have meddled, Harper has found cat hairs tainting the evidence-and sometimes pawprints.Pawprints, Dulcie!Your marks are all over the damned evidence. Do you think this doesn’t upset him? And now, tonight, you yowl into the damned telephone.”

“I didn’tyowl.”

“Youknow the way he looks at you and Joe.Joetells you the kind of stuff Harper says to me. How would you like it if Max Harper ended up in the funny farm-because of you two?”

“There is no way Max Harper is going to end up in a mental hospital. Talk about overdramatizing. Half of Harper’s comments are just putting you on. And he only talks that way after a few beers.”

Wilma refilled Clyde’s cocoa cup and tried to turn the conversation. “You didn’t find any trace of Mavity?”

Clyde shook his head.

“We’ll start early in the morning,” she said. “We can canvas the shops that were closed last night, see if anyone saw her.”

“The whole department will be doing that. Mavity is a prime suspect.” He reached to stroke Dulcie, wanting to make amends.

Reluctantly Dulcie allowed him to pet her. She couldn’t believe that Max Harper would really suspect Mavity of killing Jergen. If he did suspect Mavity, he needed to know about Pearl Ann. She rose and moved away from Clyde, stood looking at him and Wilma until she had their full attention, until Clyde stopped glowering and waited for her to speak.

“Mavity isn’t guilty,” she told them. “I was trying to tell Harper that, on the phone.”

“How do you know that?” Wilma said softly.

“Pearl Ann Jamison is the one Harper wants. I wastryingtotellhim that.”

They both stared at her.

“Pearl Ann Jamison,” Dulcie said, “is a guy in drag. I believe that he’s the killer.”

Clyde burst out laughing.“Come on, Dulcie. Just because Pearl Ann’s strong, and a good carpenter, doesn’t mean she’s a guy. You?”

“Are you saying I don’t know what I’m talking about?”

“Of course not. I just think you and Joe? Joe’s never mentioned this. What would make you think?”

“I know the difference between male and female,” she said tartly. “Which is more than you and Wilma seem to have figured out. When you get past the Jasmine perfume, Pearl Ann smells like a man. Without the perfume, we’d have known at once.”

“Shesmellsdifferent? You’re basing this wild accusation on asmell?”

“Of course he smells different. Testosterone, Clyde. He smells totally male. It’s not my fault that humans are so-challenged when it comes to the olfactory skills.”

Wilma watched the two of them solemnly.

“Pearl Ann smells like a man,” Dulcie repeated. “Half the clothes in her closet belong to a man. The IDs hidden in her room-driver’s licenses and credit cards, are for several different men.”

Clyde sighed.

“One ID is in the name of Troy Hoke. He was?”

That brought Clyde up short.“Where did you hear mat name?”

“I just told you. Pearl Ann has an ID for Troy Hoke. If you don’t believe me or Joe, then ask Greeley-Greeley knows all about Pearl Ann.Helet us into her room in the Davidson Building.Heshowed us the driver’s licenses and credit cards hidden in the light fixture. He told us where Hoke parks the car he drives, that none of you have seen. An eight-year-old gray Chrysler.”

They were both gawking at her, two looks of amazement that quite pleased her.

“That’s where Greeley’s been all this time,” she said patiently. “Camping in a storeroom at the Davidson Building.”

“Why didn’t you tell us this before?” Wilma said. “It’s not like you to keep something?”

This was really too much.“I just did tell you,” she hissed angrily. Clyde’s skeptical questions were one thing, she was used to Clyde’s argumentative attitude. But for Wilma to question her-that hurt. “We just found out tonight,” she said shortly and turned her back on Wilma, leaped off the table, and trotted away to the living room. If they didn’t want to believe her, that was their problem. She’d call Harper back at once and tell him about Troy Hoke.

Leaping to the desk, she had just taken the phone cord in her teeth when the instrument shrilled, sending her careening off again.

The phone rang three times before Wilma ran in and snatched it from the cradle. She listened, didn’t speak. She patted the desk for Dulcie to jump up, but Dulcie turned away.

“What hospital?” Wilma said.

On the floor, Dulcie stopped washing.

“How bad is she?” Wilma said softly. “Can we see her?” And in a moment she hung up the phone and hurried away to dress and find her keys.

26 [????????: pic_27.jpg]

MAVITY’S hospital room at Salinas Medical was guarded by a thin, young deputy who had been on duty most of the night. His chin was stubbled with pale whiskers, and his uniform was wrinkled. Sitting on a straight-backed chair just outside Mavity’s half-open door, he was enjoying an order of waffles and bacon served in a plastic carton. A Styrofoam cup of coffee sat on the floor beside his chair. He was present not only to assure that the suspect did not escape-a most unlikely event, considering Mavity’s condition-but to bar intruders and protect the old woman in case she was not Jergen’s killer but was a witness to his death.

Mavity’s room was not much larger than a closet. The steel furniture was old and scarred, but the white sheets and blanket were snowy fresh. She slept fitfully, her breathing labored, her left hand affixed to an IV tube, her right hand clutching the blanket. A white bandage covered most of her head, asif she were wearing the pristine headgear of some exotic eastern cult. She had been in the hospital since one A.M., when she was transferred there by ambulance from an alley in Salinas where she had been found lying unconscious near her wrecked VW. She had not been able to tell the police or the nurses her name or where she lived. The Salinas police got that information from the registration of her wrecked car. They had notified the Molena Point PD only after an alert was faxed to them that a woman of Mavity’s description was missing and was wanted for questioning in last evening’s murder.

Salinas Medical was an hour’s drive from Molena Point, lying inland where the weather was drier and warmer. The hospital complex consisted of half a dozen Spanish-style buildings surrounded by a circular drive. It was a training facility for medical staff and a bulwark of specialized medical services for the area, including an excellent cardiac unit and a long-term-care wing for patients in need of intensive nursing. Wilma, Clyde, and Charlie arrived at Salinas Medical at five-thirty A.M.

When Wilma had received Max Harper’s phone call at four that morning, she and Clyde left her house in her car, making two stops, the first to drop Dulcie off at Clyde’s place, an arrangement about which Dulcie was not happy. The last Wilma saw of the little cat, Dulcie was sulking alone on Clyde’s steps, her ears down, her head hanging, looking as abandoned as she could possibly manage.

Wilma knew that the instant she drove away Dulcie would bolt inside to Joe, pacing and lashing her tail, complaining about the indignities a cat was subjected to by uncaring humans.

“They won’t let you into the hospital,” Wilma had told her. “And I don’t want you alone here with Bernine.”

“I could go in a shopping bag. They’d think I was extra clothes or homemade cookies. Don’t you thinkIcare about Mavity? Don’t you thinkIcare that that man might have killed her?”

“Or thatshemight have killed Jergen?”

“Nonsense.Youknow she didn’t. I would fit in that canvas book tote. You could just?”

“Hospital security checks all parcels. They won’t let you in. They’d throw you out in the street.”

“But?”

“Stay with Joe,” Wilma had snapped, and had unceremoniously tossed Dulcie into the car where she hunched miserably on the front seat.

The second stop had been to pick up Charlie, who was waiting in front of her building before the antique shop, sucking on a mug of coffee and snuggled in a fleece-lined denim jacket. She slid into the front seat between Clyde and Wilma, frowning with worry over Mavity.

“Has she remembered her name? Does she know what happened to her?”

“We haven’t talked to the hospital,” Wilma said. “All I know is what Harper told me when he called, that she was confused and groggy.”

“Was she alone in the car?”

Clyde put his arm around her.“As far as we know, she was. They found the VW smashed against a lamppost, outside a pawnshop in the old part of town. Not a likely place for her to be in the middle of the night.”

As they sped east on the nearly empty freeway, the dawn air was damp and cool through the open windows, helping to wake them. On either side of the road, the thickly wooded hills rose dark and solid against the dawn sky. Soon they were inland between flat fields, the crops laid out in long green rows, the dawn air smelling of onions. When they arrived at Salinas Medical, Mavity was asleep, an IV tube snaking up her arm to a slowly seeping bottle. In the corner of the room on a hard wooden chair, Max Harper dozed, his long legs splayed out before him. He came fully awake as they entered.

“I’ve been here about an hour,” he replied to Wilma’s questioning look. “Haven’t gotten much out of her-she’s pretty confused.”

Clyde went out to the nursing station to get some chairs, and Charlie went to find the coffee machine, returning with four large cups of steaming brew that tasted like rusted metal.

“She has a cerebral contusion,” Harper said. “A lot of swelling. They had a shunt in for a while, to relieve the pressure, to drain off some of the fluid. And she’s had trouble breathing. They thought she’d have to have a tracheotomy, but the breathing has eased off. She’s irritable andher memory’s dicy, but that’s to be expected. Not much luck trying to recall yesterday afternoon. And when she can’t put it together, she gets angry. They’re waking her every two hours.” He sipped his coffee. He looked like he could use a smoke.

Wilma smoothed Mavity’s blanket. “Were there any witnesses to the wreck?”

Harper shook his head.“None that we’ve found. We don’t know yet whether another car was involved or if she simply ran off the street into the lamppost.”

Mavity woke just after six and lay scowling at them, confused and bleary. Her wrinkled little face seemed very small surrounded by the thick white bandage and snowy bedding. When Wilma spoke to her, she did not respond. She frowned at Charlie’s wild red hair and glared angrily at Harper. But soon something began to clear. She grew restless, and she reached up her hand to Wilma, trying to change position, kicking out of the blanket with one white, thin leg.

Wilma looked a question at Harper, and he nodded. She sat down on the edge of the bed, helping Mavity to get settled, holding her hand.“You had a little accident. You’re in Salinas Medical. We came over to be with you.”

Mavity scowled. Wilma smiled back.“Do you remember cleaning for Mr. Jergen yesterday afternoon?”

Mavity looked at her blankly.

“Mavity?”

“If it was his day, I cleaned for him,” she snapped. “Why wouldn’t I?” She looked around the room, puzzled. “I was fixing supper for Greeley-sauerkraut and hot dogs.” She reached to touch her bandage and the IV tube swung, startling her. She tried to snatch it, but Wilma held her hand. “Leave it, Mavity. It will make you feel better.”

Mavity sighed.“We had a terrible argument, Dora and Ralph and me. And the hardware store-I was in the hardware store just a minute ago. I don’t understand. How did I get in a hospital?”

“You hit your head,” Wilma told her.

Mavity went quiet.“Someone said I wrecked my car.” She gave Wilma an angry glare. “I’ve never in my life had a wreck. I would remember if I wrecked my little car.”

“When did you make sauerkraut for Greeley?”

“I-I don’t know,” she said crossly, as if Wilma was being very rude with her questions.

“When did you and Dora and Ralph argue?” Wilma persisted.

But Mavity turned over, jerking the blankets higher and nearly dislodging the IV, and soon she dropped into sleep. They sat in a tight little group waiting for her to wake.

When she did wake, she jerked up suddenly, trying to sit up.“Caulking,” she told Wilma. “Caulking for the shower. Did I buy the caulking? Pearl Ann is waiting for it.”

Wilma straightened the bedding and smoothed the sheet.“Pearl Ann sent you to buy caulking? When was this?”

But already she had forgotten. Again she scowled at Wilma, puzzled and disoriented, not remembering anything in its proper order. Perhaps not remembering, at all, Winthrop Jergen’s ugly death?

27 [????????: pic_28.jpg]

IF WILMA GETZ hadn’t spent thirty years working with federal criminals, Max Harper would not have placed Mavity Flowers in her custody. Two days after Mavity entered Salinas Medical, she was released to Wilma’s care. Wilma drove her home, tucked her up in her own bed and moved a cot into the room for herself. Her official duties, besides helping Mavity, were a perfect excuse to evict Bernine Sage from the guest room, to make room for the twenty-four-hour police guard that Max Harper had assigned. The county attorney agreed that Mavity’s care by an old friend might ease her fears and help her remember thecircumstances of Winthrop Jergen’s death; the case was growing in breadth as law enforcement agencies began to uncover links between Jergen/Cumming, Troy Hoke, and several unsolved crimes in Tennessee and Alabama.

No one knew how much of Mavity’s memory loss was due to the cerebral contusion and how much resulted from the shock of what she had witnessed. Under Wilma’s gentle questioning, she was beginning to recall more details, to put together the scattered scenes.

But Dulcie’s information about Troy Hoke alias Pearl Ann Jamison, which Dulcie passed on to Max Harper during an early-morning phone call, had been-so far as Dulcie and Joe could surmise-totally ignored. Harper felt certain that Troy Hoke had come here to Molena Point to find Warren Cumming; he’d told Clyde that much. So why did he ignore their important and dearly gathered information that Pearl AnnwasTroy Hoke?

Mavity could remember returning from the hardware store with Pearl Ann’s caulking. She could remember crossing the patio and hearing angry shouts from Jergen’s apartment. “Two men shouting, and thuds,” she had told Wilma. “Then seems like I was at the top of the stairs standing in the open door.” But always, at this point, she went silent. “I don’t remember any more. I can’t remember.”

“Did you see the other man?” Wilma would ask. “Did you know him?”

“I can’t remember. When I think about it I feel scared and sort of sick.”

Now Wilma glanced out toward the living room where the police guard sat reading the paper.“You were standing in the doorway,” she said gently, “and the two men were shouting. And then??”

“A red neon sign, that’s what I remember next. Red light shining in my face. It was night. I could hear people talking and cars passing.”

“And nothing in between?”

“No. Nothing.”

“The red neon-you were walking somewhere?”

“I was in my car. The lights-the lights hurt. I had to close my eyes.”

“In your own car?”

“In the back, with the mops and buckets.” Mavity looked at her, puzzled, her short gray hair a tangle of kinks, her face drawn into lines of bewilderment. “Why would I be in the back of my own car? I was lying on my extra pair of work shoes. The lights hurt my eyes. Then someone pulling me, dragging me. It was dark. Then a real bright light, and a nurse. I’m in that hospital bed, and my head hurting so bad. I couldn’t hear nothing but the pounding in my head.”

Wilma was careful not to prompt Mavity. She wanted her to remember the alley where the Salinas Police had found her and to remember wrecking her car, without being led by her suggestions.

“Greeley?” Mavity said, “I have to get home-Greeley’s waiting. Dora and Ralph?They’ll be worried. They won’t know where I am. I left the meat thawing on the sink, and that cat will?”

“The meat’s all right-they put the meat away. And they’re not worried, they know where you are,” Wilma lied. But maybe Dora and Ralph did know, from wherever they were beyond the pale. Who was she to say?

Mavity dozed again, her hand relaxed across Dulcie’s shoulder where the cat lay curled on the quilt against her. But then in sleep Mavity’s hand went rigid and she woke startled. “I have to get up. They won’t know?”

“It’s all right, Mavity,” Wilma reassured her. “Everything’s taken care of. Greeley will be along later.”

“But Dora and?”

Suddenly Mavity stopped speaking.

Her eyes widened. She raised up in bed, staring at Wilma, then her face crumpled.“They’re dead,” she whispered. She looked terrified. “Dora and Ralph are dead.”

Wilma sat down on the bed beside her, put her arm around Mavity. They sat quietly until Mavity said,“Greeley-I need Greeley.” She looked nakedly at Wilma. “Is he all right?”

“Greeley’s just fine, I promise.“Rolling drunk,Wilma thought.But he’s all in one piece.

“I need him.” Mavity looked at her helplessly. “How can I ever tell him? Tell him that Dora’s gone?”

“He’ll be here soon. You won’t need to tell him. Greeley knows about Dora. He knows about Dora and Ralph, and he’s taking it very well. He’ll be along soon, to be with you.”

The police had picked Greeley up at the Davidson Building and had held him until he sobered up enough for questioning regarding Dora and Ralph’s deaths. When they released him, Max Harper said, he went directly back to the Davidson Building-to the companionship of several more cases of rum. Wilma had no intention of bringing him to see Mavity until he was sober and had cleaned himself up. Dulcie said he smelled like a drunk possum, andHarper said much the same.

The police now knew that Dora and Ralph had died of a drug overdose. The forensics report made it clear that, in Harper’s words, Dora and Ralph Sleuder were loaded with enough morphine to put down a pair of cart horses.

“The coroner thinks they ingested the drug during dinner. They’d had a big meal, steak, potatoes, salad with French dressing, chocolate pie and coffee,” Max had told them. “We don’t know yet who they had dinner with, or where. That was the night after they met for dinner with Bernine.”

Harper had learned about the dinner at Pander’s from his mysterious informant during the same phone call in which she identified Pearl Ann as Troy Hoke. Checking with Pander’s, Harper had learned that the threesome arrived at seven-thirty and were seated at a table on the terrace. Their waiter remembered what each of the three guests had ordered for dinner, what they had had to drink, what time they departed, and that Bernine paid the bill by credit card.

The doctors had said Mavity might be bad-tempered until her contusion healed, and she was. The four-inch gash in the back of her head was not the result of the car accident; she had been hit on the head from behind several hours before her car was wrecked-very likely she had been knocked out, loaded into the backseat of the VW, driven to Salinas, and her car deliberately wrecked against the lamppost where it was found. Harper had no intention of allowing Mavity to sustain another attack. Besides the twenty-four-hour guard, patrol units were all over the area.

Now, entering Wilma’s pastel bedroom, Max Harper’s uniform and solemn, leathery face contrasted in an interesting way with the feminine room, with the flowered chintz and white wicker furniture, putting Wilma in mind of a weathered soldier wandering among the petunias. As she poured coffee for him from the tray on Mavity’s bed table, Mavity sat against the pillows, pleased at being fussed over, at being the center of attention. The facts she gave Max, as he questioned her, were the same she had given Wilma. Slowly the jigsaw pieces of her memory were slipping into place.

On the bed beside Mavity, Dulcie lay pretending to sleep as she fitted together Mavity’s scenario with what she and Joe already knew.

Winthrop Jergen had left his apartment at about two, telling Mavity and Pearl Ann that he had an appointment up the coast. Charlie arrived at three and left again a few minutes later, headed for the Blackburn house. Pearl Ann was already upstairs in his rooms repairing the towel rack. As Charlie left, Mavity carried her cleaning things up to his apartment.

“When I came in, Pearl Ann said she was nearly out of shower caulking-that good, plastic kind that she likes. She said if I’d go down to the village for some, she’d start on the refrigerator for me, put the ice trays and shelves in a dishpan to soak. She don’t mind working up there when Mr.Jergen’s not home?” Mavity jerked her hand, sloshing coffee on the white sheet.

Grabbing a handful of tissues, she tried to mop up the spill.“I can’t get used to it-that he’s dead. His throat-the blood?”

Wilma took Mavity’s cup and wiped the sheets. She handed her more tissues, wiped off the cup, and poured fresh coffee for her. Dulcie rose up from her nest of blankets to rub against Mavity’s cheek. Mavity put her arm around the little cat and drew her close.

“Driving back up from the village, I passed Mr. Jergen’s car parked three blocks from the apartments, and I thought that was strange. He’d said he was going up the coast. Oh, it was his car, I’d know that Mercedes anywhere, with its two antennas and those fancy hubcaps.

“Well, I thought he must have met his client there and taken their car. Though that did seem odd, that he would park three blocks away. Or maybe he’d had car trouble. I never heard of a Mercedes having car trouble, but I guess they can.

“I parked and hurried in through the patio because Pearl Ann would be waiting for the caulking. Mr. Jergen’s windows were open, and I heard him and another man shouting at each other, real angry. It was a strange voice but-something about it seemed familiar.

“And then I heard banging and thuds like furniture being knocked over, and then a gasp. Then silence.

“I ran up the stairs, but I was scared. I was ready to run down again. I listened but I couldn’t hear nothing, so I pushed open the door.”

She stared into her coffee cup as if seeing a replay of Jergen’s murder. When she looked up at Harper, her voice was hardly a whisper.

“He was on the floor. Lying on the floor beside his desk. The blood? And Pearl Ann-Pearl Ann kneeling over him stabbing and stabbing? Swinging her arm and stabbing into his throat with that terrible ice tray thing.”

Mavity sat hugging herself.“I backed away real quiet, out the door. Pulled it closed, praying she didn’t hear me, that she hadn’t seen me.

“I didn’t know where the other man was. I kept looking around for him. I felt weak as jelly. I took off my shoes so she wouldn’t hear me going down the steps. I ran down in my socks, to my car. I never stopped for nothing. Kept seeing Pearl Ann kneeling over him stabbing and stabbing?

“I dug my keys out of my purse. I was trying to jam the key in the door?”

She looked up at Harper.“That’s all I remember. Then the red neon sign at night glaring in my eyes, and I was in the backseat lying on my shoes, my face against a dirty shoe. There was a McDonald’s wrapper on the floor-it smelled of mustard.

“And then being dragged or something, that’s all fuzzy and dark. Then I was in bed in that hospital and you were there, Captain Harper, sitting slumped in the chair.” Mavity pulled the quilt up, careful not to disturb Dulcie.

“When you first entered the apartment,” Harper said, “before you went out again for the caulking, do you remember anything strange, at that time, anything out of order in the room?”

“No. The room was neat, the way he keeps it. His desk was clean and neat, nothing on it except a few files lying in a neat pile on the blotter. Well, I guess you could say that was unusual. Mr. Jergen always put everything away, always left his desk with nothing but the blotter and the pens, the regular desk things, no papers.”

She frowned.“There’s one other thing. I’d forgot. I’m sure his computer was off when I first came in. But when I got back with the caulking and saw-saw? Pearl Ann? I think the computer was on.”

Mavity hugged herself.“He shouldn’t have been there at all. He had an appointment up the coast. Maybe he forgot to do something at the computer. Maybe he came back to do that.”

She looked hard at Harper.“Why did she kill him? Why did this happen?”

“Besides the files and the computer,” Harper said, “was there anything else out of order?”

“Not that I noticed. Seemed the same as always, neat, everything in order. Pearl Ann had started working in the bathroom, but she stopped to get the refrigerator started. The kitchen was neat and clean, the way he always left it.”

Harper made some notes and rose. There was a tight, hard look about him. Wilma walked him to the door, where he paused, gave her a hug.“You look tired. She’ll get through this, Wilma. If we can pick up Hoke, Mavity should be clear, I think we’ll have enough to take him to the grand jury.”

“And if you don’t find Hoke?”

“Let’s wait to see what happens.”

Wilma leaned against him, very thankful for Max Harper. She would hate to face this, to try to help Mavity, without Max there to go the extra mile.

He stood looking down at her.“I didn’t tell you this. Some of the blood on Mavity’s white uniform was Jergen’s.”

She only looked at him, frightened again suddenly

“The report came in this morning. But from the way the blood was smeared, the lab thinks it was wiped on, possibly by the murder weapon.”

“It wasn’t spattered or pooled on.”

“Exactly. And we’re not sure, yet, that the ice tray dividerwasthe murder weapon.”

He didn’t move out the open door, just kept looking at her. “It would strengthen our case considerably, if I knew who our informant was. If I knew who the woman was, who tipped us about Hoke. It might make the case, if she were to testify against Hoke.”

“I’m sure it would,” Wilma said. “Maybe she’ll come forward. Let’s hope so.” She hated this, hated lying to him.

“She never has. She’s helped us on three cases but has never identified herself, never offered to testify.” He continued to watch her. “Same voice, same woman.”

Wilma widened her eyes.“You think it’s me, Max? Are you saying I’m your mysterious informant?”

“No,” Harper said. “I don’t think that.” He looked at Wilma for a long time, then turned away, heading for his car. Wilma moved to the window, watching the patrol unit slide away into the village, thinking what a tangled web had drawn them all in-and, for Harper, what a cat’s cradle of leads and unanswerable questions.

28 [????????: pic_29.jpg]

GREELEY URZEY’S sour, boozy smell filled Wilma’s car thicker than steam in a sauna. Despite the fact that she drove with all the windows down, the stink of secondhand rum and stale sweat made her want to boot the old man out and let him walk to her house-except, of course, he wouldn’t. He’d head back for that hovel among his cases of 90 proof.

Shecouldhave stopped by Mavity’s cottage and insisted that he take a bath and change his reeking clothes, but she hadn’t wanted to take the time. Mavity was so anxious to see him; Wilma hadn’t even waited, as she’d promised herself, for the old man to sober up.

But even as rum-sodden as Greeley was, he seemed genuinely worried about Mavity. He sat leaning forward, staring hard through the windshield as if to hurry the car faster-and clutching the black cat in his lap.

She had to smile at the way he’d slipped the cat in. After the police officer let her into the Davidson Building and saw her safely downstairs again with Greeley in tow, she’d waited alone in the dirty hall for Greeley to go back upstairs and fetch his jacket. She didn’t think he’d run out on her-there was no other entry, just the second floor windows. She’d watched, amused, when he returned clutching not only the jacket but the black cat nestled down in the wadded-up leather as if the animal might not be noticed.

Drunk and argumentative, he’d insisted on bringing the beast despite the fact, as she’d pointed out, that Mavity disliked Azrael, and that it was Mavity’s comfort they were concerned about here.

Now as she drove across the village, the cat sat possessively on Greeley’s lap, a huge black presence which, unlike most cats, made no move to leap out the four open windows. “He’ll do as I tell him,” Greeley had promised drunkenly, “or he’ll know what for.”

Well, maybe the cat wasn’t as bad as Mavity claimed. Certainly it was a handsome animal; admiring him, Wilma reached gently to stroke his broad black head-and drew her hand back at the blaze of rage that flamed in his slitted orange eyes.

So much for making friends. The animal was as unsocialized as its master.

The cat watched her narrowly as she parked in her drive and killed the engine, its gaze strangely calculating-as eerie as Poe’s “The Black Cat” with its chilling stare.The figure of a gigantic cat? I could not rid myself of the phantasm of the cat?a large and beautiful animal, entirely black, and sagacious to an astonishing degree?

As she herded Greeley toward her kitchen door, escorting the drunken, smelly old man into her clean house, she felt like she was bringing home a parolee just released from the drunk tank-except that Greeley smelled worse. The instant she opened the door, the cat leaped inside, brushing boldly past their legs with none of the wariness most cats exhibited upon entering unfamiliar rooms.

Immediately he scented Dulcie’s cat door and flew at it, sniffing and growling, and before she could stop him he turned his backside and drenched the little door with his testosterone-heavy stink, applying liberally the mark of male dominance and possession.

Shouting, she slapped at him with her purse-and jerked her hand away as he sprang at her, his swift claws raking her arm, leaving long red welts oozing drops of blood.

“You make that cat behave, Greeley. Or you’ll put it outside.”

Greeley shrugged and offered a helpless grin. Wilma found some peroxide in the emergency cupboard, poured some on a paper towel, and scrubbed the wounds, thinking of rare tropical infections and blood parasites. Snatching a spray bottle from the sink, she poured ammonia into it, to mix with the water.“He claws me again or sprays again, Greeley, he gets a shot of this in the face. He won’t like it.”

The cat glared. Greeley looked back grinning, amused that she would threaten his tomcat. Giggling, he headed for the dining room, stumbling unsteadily past her.

Before the cat could leap after him, Wilma slid through the door and slammed it in the beast’s face.

Making sure the latch clicked, that the door was securely shut, she guided Greeley down the hall toward her bedroom. Ushering him in, she wondered if his boozy, sweaty smell would cling in the room forever. Down the hall behind her, she heard the kitchen door click open.

The cat came swaggering out of the kitchen, giving her a stare as sharp as a stabbing knife and pushed past her into the bedroom.

Mavity was asleep. Greeley leaned over his sister and delivered a peckish kiss, surely scratching stubble across her soft skin. Mavity woke, stared up at him vaguely, and drew away, grimacing at his smell.

Unperturbed, Greeley sat down on the bed beside her, taking her hands in his with a gentleness that surprised Wilma.

“Dora’s gone,” Greeley slurred. “My little girl’s gone. And Ralph gone, and that man you set such store by.” Glancing to where the cat was sniffing around the dresser, Greeley whispered, “Death sucked them in. Sucked them all in. Death-death before the moon is full.” Strange words for the drunken little man. Leaning down, he put his arms around Mavity, holding her close.

The cat watched, seeming almost amused. And as brother and sister comforted each other, the beast began to prowl, nosing into every inch of the bedroom, turning occasionally to observe Wilma, his huge topaz eyes as evil, she thought, as twin glimpses into hell.

Annoyed at her own fear, she went to make some coffee.

But, hurrying down the hall, she could feel the tomcat watching her. And when she glanced back, its eyes on her glowed so intently she turned away, shaken.

What was this beast?

Dulcie hadn’t told her the nature of this animal.

Fixing a tray with coffee and sugar and cream and some pound cake, she returned quickly. The cat was not in sight. She set the tray on the night table and checked under the dresser and bed, then went to search the house. She didn’t like to think of that creature alone with Dulcie.

She didn’t find the animal. When she returned to the bedroom, Greeley was crying drunkenly, the tears rolling down his stubbled cheeks.

“? feeding those chickens when she was only a little girl, and helping her mama to plant the garden-my little girl? And that old goose used to chase her! Oh, how she would run,” Greeley blubbered. “I killed that goose, killed it? But now-I couldn’t kill whoever hurt her, couldn’t save my little girl. So cold-so cold there in all them lilies?”

As Greeley doubled over, weeping, the black cat reappeared and leaped onto the bed. Mavity paled and shrank away from it, looked as if she’d like to hit it. Wilma watched, shocked, as it began to stalk Mavity-and thought of the times Mavity had complained about the beast’s dirty habits. Surely, there was no love between them. But now the animal looked dangerous. As he crouched to leap, Wilma grabbed him, tossed him to the floor. The black cat landed heavily and jumped at once to the foot of the bed where it began pawing Greeley’s jacket that lay crumpled on the blanket.

Clawing at the wrinkled leather, he slid his paw into a pocket, and with a quick twist, dragged out a black-feathered carcass. Taking this in his mouth, his ears back, his head low, he began to stalk Mavity. She jerked away, gasping, as Wilma snatched the blood-streaked bird.

But it wasn’t a bird. The thing was hard under her fingers, not soft and limp like a dead bird. She turned it over, looking.

It was a small wooden man, the black feathers wrapped around him like a cloak and tied with red cord. His face was painted with blood red lines like a primitive warrior. His hair felt like real human hair, the side locks stiff with dried red mud, as if he were made up for some primitive ritual.

“Voodoo doll,” Mavity whispered, staring at the six-inch man then at Greeley. “You showed me those, in that shop. Where did you get that? Why would you bring that horrible thing here?”

“Only a plaything,” Greeley said, patting Mavity’s hand. “Ididn’t bring it. The cat-the cat likes a plaything. The cat found it?” He reached up to take the carving from Wilma.

She held it away.“Why did you bring this?”

“Ididn’t bring it! The cat brought it. Damn cat-always dragging in something.”

“Thecatput it in your pocket?”

Greeley shrugged.“He digs in my pockets.” He grinned sheepishly. “He likes that Latin American shop. I expect it smells like home.”

“I’ll take it in the kitchen.”

The black cat hadn’t taken his eyes from the doll. But now he turned from it, fixed his gaze on Mavity, and crept up the bed again, toward her.

“Get him away!”

Grabbing the cat, Wilma drew back a bloodied hand.“Greeley, get the beast out of here.”

“Get down!” Greeley scolded. “Get off the bed!” The cat hissed at him but leaped to the floor.

“And stay off,” Greeley added ineffectually.

Wilma turned away, carrying the doll, but the tomcat leaped, grabbing for its grisly toy. She swung it at the cat’s head until the beast ran. Mavity hadn’t exaggerated-the creature gave her more than chills. When she turned to look back, the cat was not behind her and the hall was empty.

She laid the carving on the kitchen table. More than its ugliness bothered her. It seemed to hold around itself a deep oppression. As she stood studying the doll she glimpsed a shadow behind her, slipping along the floor.

She spun as the cat crouched to leap-whether at her or to snatch the doll she’d never know: At the same instant, an explosion of tabby fur hit him, knocking him sideways.

Dulcie was all over him, slashing and clawing. The black cat fought violently in a tangle of raking claws-but he fought only briefly before breaking away, and careened out through Dulcie’s cat door, the empty door slapping behind him.

As quick as that, he was gone. Dulcie leaped to the table, looking twice her normal size, and began to lick blood from her claws. Gently Wilma stroked her.

“What a nasty beast. Are you hurt? Where did he hurt you?”

Dulcie spit out a mouthful of fur.“I’m fine. A few scratches. They’ll clean right up.” Her gaze fixed on the black-feathered doll. “Voodoo,” she hissed. “Did Greeley bring this? That old, disgusting drunk? Or did Azrael carry it here?” She glared at Wilma, laying back her ears. “Why did you let Greeley bring that cat here-and withthis?”

“I didn’t know. I was trying to keep Greeley happy. I didn’t want him making a scene, so I let him bring the cat. I didn’t see this thing. And the cat seemed tame enough, seemed just an ordinary cat.”

She looked hard at Dulcie.“But he isn’t, is he?”

Dulcie studied Wilma a long time.“No,” she said softly, “he’s no ordinary cat. But he’s not like us, either. He’s not like Joe Grey-he’s horrid.” With an angry swipe, she knocked the feathered man to the floor.

“Azrael believes in these voodoo things,” she said, hissing. “He believes in dark magic-he said it was a fine way to get back at those who mistreat you.

“I expect he wanted,” Dulcie said softly, “to make Mavity sicker-just because Mavity doesn’t like him, because she complained about his manners.”

She fixed her green gaze on Wilma.“Why else would he bring this terrible idol, if not to torment Mavity and frighten her-or try some wild spell on her? Can that stuff work?” she said, shivering, staring down at the black doll lying like a hunk of tar on the blue linoleum. Wilma snatched up the feathered figure and hurried down the hall. Following, Dulcie watched Wilma shove the ugly little idol in Greeley’s face.

“What is this about, Greeley? What did you mean to do?”

“It’s only a native doll,” Greeley said, laughing. “Indian kid’s playtoy. The cat brought it.”

“Voodoo doll,” Wilma replied.

“Voodoo?“He looked at her as if she wasn’t bright and choked out a rum-laden laugh. “Child’s toy. That Ms. Sue Marble, she’s got all kinds of stuff-them Guatamala blankets, all that Panama clutter. Nothing of any use, all that artsy stuff. Even them little gold people aren’t worth nothing-not the real thing, not the real gold. Gold birds. Gold lizards. Sue showed me.” But suddenly his face colored and he looked embarrassed, his eyes shifting away.

“You must have gotten very friendly,” Wilma said, amused, forgetting her anger.

“That nice little woman,” Greeley said defensively, “wouldn’t have nothing costly.” He was blushing; he wouldn’t look at her. She had to smile at his discomfiture, at his strange embarrassment.

Was he romancing Sue Marble? But why embarrassment? His distress puzzled her, made her uneasy.

Romancing Sue for her money?

Oh, that would be too bad.

Dropping the doll in the wastebasket, she carried the basket out to the kitchen to empty it with the trash, all the time pondering over Greeley-and keeping her ear cocked for the thump of Dulcie’s cat door, for the stealthy return of Greeley’s nasty little friend.

29 [????????: pic_30.jpg]

WALKING BACKthe cat,” Max Harper told Charlie as he popped open a can of beer, “means to lay out the evidence and work backward-reconstruct the crime.” The five friends sat around a wrought-iron table in the landscaped patio of the freshly painted apartment building. Moonlight brightened the flower beds, which were softly lit by indirect lamps hidden behind the tall banks of Nile lilies that Wilma had planted as background for lower masses of textured ground cover. The brick paving had been pressure-washed, and it gleamed dull and rich, lending to the patio garden a quiet elegance. The new wrought-iron furniture in a heavy ivy pattern-umbrella table, lounge chairs, and chaises-completed the sense of comfort. Harper looked curiously at Charlie. “Where did you hear that phrase, to walk back the cat?”

“I’m not sure. Something I read, I suppose.”

Wilma said,“Isn’t that a CIA term?”

“I read that in a romance-mystery,” Mavity offered. “That’s the way it was used, when the CIA was wrapping up a case.” The little woman seemed completely recovered. Her memory had returned fully-she had recalled clearly the events surrounding Winthrop Jergen’s murder and, once she came to grips with the truth about Jergen, she had been stoic and sensible, her idolization of the financier had turned to anger but then to a quiet resolve. Now she had put all her faith in Max Harper, to recover her savings.

But the fact that Dora and Ralph had come to Molena Point not only to trap Cumming but to keep Mavity from losing her money had hurt Mavity deeply-that Dora had died trying to help her.

Mavity was dressed, tonight, not in her usual worn white uniform but in a new, teal blue pants suit, a bargain that Wilma had found for her. The color became her, and the change of wardrobe, along with her returned health, seemed perhaps the mark of a new beginning.

Of the little group, only Max Harper, stretching out his long, Levi-clad legs and sipping his beer, seemed aware of Charlie’s unease. He watched the young woman with interest. She was strung tight, seemed unable to keep her bony hands still, sat smoothing and smoothing her cotton skirt. As he considered the possible cause of her distress, and as he went over in his mind the last details of the Sleuder and Jergen case, while paying attention to the conversation around him, he was aware, as well, of the two cats crouched on the brick paving near the table-uncomfortably aware.

The two animals seemed totally preoccupied with eating fish and chips from a paper plate, yet they were so alert, ears following every voice, the tips of their tails twitching and pausing as if they were attending closely to every word. When he’d mentioned “walk back the cat,” both cats’ ears had swiveled toward him, and Dulcie’s tail had jerked once, violently, before she stilled it.

He knew his preoccupation with the cats was paranoid-it was these crazy ideas about cats that made him question his own mental condition. Of course the two animals had simply responded to the wordcat,they were familiar with the word from hearing it in relation to their own comfort.Time to feed the cat. Have to let the cat out.A simple Pavlovian reaction common to all animals.

Yet he watched them intently.

His gut feeling was that their quick attention was far more than conditioned response.

The cats didn’t glance up at him. They seemed totally unaware of his intense scrutiny, as unheeding as any beast.

Except that beasts were not unheeding.

A dog or horse, if you stared at him, would generally look back at you. To stare at an animal was to threaten, and so of course it would look back. One of the rules in dealing with a vicious dog was never to stare at him. And cats hated to be watched. Certainly, with the cats’ wide peripheral vision, these two were perfectly aware of his interest-yet they never glanced his way. Seemed deliberately to ignore him.

No one at the table noticed his preoccupation. Charlie and Clyde, Wilma and Mavity were deep into rehashing the reception they had just left.

They had come up directly from the library party, to enjoy a takeout supper in the newly completed patio and to continue the celebration-an affair that had left Harper irritated yet greatly amused. A reception for a cat. A bash in honor of Wilma’s library cat. That had to be a first-in Molena Point, and maybe for any public library.

The party, besides honoring Dulcie, had quietly celebrated as well the departure of Freda Brackett. The ex-head librarian had left Molena Point two days earlier, headed for L.A. and a higher paying position in a library which, presumably, would never tolerate a resident cat. A library, Harper thought, that certainly didn’t embody the wit or originality-or enthusiasm-to be found in their own village institution.

He didn’t much care for cats. But Molena Point’s impassioned rally to save Dulcie’s position-gaining the wholehearted support of almost the entire village-had been contagious even to a hard-assed old cop.

Dulcie ate her fish and chips slowly, half of her attention uncomfortably aware of Harper’s scrutiny, the other half lost in the wonders of her reception. She had held court on a library reading table where she had secretly spent so many happy hours, had sat atop the table like royalty on a peach-toned silk cushion given to her by the Aronson Gallery. And as she was fawned over-as Joe admired her from atop the book stacks-Danny McCoy from the Molena PointGazettehad taken dozens of pictures: Dulcie with her guests, Dulcie with members of the city council and with the mayor, with all her good friends.

Danny had brought the local TV camera crew, too, so that highlights of the event would appear on the eleven o’clock news. Young Dillon Thurwell had cut the cake, which George Jolly himself had baked and decorated with a dark tabby cat standing over an open book, a rendering far more meaningful than Mr. Jolly or most of those present would ever imagine. Perhaps best of all, Charlie had donated a portraitof her to hang in the library’s main reading room, above a scrapbook that would contain all forty signed petitions and any forthcoming press clippings.

Not even the famous Morris, who must have press people available at the twitch of a whisker, could have been more honored. She felt as pampered as an Egyptian cat-priestess presiding over the temples of Ur-she was filled to her ears with well-being and goodwill, so happy she could not stop purring.

Not only had the party turned her dizzy with pleasure, not only was Freda Brackett forever departed from Molena Point, but Troy Hoke was in jail for Jergen’s murder and for the attempted murder of Mavity. And soon, if Max Harper was successful, Mavity would have her stolen money.

Life, Dulcie thought, was good.

Licking her whiskers, she listened with interest as Max Harper walked back the cat, lining up the events that had put Hoke behind bars awaiting trial for the murder of Warren Cumming.

Hoke had not been indicted for the murder of Dora and Ralph Sleuder. That crime, Harper speculated (and the cats agreed), would turn out to have been committed by Cumming himself-but Warren Cumming alias Winthrop Jergen need no longer worry about earthly punishment. If he was to face atonement, it would be meted out by a far more vigorous authority than the local courts.

A plastic bag containing morphine had been found in Jergen’s apartment, taped inside the computer monitor, affixed to the plastic case.

“It’s possible,” Harper said, “that Hoke killed the Sleuders, and taped the drug there after he killed Jergen, to tie the Sleuders’ murder to him. But so far we have no evidence of that, no prints, no trace of Hoke on the bag or inside the computer.”

“But what about Bernine?” Charlie said. “Bernine had dinner with Dora and Ralph.”

“That was the night before,” Harper reminded her. “The night Dora and Ralph received the lethal dose, they had dinner at Lupe’s Steaks, down on Shoreline-one of the private booths. Not likely they would know about those on their own. And despite Jergen’s entry through the back door?” Harper laughed. “? wearing that pitiful football blazer and cap, one of the waiters knew him.”

Harper shook his head.“The man might have been creative with the numbers, but he didn’t know much about disguise.

“And Bernine Sage has an excellent alibi for the night of the Sleuders’ deaths. She was out with a member of the city council. She was,” he said, winking at Wilma, “trying to work a deal to destroy the petitions the committee had collected for Dulcie.”

“The library cat petitions?” Wilma laughed. “That was pretty silly. Didn’t she know we’d have done them over again?”

In the shadows, the cats smiled, but at once they shuttered their eyes again, as if dozing.

Their private opinion was that though Bernine had an alibi for the night the Sleuders were killed, she had been instrumental in their deaths. If she had not pumped the Sleuders for information, then reported to Jergen that the couple meant to blow the whistle on him, Jergen/Cumming would likely not have bothered to kill them.

“I can’t believe,” Charlie said, “that I worked with Pearl Ann for three months and didn’t guess she was a man. That makes me feel really stupid.”

“None of us guessed,” Clyde said. “Hoke put together a good act. I swear he walked like a woman-guys notice that stuff. And that soft voice-really sexy.”

They all stared at him. Clyde shrugged. Charlie patted his hand.

“A guy in drag,” Harper said, “slight of build, thin arms, slim hands-a skilled forger and a top-flight computer hacker.”

Hoke, dressed as Pearl Ann, had been picked up in Seattle carrying eight hundred thousand dollars in cash, sewn into the lining of his powder blue skirt and blazer-money he had transferred from Jergen’s accounts to his own accounts in two dozen different names in nine San Francisco banks. It had taken him some time to draw out the money in various forms-cash, bank drafts, cashier’s checks, which he laundered as he traveled from San Francisco to Seattle, where he was picked up. The police had found no witness that Pearl Ann had boarded the San Francisco bus in Molena Point. But they located the car Hoke had rented in Salinas, under the name of William Skeel, after deliberately wrecking Mavity’s VW and dumping Mavity in the alley beside the pawnshop.

“It looks,” Harper said, “as if Jergen had come to suspect Pearl Ann’s identity. As if, the day he died, he had set Hoke up.

“He told everyone he was going up the coast, then doubled back hoping to catch Hoke red-handed copying his files. He parked a few blocks away and slipped into the apartment while Hoke/Pearl Ann was working. The hard files he’d left on his desk were bait-three files of accounts newly opened, with large deposits. All with bogus addresses and names that, so far, we’ve not been able to trace.”

Harper sipped his beer.“Hoke comes up to do the repairs, opens those hard copy files with three new accounts, all with large sums deposited, and he can’t wait to get into the computer. Sends Mavity on an errand, uses Jergen’s code, intending to get the new deposit numbers and transfer the money. We’re guessing that he was about ready to skip, perhaps another few days and he meant to pull out for good.

“But then Jergen walks in on him at the computer. They fight, Hoke stabs him with a screwdriver?” Harper looked around at his audience. “Yes, we found the real murder weapon,” he said gruffly. “Jergen was near death when Hoke stabbed him with the ice tray divider-maybe to lay suspicion on Mavity, to confuse forensics. Or maybe out of rage, simply to tear at Jergen. This is all conjecture, now, but it’s how I piece it together.

“He hears a noise, realizes Mavity has returned, maybe hears her running down the stairs. Goes after her, snatches up one of those loose bricks that were lying along the edge of the patio.” He glanced at Mavity. “And he bops you, Mavity, as you’re trying to get in the car.

“After he loads you in the backseat, he realizes he has the bloody screwdriver. Maybe he’d shoved it in his pocket. He buries it down the hill, with the brick.

“He may have moved the VW then, to get it out of sight. He cleans up and changes clothes, then heads out. Takes his bloody jumpsuit and shoes with him-all we found in the duffle he left was a clean, unused jumpsuit. We may never find the bloody clothes. They’re probably in the bottom of some Dumpster or already dozed into a landfill-the Salinas PD checked the Dumpsters in that whole area around where Hoke wrecked Mavity’s car.

“It’s still dark when he dumps Mavity into the alley by her car and leaves her. He walks to the nearest car rental office, waits until eight when it opens. Gets a car and heads north. He’s left his own car in the storage garage a block from the Davidson Building where he kept it-registered inone of his other names.

“We’d like to find the bloody clothes, but even without them we have plenty to take him to court. The money trail alone is a beauty.”

The FBI computer expert who had come down from San Francisco to trace Cumming’s computer transactions had followed Hoke’s transfers from Jergen’s accounts, using the code words supplied by Harper’s anonymous informer. The Bureau had put out inter-office descriptions of Hoke and of Pearl Ann. Two Bureau agents picked him up at the Seattle airport, in his blue skirt and blazer, when he turned in an Avis rental in the name of Patsy Arlie. He was wearing a curly auburn wig.

“But the strangest part,” Harper continued, watching the little group, “is my finding the screwdriver the way I did, the day after Jergen was killed.”

He had discovered it the next morning when he came down the stairs from Jergen’s apartment after meeting with the Bureau agent. He had been late getting back from Salinas Medical that morning; the agent, using a key supplied by Clyde, was already at work at Jergen’s computer. The weapon was not on the steps when he went up to the apartment, nor did Harper see it when he arrived.

But when they came down, it was lying in plain sight on the steps, flecked with dirt and grass seed.

“When we started looking for where it might have been buried-worked down the hill where the grass was bent and broken and found the loose dirt-and dug there, we found the brick, too. The dirt and grass matched the debris on the screwdriver, and of course the traces of blood on it were Jergen’s.

“It had been wiped hastily, but there were two partial prints, both Hoke’s. Whoever found the weapon,” Harper said, “saved the court considerable time and money, and certainly helped to strengthen our case.”

He knew he should be fully satisfied with the case against Hoke-they had plenty to hang the man-but this business of the screwdriver, of evidence turning up in that peculiar way, gave him heartburn. This was getting to be a pattern, and one he didn’t live with easily.

No cop liked this mysterious stuff, even when the evidence led to a conviction. Unexplainable scenarios were for artists, for fiction writers, for those who dealt in flights of fancy. Not for law enforcement who wanted only hard facts.

The cats, having finished their fish and chips, lay stretched out on the bricks sleepily licking their paws, staring past Harper but watching with their wide vision Harper’s frequent glances in their direction. Dulcie, washing diligently, carefully hid her amused smile. Joe, rolling over away from the police captain, twitched his whiskers in a silent cat laugh.

The morning after the murder, just moments after Wilma deposited an angry Dulcie at Clyde’s house and Wilma and Clyde and Charlie headed for Salinas Medical, Joe and Dulcie had bolted out his cat door and doubled-timed up the hills to the apartments, where they settled down to wait for the FBI investigator. How often did one have a chance to observe a Bureau specialist at work?

Crouching in Jergen’s kitchen, they had watched the thin Bureau agent deftly scrolling through Jergen’s files using the code wordsCairoandTigerthat Dulcie had given to Harper, tracing each money transaction that Hoke/Pearl Ann had hidden. Only when they heard the crackle of a police radio, and a car door slam, did they slip back down between the walls, trotting into the patio in time to see Harper going up the stairs.

Leaving the patio, wandering down the hill to hunt, they had caught Pearl Ann’s jasmine scent and followed it with interest through the tall grass. The trail was fresh, maybe a few hours old, the grass still sharp-scented where it had been trampled.

Where they found the earth disturbed, Pearl Ann’s scent was strong. Digging into the loose soil, they had pawed out the screwdriver, then the brick. The brick smelled of human blood. They recognized the screwdriver as Pearl Ann’s, a long Phillips with a deep nick in the black plastic handle. Gripping the dirt-crusted handle carefully in histeeth, Joe had carried the weapon up the hill and halfway up the stairs, where he laid it on a step in plain sight. They figured, as thorough as Harper was, he’d search for where it had been buried and discover the brick, as well.

But as for the village burglaries committed by Greeley and Azrael, those crimes were another matter. Joe and Dulcie had given Harper no clue.

Maybe Greeley would confess and return the stolen money. If not, the cats still had plenty of time to nail him-Greeley and Mavity would be leaving early in the morning to take the bodies of Dora and Ralph home to Georgia. The funeral had been arranged through the Sleuders’ pastor. Dora and Ralph had been active in their church and would be buried in the church plot they had purchased years before.

Mavity and Greeley would remain in Georgia long enough to sell the Sleuders’ home and belongings, reserving whatever mementos they cared to keep. Whatever moneys of the Sleuders’ might be recovered from Warren Cumming’s hidden accounts would be divided between brother and sister. The moneys proven to be Mavity’s would of course come to her, once the FBI accountants finished tracing each of Jergen’s individual account transactions and Hoke’s transfers.

The cats watched Charlie take the lid off a plastic cup of hot tea, handing it to Mavity.“Will Greeley be taking his cat with you on the plane? It seems?”

“Oh, no,” Mavity said. “He doesn’t need to take it. He’ll come back with me when we’re finished in Georgia-he can get the cat then. He’s flying on one of them elderly coupons, so his fare’s all the same even if he goes home through Molena Point. And a very nice lady, that Ms. Marblewho has the South American shop, she’s going to keep the cat. Why, she was thrilled. Seems she’s very taken with the beast.”

Dulcie and Joe exchanged a look.

“I didn’t think,” Charlie said, “that your brother knew anyone in the village.”

“Greeley went in there because the cat kept going in, made itself right at home. They got to know each other, being as they’ve both lived in Latin America. It’s nice Greeley has found a friend here. Well, she does keep those awful voodoo things?”

Mavity stirred sugar into her tea.“I’m sorry Greeley wouldn’t come with us tonight. Said he just wanted to walk through the village, enjoy the shops one more time. I’ve never known Greeley to be so taken with a place.”

The cats, imagining Greeley gazing casually into one of the village’s exclusive shops while Azrael slipped down through its skylight, rose quickly and, feigning a stretch and a yawn, they beat it out of the patio and across the street, heading fast down the hill.

Watching them, Charlie rose, too, and slipped away.

Standing under the arch, she saw them disappear down the slope, watched their invisible trail shivering the grass as they hurried unseen toward the village.

They had certainly left suddenly.

But they were cats. Cats were filled with sudden whims.

Except, she didn’t think their hasty departure was any whim.

From somewhere below she heard faint voices. The girl’s laugh sounded exactly like the female voice she’d heard the night she watched Joe and Dulcie on the rooftops.

She shook her head, annoyed at her wild imaginings. Molena Point was a small village, one was bound to hear familiar voices-probably from one of the houses below her.

But she felt chilled, light-headed.

Hugging herself to steady her shaken nerves, she was gripped by an insight that, until this moment, she would not have let herself consider.

An insane thought.

But she knew it wasn’t insane.

A footstep scuffed behind her, and Clyde stepped out from the shadows. He put his arm around her, stood hugging her close, the two of them looking down the hills. After a moment, she turned in the moonlight to look squarely at him.

She wanted to say,I’ve suspected for a long time.She wanted to say,Iknow about the cats. I didn’t know how to think about such a thing.

But what if she was wrong?

Leaning her head against his shoulder, she felt giddy, disconnected. She recalled the night she’d walked home from dinner and saw Joe and Dulcie racing across the roofs so beautiful and free-the night she heard those same voices.

And suddenly she began to laugh. She collapsed against Clyde laughing, tears streaming. What if she was right, what if it was true? She couldn’t stop laughing, he had to shake her to make her stop. Holding her shoulders, he looked down at her intently. He said nothing.

After a while, as they stood gazing down the empty hill, he said,“Were you really jealous of Bernine?”

“Who told you that?”

“A friend.” He took her face in his hands. “So foolish-Bernine Sage is all glitz. There’s nothing there, nothing real. She’s nothing like you. What’s to be jealous of?” He kissed her, standing on the moonlit hill, and whispered against her neck, “My friend tells me I’m not romantic enough-that it takes more than a few car repairs to an old VW van to please a lady.”

Charlie smiled and kissed him back. It was a long time later when she said,“Doesn’t your friend know how to mind her own business?”

“Oh, meddling is her business. That’s how she gets her kicks.” He held her tight.

Down the hills, not as far away as Charlie and Clyde imagined, the cats stood rearing among the tall grass, looking up the hill and watching the couple’s hugging silhouette, and they smiled. Humans-so simple. So predictable.

Then Joe dropped down to all fours.“So what will it be? We find Greeley and blow the whistle on those two thieves-and maybe open a real can of worms for Harper? Or we find them, try to talk them out of this one last burglary?”

“Or we let it go?” Dulcie offered. “Let this hand play without us?” She went silent, thinking of dark Azrael: Satan metamorphosed. Beast of evil.

Portender of death? Was he really that-really a voodoo cat? A bearer of dark, twisted fate?

“When we charged out of the patio just now,” Joe said, “hot to nail Greeley-that was a paw-jerk reaction.” He waited to see the effect of his words, his eyes huge and dark in the moonlight.

She said,“I don’t think we can stop them. Why would Greeley listen to us? And if we call the station?”

If Greeley was arrested and went to jail, and Azrael stayed on with Sue Marble, they might never see the last of his criminal proclivity, of his cruel nature.

She studied the village rooftops, the moonlit mosaic of shops and chimneys and oaks, so rich and peaceful. And she thought of Azrael moving in with Ms. Marble and all her voodoo trappings, and she wondered.Wasthere, unknown to Sue, evil power among those idols? A wickedness that Azrael could manipulate?

Joe said,“Greeley’s all that Mavity has. It would break her heart to see him arrested.”

“Maybe they’ll go back to the jungle,” she said, “if we let them go. If we don’t interfere. Maybe they’ll go where they belong-back to the jungle’s dark ways.”

Joe considered this.“Maybe,” he said, and twitched a whisker. “And good riddance toel gato diablo.“He looked down at Dulcie, and winked. And where moonlight washed the tall grass, their silhouettes twined together: one silhouette, purring.

5. CAT TO THE DOGS

1

FOG LAY so thick in Hellhag Canyon that Joe Grey couldn’t see his paws, could barely see the dead wood rat he carried dangling from his sharp teeth. Moving steeply down the wall of the ravine, the tomcat was aware of a boulder or willow scrub only when his whiskers touched something foreign, sending an electrifying jolt through his sleek gray body. The predawn fog was so dense that a human would have barged straight into those obstacles-one more example, Joe Grey thought smugly, of feline senses far keener than human, of the superiority of cat over man.

The fog-shrouded canyon was silent, too, save for the muted hushing of the sea farther down and the occasional whisper from high above of wet tires along the twisting two-lane, where some early-morning driver crept blindly. Joe had no idea why humans drove in this stuff; swift cars and fog were bad news. As he searched for a soft bit of ground on which to enjoy his breakfast, another car approached, moving way too fast toward the wicked double curve, sending a jolt of alarm stabbing through Joe.

The scream of tires filled the canyon.

The skidding car hit the cliff so hard, Joe felt the earth shake. He dropped the wood rat and leaped clear as the car rolled thundering over the edge, its lights exploding against the fog, its bulk falling straight at him, as big as a hunk of the cliff, a mass of hurtling metal that sent him streaking up the canyon wall. It hurtled past, dropping into the ravine exactly where he’d been crouching.

The car lay upside down beneath a dozen young oak trees broken off and fallen across its spinning wheels. The roof and those tons of metal had likely flattened his wood rat into a bloody pancake-so much for his nice warm breakfast.

Where the careening car had disturbed the fog, and the rising wind swirled the mist, he could make out the gigantic form easing deeper into the detritus of the canyon, the car’s metal parts groaning like a dying beast, its death-stink not of escaping body fluids, but the reek of leaking gasoline.

This baby’s going to explode,he thought as he prepared to run.Going to blow sky-high, roast me among these boulders like a rabbit in a stone oven.

But when, after a long wait, no explosion occurred, when the vehicle continued only to creak and moan, he crept warily down the cliff again to have a look

Hunched beneath the wreck’s vast, dark body-its ticking, grease-stinking, hot-breathed body-he looked up at the huge black wheels spinning above him and listened to the bits of glass raining down from the broken windows that were half-hidden among the dry ferns, listened to the big metal carcass settle into its last sleep. He could hear, from within, no human utterance. No groan, no scream of pain or of terror, only the voice of the sea pounding against the cliffs.

Was no one alive in there? He studied the overturned car, listening for a desperate and anguished cry-and wondering what he was going to do about it. Wondering how a poor simple tomcat was going to render any kind of useful assistance.

He had been hunting Hellhag Canyon since midnight, first at the shore, dodging the rolling breakers, and then, when the fog thickened, moving on up the ravine. He had tracked the wood rat blindly, following only the sound of its scrabbling, had struck and killed it before the creature was ever aware of him. But all night he’d been edgy, too, still nervous from the quakes of the last week; the first instant the skidding car hit the hill and shook the earth he’d shivered as if another jolt were rocking the cliffs, rattling the central California coast.

The original temblor, two days earlier, at 5.2 on the Richter scale, had sent the more timid human residents of Molena Point fleeing from their cottages, to creep back hours later hauling out mattresses and camp stoves and setting up housekeeping in their gardens. All week, as the village of Molena Point experienced aftershocks, people were tense and excited, waiting for the big one, for the earth to crack open, for their homes to topple and giant seas to flood the land.

Well, it was only an earthquake, a natural, Godgiven part of life-a cat might be wary, but a cat didn’t lose perspective. Humans, on the other hand, were hopelessly amusing. Facing a natural phenomenon, the poor, gullible bipeds invariably overreacted.

The earthquake had brought two reporters down from San Francisco, searching for anything sensational, seeking out the displaced and injured, running their cameras in a feeding frenzy, their hunger for alarming news as voracious as the hunger of seagulls attacking a handful of fish innards tossed from the Molena Point pier.

But the quake had disturbed the burrowing wild creatures, the mice and wood rats and voles, driving them from their holes, disorienting the little beasts so they were incredibly easy prey. All week, Joe Grey and Dulcie had gorged themselves.

Though Dulcie refused to hunt down Hellhag Canyon. She had lectured him on the dangers of high, rogue waves after an earthquake, and, when he laughed at her fears, she had turned away disgusted, growling and lashing her tabby-striped tail at what she called tomcat stupidity.

Still listening for a cry for help from within the overturned car, Joe could hear only the drip, drip of gasoline, or maybe radiator water; tensely, he circled the vehicle, ears low, body rigid, ready to spring away if the hulking wreck toppled or exploded.

The broken, fallen saplings that lay tangled across the wreck’s greasy, exposed underside half covered the drive shaft and one bent wheel. He found the source of the dripping sound. It came from the left front wheel, where a viscous liquid, a substance as duck as maple syrup, dropped steadily into a pool among the crushed ferns. When he sniffed the little puddle, the stuff smelleda bit like syrup: the stink of pancake syrup laced with ether.

Backing away, he approached the upside-down windshield that rose from the bracken, the glass patterned like a spiderweb encased in crystal. And now, over the smell of gas, came the sharp scent of human blood.

Behind the glass he could see the driver, white and still, his contorted body wrapped around the steering wheel and impaled by a twisted strip of metal, his head jammed down into the concavity of the roof. There was no way this guy could be alive, not with his chest pierced through and the amount of blood pooling out. The passenger seat had come loose and lay across him. He hugged it firmly in a rictus of pain and death.

The victim’s Levi’s-clad backside was jammed against the shattered side window, an edge of broken glass pressed against the billfold that bulged in his hip pocket. The wallet had probably prevented a sharp cut across the buttocks, not that this fellow would have felt it.

There was no passenger. No one else in the car. The young man had died alone. He was maybe thirty, Joe thought. The victim’s pale blue eyes stared at some entity that no one among the living would ever see.

His brown hair was neatly trimmed-a better haircut than Joe’s housemate, Clyde, would ever spring for. The dead man’s bloodstained shirt and torn, camel hair sport coat looked expensive. The scattered items that had fallen onto the inverted headliner included a suede leather cap, a California road map, a Styrofoam coffee cup spilling coffee across the fabric of the headliner, and bits of shattered safety glass decorating the bloody pools and clinging to the dead man’s clothes like diamondbright sparkles for some gory costume party.

The car was a‘67 Corvette, a collector’s car-you saw many antiques around Molena Point. It was pale blue and, until its mishap that morning, looked to have been in mint condition. The sticker on its license plate indicated that it had been purchased from Landrum Antique Cars in L.A. The wrecked windshield was marked by tape residue where a small piece of paper must have been affixed. He could see no tag ripped away or lying on the floor.

Carefully, Joe reached a paw though a hole in the crazed glass. Pushing out some of the rounded jewellike bits, he squeezed his head through, then his muscled gray shoulders, and eased down onto the dead man’s bent knee, his weight shifting the body and startling him; but then the victim settled again and was still.

Pressing his nose uneasily to the young man’s nose, Joe sought some hint of breathing. But even as he crouched he could feel, through his paws, a faint drop in temperature as the body began to cool.

Grimacing at the smells that accompanied human death-very different from the smell of a dead rat-he backed away and crept out again, panting for gulps of fresh air. This stranger’s death unleashed all manner of past associations for Joe Grey: visions of the police working a murder scene as he crouched watching from the roof above; of a dead man bathed in the green light from a computer terminal; of a man struck suddenly with a bright steel wrench, a memory so vivid that Joe heard again the crack of me victim’s skull.

But those deaths had been murders. What he was viewing here was an accident, the result of careless driving on a fog-blind mountain road.

Except that something tickled at him, a puzzled unease, some detail of the crash-something he had heard before the car skidded and came thundering down into the ravine.

Frowning, the white strip down his gray face pinched into puzzled worry lines, the big tomcat padded along a fallen sapling between the upturned wheels.

What had he heard?

Dropping down on the far side of the wrecked car, his mind played back the crash in a quick rerun: the squeal of brakes, then the skid just about where Deadman’s Curve began. Hellhag Hill was famous for that double twist. If a driver lost control on the first bend, he was hard put, when he hit the second one, to regain command. The too-sharp turn was on him, the canyon dropping straight down away from his front wheels. The locals took that road slowly.The warning signs were numerous and insistent-but in the fog a driver wouldn’t see them. Even a local might not realize just where he was on the hairpin road.

Had he heard another sound before the squeal of brakes? Had he heard a horn farther away, muffled in the fog? The faint, quick stutter of a warning horn?

He squinched closed his eyes, trying to remember.

Yes. First a faint triple beep, then the skid and the crash and the car careening down at him-but had that earlier honking come from a second car, or had this driver honked at something looming out of the fog? Had there been one car or two, moving blindly along that narrow road?

He thought he remembered the hush of two sets of tires; but had they been coming from opposite directions? Then the faint stutter of the horn, then the scream of brakes and the heart-jolting thunder as the car came careening over.

The other car must have had gone on. Why hadn’t it stopped? Hadn’t the other driver heard the wreck?

Padding back across a sapling above the car’s greasy innards, Joe studied the right front wheel with its thick discharge. The drip was abating now, only an occasional drop still falling, its viscous pool seeping down into the dead leaves. The same syrupy liquid coated the bent wheel. He crouched to look more closely.

The drip came from a short piece of black hose attached to the wheel and to a metal pipe that ran to the engine. The brake line. Padding back and forth along the sapling, studying each wheel with its corresponding hose, he found it interesting that only this one brake line was broken and leaking.

Living with Clyde Damen, his human housemate and a professional auto mechanic, Joe Grey had grown from kittenhood exposed to the insides of every possible motor-driven vehicle, subjected to endless photographs in automotive magazines and to countless boring articles on the intricacies of car engines; as he drowsed in Clyde’s lap, he was treated to interminable, mind-numbing hours of Clyde’s detailed dissertations on the subtleties of matters mechanical.

He had a clear picture of this car’s master cylinder, empty now where the fluid had drained away.

No brakes when the guy hit that curve. Zilch.Nada.

He found it most interesting that the broken plastic tube was not ragged as if it had worn through naturally, but was separated by a knife-sharp incision, a cut slicing straight through the hose.

He was debating whether to climb the canyon wall and check the skid marks on the road, to try to get a picture of just what had happened up there, when a noise from above made him crouch.

Someone was descending the cliff, moving downward unseen but noisy, crashing through the fog-blurred tangles in a frenzy, rattling bushes and dislodging stones.

Maybe somebody had heard the crash; maybe the other driver was coming to render assistance after all.

Except, this didn’t sound like a man descending. Even a man in a great hurry wouldn’t break so many bushes; a man hurrying down that steep bank would be more collected so that he, himself, wouldn’t fall. This sounded more like a wild creature running and sliding full out, though the sound was so distorted in the fog that he couldn’t really be sure what he was hearing. One minute the approach was loud enough to be a bear, the next instant the noise faded to nothing.

A bear. Right,Joe thought, disgusted. There hadn’t been bears on the California coast for a century. A bobcat? No bobcat would follow and approach a wrecked car; no wild beast would do that. Warily, he leaped onto a boulder, ready to fight or run like hell, whichever the situation suggested.

Straining to see above him through the disturbed patches of water-sodden air, he wondered if it could be a horse.

But a horse, escaped from one of the small local stables, wouldn’t choose, on its own, to descend the rough and fogbound canyon. A horse, breaking through his paddock fence, would prefer the slopes of Hellhag Hill above, where the grass was rich and nourishing.

He was considering that perhaps a local horseman had heard the wreck and saddled up to come and render help, when the beast charged out of the mist-not one creature, but two.

Two huge dogs plunged straight at him. Panting and baying, they leaped up the boulder, scrabbling to reach him. Joe, hissing and snarling, prepared to bloody them both. Their eyes were wild, their white teeth flashing.

The boulder wasn’t large. It protruded out of the cliff in such a way that if the dogs had thought about it, they’d have gone uphill again and jumped straight down on him. But they didn’t think; they were all bark and gnashing teeth, fighting to reach him, their big mouths snapping so close that he could taste their doggy breath. He had raised his steel-tipped paw, ready to rake to ribbons those two invading noses, when he did a double take, studying their thin canine faces.

Joe dropped his armored paw and sat down, watching them, amused.

Puppies.

They were only puppies. Huge puppies, each as big as a full-grown retriever. Big-boned, big-footed pups. And thin. Two bags of canine bones held together by dry, buff-colored pelts, their black-and-white faces so fleshless they appeared skeletal, their whipping tails so skinny they looked like two snakes that had swallowed marbles.

Two oversized puppies, starving and harmless.

They had stopped barking. They grinned up at him, wagging and prancing spraddle-legged around the boulder, their skinny tails whipping enthusiastically.

They had no notion of eating him. Probably they were too young and stupid to imagine that a dog could kill and eat a cat; the idea would not have occurred to them. They simply wanted to be friendly, to be close to another animal. Now that they’d stopped barking, even their doggy smiles were incredibly downtrodden and sad.

They couldn’t be more than four or five months old, but were so emaciated that even the weight of their floppy ears and floppy feet seemed to drag them down.

He wondered if they belonged to the dead driver, if somehow they had managed, as the car went over the cliff, to leap free?

But the crash happened in a split second; they would have had only an instant to escape. These clumsy mutts didn’t look like they could get out of their own way in twenty seconds.

Maybe they’d been following the car, running along behind. Had the driver been running his dogs the way some country folk did, exercising them down the nearly empty highway? Joe sneezed with disgust. Any man who ran his dogs behind a car-to say nothing of starving them bone-thin-deserved a violent death.

He gave them a gentle growl to make them move back and dropped down from the boulder. They backed away two steps, fawning at him, bowing on their front legs and grinning in doggy obeisance. They seemed, actually, like rather nice young pups. Though only youngsters, they were already as big as Rube, Joe’s aged Labrador retriever housemate. And though they were puppy-silly and disgustingly eager, with their stupid baby grins, Joe thought perhaps the expressions in their bright, dark eyes hinted at some possible future intelligence.

He thought they might be half Great Dane, and maybe half boxer. The smaller of the two had the happy-go-lucky grin of a young boxer. Actually, if they were fed properly and groomed, if their faces filled out a bit, and their ribs ceased to protrude, they might become quite handsome-as far as a dog could be handsome.

Too late Joe Grey saw where his thoughts had led him. Saw that he had reacted with no more common sense than a mush-hearted human do-gooder, sucker for a pair of starving mutts-realized that he had actually been wondering where to find these beasts a meal.

Well, he’d been around Clyde too long; Clyde Damen was such a sucker for stray animals.

Not yours truly,Joe Grey thoughtI’m not playing animal rescue for these two bags of bones.

The fact that he himself had been a rescued stray had no bearing on the present situation. This was entirely different. Turning his back on the gamboling pups, he studied the wrecked Corvette, wondering if anyone at all had heard the crash and called the cops. There were no houses near Hellhag Canyon, only the empty hills and, atop Hellhag Hill, to the north, the Moonwatch Trailer Park.

The instant he turned to look at the pups again, they were all over him, slobbering and whining, soaking him with dog spit.

“Stop it! Get off! Get back. Get off me!”

They ducked away, staring at him white-eyed with alarm.

Obviously they had never been spoken to in the English language by one of feline persuasion. Whining and backing, they watched him with such deep suspicion that he had to laugh.

His laugh frightened them further. The poor beasts looked so confused that he ended up reaching out a gentle paw, patting the smaller pup on his huge white foot, then lifting his own sleek gray face to sniff noses.

He knew he was acting stupid, that he was being suckered. Joe Grey, PI, taken in by a pair of flea-bitten, mange-ridden mongrels.

“Get on out of here! Go on back to the highway!”

They cowered away, crestfallen, and Joe turned his attention to the crash victim, peering in at the dead driver, thinking about the severed brake line.

The cops were needed here, the sooner the better.

He studied the twisted dashboard and the dark hole of the sprung-open glove compartment, but could not see a car phone. Where was the driver of the other car? How could he not have heard the crash? Was he clear down the coast by this time?

Behind Joe, the pups began a cacophony of heartrending whines. Joe ignored them. Whoever had cut the brake line must have known approximately how long it would take the brakes to fail. The car could not have skidded at a more dangerous spot. He pictured the driver hitting his brakes on the first curve, forcing out the last of the fluid, emptying the line, rendering the brake pedal useless when he hit the second twist.

He didn’t know the dead driver, though he knew by sight nearly everyone in Molena Point. Peering in at the man’s unsettling blue eyes, at his waxen face streaked with blood, he wondered where this guy had last stopped, maybe to get gas? Maybe the brake line had been cut then?

Letting his imagination go to work on the scene, he wondered if that other driver had been following the Corvette, waiting to startle the driver with sudden honking and make him hit his brakes at just the right moment, waiting to be sure the driver went out of control and careened over the cliff, beforehewent on his way.

That faint honking and the squeal of brakes formed, for Joe Grey, a frightening scenario.

Leaving the wreck, he bounded up the canyon wall, trying to ignore the whining pups, who clambered up beside him, stepping on his paws. If he’d had a tail-more than just a two-inch stub-the mutts would have stepped on it, too. He hadn’t been troubled with that appendage since he was a gangling kit. The drunk who stepped on and broke his tailhad,in that moment of careless cruelty, really done him a good turn. Life without a tail to get caught in doors and pulled by small children suited Joe Grey just fine.

Before the three animals reached the narrow road that wound precariously a hundred feet above the sea, Joe Grey knew, and the pups knew, that they were not alone. An unseen man stood silently somewhere on the opposite canyon wall-they could smell his heavily perfumed shaving lotion, and a whiff of shoe polish. Sniffing the scents that seeped through the mist, the pups cowered silently against Joe Grey; and Joe himself crouched low against the bushes, looking.

He waited for some time, but even though the fog was thinning above him along the road it was pea soup in the canyon. He could see nothing. The tiny sounds he heard from below, the small crackle of a twig or a dry leaf, could be a person moving around the wrecked car or it could be only a ground squirrel or another wood rat, venturing out to investigate the metal monster that had fallen into their canyon.

When nothing larger stirred, when he could detect in the mist no one climbing back up the cliff, he leaped impatiently up to the narrow two-lane to search the wet black macadam for tire marks.

2 [????????: pic_3.jpg]

IT’S GOING to be hard to dump these mutts,Joe Grey thought. They clung to him like road tar. When he tried to drive them back into the ravine they nearly smothered him with slurping kisses. Even his lancing claws no longer deterred them. They licked their noses where he’d slapped them and bouncedaround him like a pair of wind-up toys, fawning and trampling him, grinning with the delighted assumption that he was their dearest friend; they were so stupid and innocent that even if he could have ditched them and made his escape, something within Joe rebelled. He knew he couldn’t abandon them; puppies and young dogs have no more notion of how to find food for themselves than does a human baby.

Well, he’d take them home to Clyde. Let Clyde deal with the problem. Clyde would love the stupid mutts. And maybe they’d cheer up old Rube. Rube had been mourning the death of Barney, their golden retriever who had succumbed to cancer, for far too long.

So, okay, he’d take them home. But did they have to make such a scene? By the time he reached the road above Hellhag Canyon his fur was sopping from their affection.

Atop the cliff, the sea breeze came stronger, lifting and thinning the mist. The narrow two-lane, clearing of fog, glistened wet and black. In the watery sunshine, the pups looked even more skeletal, every rib casting a curved shadow, their cheeks so deeply sunken that he could see each indentation of their canine skulls. Turning his back on them, he studied the slick black road.

Where the car had gone over the edge, the earthen shoulder was scarred raw, rocks tumbled, bushes broken and uprooted. Trotting along the verge watching for the man they had scented below, for a stranger to suddenly appear climbing out of the canyon, Joe could find no skid marks on the dark macadam. It looked, just as Joe had guessed, as if the driver, when his car hit the second curve, had no brakes at all.

Examining the wet paving, he found several splatters of brake fluid pooled like oil. He had to drive the pups away, cuffing and slapping them to keep them from licking the spills. He didn’t know if brake fluid was poisonous like radiator coolant, but he didn’t care to find out. It was not until he trotted around the second bend that he smelled burnt rubber.

Before him, Sshaped trails snaked across the asphalt, and a larger puddle of brake fluid gleamed. Joe imagined the driver stamping repeatedly on the pedal, trying to slow, the fluid spurting out until it was gone.

Pumping the pedal, jerking the wheel, he’d have hit that second curve like a missile, the car swerving back and forth, gaining speed on the downhill, hitting the shoulder to plow up half a ton of dirt and flip a double gainer straight into Hellhag Canyon.

He could find no sign of the second car, no trace of a second set of skid marks.

He wondered if the driver had braked suddenly to avoid not an oncoming car but the pups themselves looming in the fog.

Except, the horn had honkedbeforethe skid, not at the same moment, as one would expect if the driver were startled by the sudden appearance of animals in his headlights.

Crossing the road, Joe headed up Hellhag Hill through the tall, wet grass. He was halfway to the crest when he realized the pups had left him.

Rearing above the wild oats and barley, he saw them far below, creeping along the edge of the highway, staring up the hill white-eyed and quivering.

Joe didn’t know what was wrong with them; something on the hill terrified them. He stood tall on his hind paws, observing them, smiling a sly cat grin.

Now would be the perfect time to ditch them. Take off across Hellhag Hill and leave them cowering down there.

A practical voice told him,Lose them, Joe. Lose the silly mutts now, while they’re distracted. You’d be stupid to take them home, they’re sure to have mange, fleas, ringworm. They’ll give it to the household cats and to poor Rube, and he’s too old to fight a case of mange. Dump them. Dump them here. Now. Do it now.

But a kinder voice whispered,Come on, Joe. Have a heart. Clyde can take them to the pound, where they’ll be fed and safe, not running along the highway. Even a dog deserves a little compassion.

Ditch them. They’ll learn to fend for themselves, live out of garbage cans. There’s that trailer park up Hellhag Hill; some dumb human will feed them.

And above this internal argument, he kept wondering about the dead man, and about the unseen stranger in the canyon, wondering where he had come from, and why he didn’t hike on into the village and report the wreck. Joe hadn’t seen the guy come up out of the canyon.

He wondered how long before someone else would come along the road, notice the torn-up shoulder, take a look down into the canyon, and call 911. Get the cops and a wrecker down there. Meanwhile, below him on the road, the pups crept along shivering with fear. Poor dumb beasts.

Well, he’d take them home. Clyde would love them. They’d give him something to do: he’d feed them, get them in shape, have them vetted, walk them and bathe them, worm them, fawn over them. Find homes for them. He’d be so proud when they were sleek and had collars and homes of their own.

Right. And when did Clyde ever give away an animal? He won’t find homes for them. He’ll keep the beasts. You and Rube and the household cats will be sharing your nice peaceful pad with a pair of wild-mannered elephants. Think of poor Rube, he?

Sirens screamed from the village, and a rescue unit appeared around the farthest curve, moving fast and followed by a black-and-white. The pups stared around wildly and fled into the drainage ditch, but when a second police unit came scorching toward them, the pups chose the lesser of two evils and bolted up the hill to cower whimpering against Joe.

Joe couldn’t see much with the pups milling around. He glimpsed four officers disappearing down the hill: he thought it was Wendell, Brennan, Davis, and Hendricks, following two paramedics with their stretchers and black bags. He could hear the officers’ muffled voices mixed with the crackle of the police radio. The fog had broken into wispy scarves; now, beyond the cliff, the vast sweep of the Pacific Ocean gleamed up at him in the sun’s first rays, the white surf crashing against the rocks. Off to the north, the red rooftops of the village caught the sun’s light, too, and he could hear the distant, thin chime of the courthouse clock striking seven. The morning smelled of sea and iodine, and of coffee and frying sausages mixed, nearer at hand, with the pungent stink of wet dog. When, somewhere on the village streets, a little boy shouted, the pups cocked their floppy ears, whining and panting. Their eager innocence touched something tender in Joe Grey. “You poor, dumb puppies. So damn lonely.”

They slobbered and drooled on him, so starved for affection that they made a cat barf. Gently he stroked their wet black noses with his velveted paw.

If Clyde takes them to the pound, they’ll be locked in a cage.

They’ll be fine in a cage; dogs have nothing like a cat’s burning need for freedom, they’ll thrive in a nice warm kennel. Dogs love structure. Look at police trackers, always on leash or on command.

But his other voice said,Pound dogs are gassed, Joe. Euthanized. Sent west.

Ignoring both voices, he moved swiftly toward home, the pups pressing so close that their legs were like a moving forest through which he had to navigate. He wondered, would the cops examine the wreck carefully enough to find the leaky brake line? Lieutenants Brennan and Wendell might very well miss that damning bit of evidence; Wendell had just recently made lieutenant, but he was better with street crime than with the subleties of a possible murder scene.

But the new female officer, Davis, was thorough. Joe had watched these uniforms work a crime scene so often that he felt like part of the force.

The trouble was, they didn’t know this was a crime scene. It looked like an accident that could too easily have happened in this early, foggy dawn.

Now, with the road quiet again, the pups left him, racing down the hill and glancing worriedly behind them.

“Get back up here, get off the road. The ambulance will be coming back. What’s with you two? What are you afraid of?”

They stared up at him, whining.

“Come on, dummies. Get up here. There’s nothing here to scare you, nothing but maybe a stray cat in the grass.” Nothing but a few rats and ground squirrels, and the half dozen stray cats that had taken up residence some days before, following the quakes, appearing suddenly, a clowder of thin,wild beasts so fearful they would run from a bird shadow swooping overhead. No pup could be afraid of them. Dulcie said humans who abandoned cats ought to be stripped naked and dropped without food-without money and credit cards-in the icy wilds of Tierra del Fuego, and see how they liked being abandoned.

Joe thought those cats had probably come from the trailer park, a transient human community of the less-affluent snowbirds who trekked out to California in the winter to escape the blizzards of the Midwest. Usually those people, if they brought pets along, took care of their animals, but once in a while you got some lowlifes.

But Dulcie said these cats were too terrified of humans to have ever lived with people. She thought they were feral cats, the products of several generations of strays, gone as wild as foxes.

He wondered what Dulcie would say about his dragging home the pups.

He could just see her green eyes blazing with amazement.Puppies, Joe? These aren’t puppies, they’re monsters.

Dulcie was not afraid of dogs-she could intimidate any dog in Molena Point and often did-but after their recent encounter with the black voodoo cat, she’d had enough of involvement with any fellow creature. And just then, having appropriated Clyde’s backyard for her own purposes, she’d take a dim view of two giant puppies plunging around barking and whining and getting in her way.

For two weeks she had spent every daylight hour-it seemed to Joe-and most of her evenings, crouched atop Clyde’s back fence within a mass of concealing maple leaves, peering into the windows of the Greenlaw mansion, which stood on the big double lot behind Clyde’s cottage. Clyde called Dulcie’s preoccupation,eavesdropping;he told her she’d grown unspeakably nosy even for a cat. But Dulcie, staring in through Lucinda Greenlaw’s lace curtains, was convinced that something in the old Victorian house wasn’t right.

“Of course something isn’t right,” Clyde had snapped at her. “Lucinda’s husband just died. Lucinda’s suddenly a widow. Of course life isn’t right-don’t you think she’s grieving! Cats can be so unfeeling!”

“Why would she grieve?” Dulcie had hissed, her ears tight to her head, her green eyes fiery. “Shamas Greenlaw was nothing but a womanizer. Going off for weeks, leaving Lucinda with practically no money while he took his expensive trips, and every time with a different bimbo. Why would she grieve! She’s lucky to be rid of him.”

Dulcie didn’t hold with the shades-of-gray school of moral behavior. Shamas Greenlaw had been sampling the herd, and Dulcie called it like it was.

Shamas had been dead for two weeks, drowned in a boating accident off Seattle-leaving his current squeeze on the boat with Shamas’s nephew, Newlon Greenlaw; Shamas’s cousin, Samuel Fulman; and Winnie and George Chambers, an older Molena Point couple. Probably, Dulcie said, leaving the girlfriend deeply grieving as she contemplated an end to the money Shamas had lavished upon her.

“Anyway,” she’d told Clyde, “Lucinda is doing more than grieving. Something else is the matter.”

“And how did you arrive at this very perceptive conclusion?”

“You don’t need to be sarcastic,” the little cat had hissed. “AndI don’t need to listen! If you’re not interested in my opinion, Clyde Damen, then stuff it. I don’t need to come in here and be insulted. I have my own home, which is far nicer and more pleasant than this bachelor horror.” And she had stormed out through Joe’s cat door and up the street, her striped tail lashing.

Joe had looked after her, grinning. But Clyde had sat at the kitchen table cradling his cold coffee, scowling and hurt; looking, that early morning, like a particularly unfortunate example of homelessness, a soul in need of extensive assistance, his short, dark hair sticking up every which way, his ancient jogging shorts threadbare and wrinkled, his sweatshirt sporting three holes where it had gotten caught in the washer. His expression, as he stared after Dulcie, was one of deep puzzlement.

Clyde could mouth off at Joe, and get just what he gave, and that was okay. But he didn’t know how to respond when sweet little Dulcie snapped back at him.

It had taken Dulcie a long time, after she and Joe found they could speak, before she would talk to Clyde. Then, there had been a far longer interval of mutual good manners between cat and human, before Dulcie had the chutzpah to return Clyde’s smart-mouthed remarks in kind.

Now, leaving the jungle-tall grass of Hellhag Hill, Joe called the pups to him for the last time as he crossed a narrow residential street, heading back among humans. He would not raise his voice again to give them a command until he was sheltered within his own walls. The pups bolted up to him, wagging and panting, happy to leave the wild slope.

“Idiots,” he muttered. But maybe he understood their fear; sometimes when he crossed Hellhag Hill, the fur along his own back stood up as rigid as a punk haircut.

Joe didn’t know what caused his unease, but once when he was hunting high atop Hellhag Hill, he’d imagined he heard voices beneath the earth, and that same night he’d dreamed that Hellhag Hill vanished from under his paws, the earth falling away suddenly into a black and bottomless cavern.

He had awakened mewling with fear, as frightened as a helpless kitten.

Ahead of him, one of the puppies stopped, sat down on the sidewalk, and began to scratch. The other pup copied him, nibbling at an itchy tail-causing Joe to itch all over, to imagine himself already flea-ridden, covered with hungry little freeloaders glad to move to fatter environs, parent and grandparent and baby fleas burrowing deep into his clean silver fur.

Hurrying through the village beside the pups, he saw the coroner’s car heading out toward Highway One, and he wondered what the slim, bespectacled Dr. Bern would find. Around him, the village seemed very welcoming suddenly, very safe, the familiar little cottages tucked in among their old, twisted oaks and tall pines. Over the smell of sun-warmed geraniums came the lingering scents of bacon and pancakes and syrup.

Trotting past Molena Point’s bright, tangled gardens and crowded shops, Joe was suddenly very thankful for this village. He would never admit that to Clyde, would never hint to Clyde how much he cherished Molena Point. Would never confess how glad he was to be away from the mean streets of San Francisco-an ignorant kittentrying to cadge a few bites of garbage, hiding from the bigger cats, always afraid, and cold, and mad at the world.

Suddenly, right now, Joe needed to be home. In his own safe, warm home.

Galloping eagerly in the direction of his cozy pad, he dodged the pups, who ran along grinning and panting as if their own salvation were surely near. Joe, racing up the sidewalk through blowing leaves and flashes of sunlight, wondered again: had those uniforms, up at Hellhag Canyon, seen the cut brake line?

Police Captain Max Harper needed to know about it, to know that that wreck had been no accident.

Turning down the little side street toward his and Clyde’s white Cape Cod cottage, running beneath its sheltering oaks toward the ragged lawn that Clyde seldom mowed, and the gray shake roof that constantly needed fixing-repairs supplied by Clyde’s girlfriend, Charlie Getz-Joe breathed in the comforting, warm smells of home.

But crossing the yard, eyeing Clyde’s antique Chevy roadster still parked in the drive, knowing Clyde had not yet left for work, he began to wonder what Clydewasgoing to say about bringing the two puppies home.

And he wondered if, when he tried to get a message to Max Harper about the cut brake line, Clyde would respond in his usual supercritical manner-if Clyde would hide the telephone and give him another of his high-handed lectures about how cats should not get involved in police business. How he, Joe Grey, ought to mind his own simple affairs. How Max Harper needed to pursue his official police business unencumbered by inappropriate feline meddling.

3 [????????: pic_4.jpg]

TROTTING UP the three steps to his cat door, Joe could smell coffee and fried eggs mixed with the meaty scent of dog food. He slid inside fast, under the plastic flap. Behind him, the pups pushed their black noses through-two wet, disembodied snouts sniffing and shoving, forcing his cat door so hard he thought they’d rip out the metal frame.

The familiar room embraced him: the shabby, soft rugs; his own tattered, fur-covered armchair by the window; Clyde’s new leather chair and ottoman, which were the latest additions to the room; the potted plants that Charlie had brought over to soften the stark bachelor quarters. And, best of all, Charlie’s drawings of Joe and Dulcie, and of Rube and the household cats, handsomely framed and grouped on all four walls. These finer touches had turned the tatty room into a retreat with charm enough to please any human or feline. If Clyde ever married, Joe hoped tall, slim Charlie Getz, with her kinky red hair and freckles, would be the one. The fact that she could fix the roof and repair the plumbing, aswell as decorate a house and cook a mean steak, was a definite plus.

Charlie had figured out on her own that Joe Grey and Dulcie were more than your average cats. But she had kept her mouth shut, and this was more than a plus. In Joe’s book, Charlie Getz was already family.

Though so far there was no talk of a wedding. Charlie seemed happy in her own small studio apartment above the village shops, from which she ran her housecleaning-and-repair business.

“Joe? That you? What’s going on out there? What’s all the banging? You stuck in your cat door? I told you you’re getting fat.”

At the sound of a human voice, the pups went wild, pawing and whining.

“Shut up!” Joe hissed. “You want to get your heads stuck in that little square hole? Idiots!” He was rooting at his back to dislodge a flea-thanks to the strays-when Clyde strode out of the kitchen and stood looking at the two black noses pushing in through the cat door.

Joe concentrated on licking his shoulder.

“Now what’ve you brought home?”

“What do you mean,now}What have I ever brought home? I didn’t bringthosehome.” He regarded the noses as if he had never seen them before.

“You have brought home dead rats,” Clyde began. “Dead birds. That live bird that plastered its feathers all over the kitchen. Live snakes. Not to mention a parade of randy and ill-mannered lady cats. Before you met Dulcie, of course.”

“Dulcie is a lady.”

“Don’t twist my words.”

“Are you implying that Dulcie is not a lady? Or that she is not welcome?”

“I am not talking about Dulcie. You have brought home enough trouble through that cat door to send me to the funny farm for life. There’s never a week, Joe, that you don’t get into some kind of new predicament and drag your problems home. Do you see these gray hairs?” he asked, pointing to his ragged, dark haircut.

“Debauchery,” Joe told him. “That’s what makes gray hair. Too many women and too much booze. That’s where the gray hairs come from.”

“I guess you should know about debauchery, every hair on your lecherous body is gray. Before Dulcie, you?”

“Can’t you leave Dulcie out of this? What do you have against Dulcie?”

“I don’t have anything against Dulcie. If you had half her decent manners-to say nothing of her morals and charm and half her finesse-life would?”

“Oh, can it, Clyde. Dulcie’s a female. You wantmeto act all prissy, tippy-toe in here every morning smelling of kitty shampoo and primrose-scented flea powder?”

Clyde sighed and retrieved his coffee cup from atop the CD player. He was dressed for work in a pair of clean jeans, his new Rockports, and a red polo shirt beneath a white lab coat that, this early in the morning, was still unsullied by the grease from a variety of BMWs and Jaguars. His dark hair was damp from the shower, his cheeks still ruddy from shaving.

Clyde regarded the two large canine noses, then regarded Joe.“You’d better tell me what this is about.

But please, make it brief. Cut to the chase, Joe. It’s too early for a long-winded dissertation.”

Joe chomped the offending flea. The one-spot flea killer was okay, but it took the little beasts a while to die.

“Joe, where did you find the dogs? Why did you bring home two dogs? From the size of their noses, I assume they are rather large. From the sound of them and their behavior, I imagine that they are young. What are they, Great Danes? Are there more outside? What did you do, drag home a whole litter?

“I did not bring them home!There are only two. I think they’re half Great Dane.”

“They followed you by accident. You really didn’t know they were there.” Sighing, Clyde stepped to the front door.

The instant he turned the knob releasing the latch, the pair burst through, in their enthusiasm slamming the door against Clyde and slamming Clyde against the wall.

Dancing around the living room like two drunk buffalo in a phone booth, the pups leaped at Clyde, delighted to meet him, ripped his lab coat across his chest, and slurped dog spit across his face.

Joe, having fled to the top of the CD player, watched their happy display with interest.

“They’re hungry, Joe. Look at them, they’re all bones. They need food. Can’t you see they’re starving?” Clyde knelt to hug the monster puppies, his voice softening to a patter of pet words that sickened the tomcat.

“They can’t be five months old.” He looked up at Joe. “They’re going to be huge. Where did they come from? Where did you find them? Well, you could at least have found some food for them-”

“Caught them a rabbit, I suppose?”

“Well, yes, you could have done that.”

“And give them tularemia? Pierce their livers with rabbit bones?”

Clyde rose and headed for the kitchen, trampled by the fawning pups.“You don’t have tularemia. Your liver seems okay.”

“I’m a cat. Cats don’t get tularemia. My liver can handle anything. They’re here only because they followed me, because I couldn’t ditch them. There was a wreck-”

“They’re probably thirsty, too. Look at them. You could have led them to some water.”

“I’m trying to tell you, there was a wreck. The cops are there now. If you would listen?”

Clyde lifted the loose skin on one pup’s neck and let it go. It didn’t snap back, but remained in a long wrinkle. “They’re dehydrated, Joe.”

He filled the dishpan with water and set it on the floor.

“Will you listen to me! There was a wreck. A car went into Hellhag Canyon,” Joe shouted over the racket of the two pups slurping and splashing. “The guy lost his brakes-nice ‘67 Corvette-powder blue-totally trashed it.”

“Really?” Clyde said with more interest. “A Corvette. I haven’t seen a ‘67 Corvette around the village in a long time. Was the driver someone we know? How bad was he hurt? Are the police there?”

“They’re there. But if they don’t look at the brake line?”

Clyde turned to stare at him.“What?”

“The brake line. It was cut. If the cops-”

“Don’t start, Joe.”

“Start what?”

“You know what. Meddling. Don’t start meddling. You always think-”

“If they don’t look closely at the brake line,” Joe said patiently, “they might not see it was cut.”

Clyde sighed.

“Sharp slice. Near the right front wheel. The brake fluid-”

“Joe—”

“Brake fluid all over the road.”

“If itwas cut, Harper’s men will find it. Don’t you think they know their job? Can’t you keep out of anything? You bring home two starving puppies, you don’t bother to find water for them, and then you-”

“And you,” Joe shouted, “you don’t stop to wonder where they came from, you just bang open the front door and invite them right on in when they’re probably full of ringworm and mange.”

“Ididn’t bring them home.”

“And now you won’t listen when I try to tell you something important.”

During this exchange, old Rube had risen from the kitchen linoleum and taken his aged black Labrador body into the laundry. Lying on the bottom bunk, he growled at the pups with a menace that drove them back into the adjoining kitchen.

The bottom half of the two-tiered bunk belonged to Rube, the top half to the cats. From there, the white cat peered down suspiciously. The other two household cats had fled out Rube’s dog door to hide in the backyard; they were used to quiet dogs but didn’t take happily to big boisterous puppies.

The pups, abandoning Rube and his uncertain temper, returned all their attention to Clyde, their forepaws on the kitchen table, barking in his face.

Clyde opened the lower cupboard and hauled out a fifty-pound bag of kibble.

“Don’t feed them too much. You’ll make them sick.”

“They’re starving, Joe.”

“Feed them too much and they’ll throw it all up.”

“Don’t be silly. They’ll only eat what they need.”

Joe headed for the bedroom, where he could find some privacy with the telephone. He had started to paw in the number of the police station when Clyde strode in and unplugged the cord.

Joe stared at him.

“Leave it, Joe. Those guys don’t need your help to find a cut brake line.”

“And if they miss it?”

“I’ll find out from Harper.”

Silence from the kitchen. The puppies had stopped chomping and smacking. Joe could hear them licking up the last crumbs, then heard them drinking again. Clyde said,“How many people in the car? Are you sure it was a ‘67 Corvette?”

“Of course I’m sure. I’ve been force-fed on your antique car trivia most of my natural fife. I know a ‘67 Corvette as well as I know the back of my paw. There was just the driver. Dead on impact. Maybe from multiple contusions, maybe from a strip of metal stabbed through him, maybe a combination. A man I’ve never seen. Went over just at that double curve, driving south. Lost most of the fluid before the second curve. I was hunting down in the canyon, heard a skid, and that baby came over the bank like a bomb dumped from a B-27, fell right at me. If I wasn’t so lightning fast, it would have creamed me.” He gave Clyde a yellow-eyed scowl. “That car could have killed a poor little cat, careening down into that gully, and what would you care?”

“You look all right to me. You shouldn’t have been hunting in Hellhag Canyon. You know how the tides come up.”

“That’s typical. I’m nearly killed, and all you can do is find fault.”

Two wrenching, gurgling heaves from the kitchen silenced them.

They returned to face two huge piles of doggy kibble steaming on the kitchen floor. The pups, having disgorged the contents of their stomachs, began to bark at the mess and then to lick it. Clyde shouted at them, swinging the kibble bag; the smaller pup, startled, yipped as though he’d been struck. Both pups raced around the kitchen barking. Clyde, trying to clean up the mess, yelled and swore to drive them out of his way. Joe, nearly trampled, leaped to the sink and let out a bloodcurdling yowl.

“Put leashes on them, Clyde. Take them out to the car. Take them to the pound-that’s why I brought them home! So you could take them to the pound!”

This wasn’t completely true, but he’d lost all patience. Couldn’t Clyde handle two baby dogs? “Take them to the pound, Clyde.”

“Don’t be stupid! They’ll kill them at the pound! Why would you bring them home and then?”

“The pound will find homes for them!I brought them home so you could drive them out there. You didn’t expect me to walk way out there dragging those two? Expect me to jump up on the counter at the animal shelter and fill out the proper forms? Sometimes, Clyde, you don’t show good sense even for a human!”

Clyde stared at him. The pups stopped barking and stared, too, their tails whipping and wagging.

Joe Grey, glaring at all three, leaped fromthecounter over the pups’ heads and scorched out the dog door. He was crouched to bolt over the gate and go find a phone, when he saw Dulcie trotting swiftly along the back fence toward him, her green eyes wide with interest, her peach-tinted ears sharply forward, her whole being keen with curiosity.

4 [????????: pic_5.jpg]

CROUCHED ON the back fence, Dulcie had started at the sudden barking from Clyde’s house behind her. Sounded like he had a kennel full of dogs in there-big, lively dogs, shouting with canine idiocy. Probably someone visiting had brought their mutts along, and Clyde was making a fuss over them, teasing and playing with them. He could be such a fool over an animal; that was what she loved best about him.

At first when she discovered her talent for human speech, she had been wary of Clyde, wouldn’t talk to him. She’d left that to Joe, who had awakened from simple cathood into their amazing metamorphosis at about the same time. From the beginning, Joe had mouthed off to Clyde and argued with him, while she had hidden her new talents, too shy even to tell Wilma.

Oh, that morning when Wilma found out. When, sitting on Wilma’s lap at the breakfast table secretly reading the newspaper right along with her, that instant when she laughed out loud at a really stupid book review, she thought Wilma was going to have a coronary.

Dulcie had been worrying about how to break her amazing news; she hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that. But suddenly the cat was out of the bag, so to speak. And afterward, trying to explain to Wilmahowit had happened, that she didn’tknowhow it had happened, trying to explain how wonderful it was to understand human speech, oh, that had been some morning, the two of them trying to get it all sorted out, Wilma laughing, and crying a little, too, and hugging Dulcie.

Of course one couldn’t sort out such a phenomenon; one doesn’t dissect miracles. The closest she and Wilma could come-or that Wilma could-was to head for the library and dive into a tangle of research. Wilma and Clyde together had dug through tomes of history about cats, through Celtic and Egyptian history and myth. When they surfaced with their notes, the implications had swept Dulcie away.

Suddenly her head was filled with ancient folklore interlocked with human history, with the mysterious Tuatha folk who had slipped up from the netherworld into the green Celtic fields through doors carved into the ancient hills. There were doors with cat faces engraved on them, sometimes in a tomb, sometimes in a garden wall. Doors that implied feline powers and led deep into the earth, into another land.

Wilma’s research had led Dulcie to Set and Bast, to Egyptian cat mummies and Egyptian tombs with small, cat-decorated doors deep within. From the instant she first realized that she could understand human language, could speak and read the morning paper, then realized there were books about cats like her and Joe, the entire world had opened up, her curiosity, her imagination, her very spirit expanded like a butterfly released from its cocoon.

But Joe Grey hadn’t been so charmed; he didn’t like those revelations of their own history, he didn’t like thinking about their amazing lineage. It was enough for Joe that he was suddenly able to talk back to Clyde and express his own opinions, and could knock the phone from its cradle, to order takeout.

Nor was Joe thrilled to encounter others like themselves, rare creatures among the world of cats. He had certainly not been impressed with the black torn and his evil voodoo ways. That cat had caused more trouble than she cared to remember; she could have done without Azrael. She was glad he’d gone back to the jungles of Central America.

She had spent the early morning perched as usual on Clyde’s back fence beneath the concealing branches of Clyde’s maple tree, her dark stripes blending with the maple’s leafy shadows as she watched Lucinda Greenlaw, alone in the parlor, enjoying her solitary breakfast. Looking in through the lace curtains of the old Victorian house, Dulcie felt a deep, sympathetic closeness to the thin, frail widow.

She thought it strange that Lucinda’s tall old house was so shabby and neglected, its roof shingles curled, its gray paint peeling, when the Greenlaws were far from poor. At least when Shamas was alive, they’d had plenty of cash.

The interior was faded, too, the colors of the flowered wallpaper and the ornate furniture dulled by dust and time. But still the room was charming, furnished with delicate mahogany and cherry pieces upholstered in fine though faded tapestries. Each morning Lucinda took her breakfast alone there from a tray before a cheerful fire; her meager meal, of tea steeped in a thin porcelain pot and a plate of sugar cookies, seemed as pale and without substance as the old woman herself.

According to the pictures on the mantel of Lucinda and Shamas in their younger days, she had been a beauty, as tall and lovely and well turned out as any modern-day model; but now she was bone thin, shrunken, and as delicate as parchment.

Lucinda Greenlaw had had her own metamorphosis, Dulcie thought. From glamorous social creature when she was younger, into a neglected and lonely wife. From the vibrant, very alive person she had been, as Dulcie’s friend Wilma had known her, to a faded and uncertain little person as colorless as the fog that drifted, that morning, in wisps around the parlor windows. Watching Lucinda Greenlaw, Dulcie was gripped with a painful sadness for her; Lucinda had a talent for distressing Dulcie, for stirring in her a desire to protect, almost to mother the old woman.

Dulcie’s housemate responded to Lucinda in the same way. Wilma, too, felt the need to protect Lucinda, particularly now that Lucinda was newly widowed, and now that she had a houseful of her husband’s noisy, rude relatives to bedevil her. A crowd of big, overbearing Greenlaws filled the five bedroomsawaiting Shamas’s funeral, so many big men and women that they seemed to smother Lucinda with their loud arguing and careless manners.

Still, Lucinda knew how to find her own peace. She simply walked away, left the house. She might look frail, but Lucinda had been out as usual that morning before daylight for a solitary ramble of, very likely, several miles.

Earlier, as Dulcie leaped to the fence through the dark fog, she had seen Lucinda coming up the street returning home, her short white hair clinging in damp curls, her faded blue eyes bright and happy in the chill predawn.

Since Shamas’s relatives began to arrive, these early-morning walks and her solitary breakfasts seemed the only moments Lucinda had to herself. Dulcie watched her often, sometimes late at night, too, from higher in the maple tree, watched Lucinda reading in bed from a stack of well-used volumes that stood onher night table; her books of European history and folklore were all Lucinda had to keep her company, alone in the big double bed. She seemed to have every volume of Sir Arthur Bryant, who was one of Wilma’s favorite authors, too.

Lucinda’s beautifully appointed bedchamber, with its high poster bed and long, gold-framed mirrors, was faded like the rest of the house, the velvets as colorless as Lucinda herself, the once luxurious love chamber deteriorated as if love itself was forgotten, and only sadness remained.

Wilma said Lucinda had been a late bride, that she had met Shamas Greenlaw when she was working in Seattle as a doctor’s receptionist. They had married there, where Shamas owned a machine-tool company. Soon after the wedding he sold his Seattle apartment and they moved to Molena Point, to his old family home. Wilma said the handsome, charming couple had launched immediately into a busy social life, that for nearly five years they had circled brightly among Molena Point’s parties and social gatherings, its gallery openings and benefits and small concerts. But then Shamas grew restless; the limited society of the small village began to bore him.

He bought a yacht, a sixty-foot catamaran in which they could take their friends on interesting junkets. Money seemed in ample supply-both Lucinda and Shamas had new cars every year. Surely the clothes in the photographs on the mantel looked expensive. The yacht parties, Dulcie thought, must have been happy times-until Shamas’s shipboard affairs became apparent.

Lucinda shared her uncomfortable memories with few people, but she trusted Wilma. Dulcie’s housemate and Lucinda saw a good deal of each other, particularly since Shamas’s death. The last two weeks Wilma had made every effort to be supportive, to help Lucinda through this hard time. During their quiet meals together, Lucinda had opened up to Wilma, expressing her pain at the unhappy marriage, describing how, on the yacht, Shamas would slip out of their cabin in the small hours, returning just before dawn, imagining that she slept.

Lucinda had never confronted Shamas, had never protested his affairs. She simply quit going with him, choosing to stay home alone.

“Giving up,” Dulcie told Wilma. Wilma agreed. That was what made Dulcie sad. “Why didn’t she fight back? Why didn’t she leave him, change her life, make a new life?” Dulcie had hissed. “She just gave in-to exactly what Shamas handed her.”

Dulcie didn’t understand why Shamas hadn’t loved Lucinda, had treated her so shabbily when she had been so beautiful, when she had such a gentle warmth. Lucinda was still beautiful to Dulcie, like an aged porcelain doll, so frail one would not want to press a paw hard against the old lady’s cheek for fear of tearing her fine, powdery skin, so delicate that Dulcie would hesitate to leap hard into Lucinda’s lap, for fear she might fracture a bone.

Yet Lucinda was not too frail to walk miles along the shore each morning or to climb the steep slope of Hellhag Hill. Sometimes Dulcie followed her on those lonely predawn jaunts, trotting well behind her, staying, for some reason she could not explain, warily out of sight.

Lucinda must have been miserable all those years while Shamas played fast and loose. She told Wilma she had almost left him a year ago, when he first turned down a rich offer on the old house. But she hadn’t left, hadn’t found the courage.

Brock, Lavell& Hicks, a local developer, had begun buying up the property on the Greenlaws’ block. By the time they approached Shamas, they had purchased all the houses across the street, planning a small, exclusive shopping paseo. Eager to acquire the Greenlaws’ two lots, they made Shamas a generous offer. Lucinda had wanted badly to sell, to go into an easily maintained condo, butShamas refused, perhaps out of family sentiment, perhaps simply to thwart Lucinda. He reminded her frequently that the old house was his family home, though before they moved to Molena Point from Seattle he had rented it out for many years; there was no family nearby to use it-Shamas’s cousins had long ago moved across the country to North Carolina.

The relatives were all returning now, flocking to Molena Point to quarrel over Shamas’s leavings-while Shamas himself waited, dead and cold, tucked into a vault at the Gardener Funeral Home, for his family to bid him a last farewell. A few more arrived each day, strident, demanding, all alike in their brashness.

But they had charm, too. Loads of charm, Dulcie thought, amused. Big, cheerful Irishmen and women: loud laughing, loud arguing, never able to simply be quiet. Ruddy-faced, sandy-haired folk, ill-mannered, noisy, irritating, and endearing.

Dulcie was certain that none of them had really cared about Shamas, that they had come only to lick up the leavings. So far, more than a dozen cousins and nephews and nieces had descended, the first arrivals moving into the Greenlaws’ unoccupied bedrooms. The remainder of Shamas’s kin were living in their campers and trailers, in which they had driven out from the East Coast, taking over the Moonwatch Trailer Park south of the village, on the crest of Hellhag Hill. Shamas’s funeral would be scheduled when all relatives were present.

Well, the Greenlaws hadn’t let Shamas’s body cool before they’d begun harassing Lucinda about his estate, pressuring her not to sell the house. Dirken Greenlaw was the worst: Shamas’s twenty-year-old nephew had been the first to arrive, moving into the largest guest room. Dirken was louder and more brash than his cousin Newlon.

It was Newlon Greenlaw who had tried to rescue Shamas when he fell overboard in the storm. Newlon had remained on board with their cousin Sam Fulman and two other passengers, to bring theGreen Ladyback to Molena Point harbor. They had docked first in Seattle for two days, where they were questioned by Seattle police, then sent on their way. Newlon, thinner and slighter than most of the Greenlaw clan, was somewhat quieter, too, and perhaps kinder; surely he was gentler with his uncle’s widow than was Dirken.

And speak of the devil, here came Dirken down the stairs, stamping and yawning, his red hair curled over his collar, his teal green polo shirt straining tight over sleek muscles. Settling into a chair beside the fire, treating Lucinda to his charming Irish grin, Dirken was all Gaelic magnetism: testosterone and guile. For Dulcie, Dirken Greenlaw’s appeal grew less each day, with each successive argument.

“Any coffee, Aunt Lucinda?”

“In the kitchen, Dirken. It’s freshly brewed.”

He didn’t move, but eyed her, waiting. She smiled back at him, but didn’t rise, and Dulcie wanted to cheer-Lucinda was no longer leaping up to fetch Dirken’s morning brew.

Immediately after Shamas’s death, Lucinda, in an uncharacteristically decisive move, had begun arrangements to sell the house; the papers had been drawn by the time Dirken arrived.

Dirken had put a stop to the sale. Dulcie had watched him pace the parlor alternately cajoling and intimidating Lucinda, playing on her uncertainty, telling her she would throw away hundreds of thousands of dollars if she didn’t keep the house and let it increase in value as all real estate was increasing along the California coast.

The house was in a living trust, with Lucinda as her own trustee. If she sold it, the proceeds would go into the trust, and she could spend them as she liked.

Apparently Dirken thought that Lucinda, in some bizarre change of character, would throw away the money in wild debauchery, leaving no cash for the clan-for Dirken, himself, to squander.

Of course Lucinda could revoke any part of the trust; but she was not often so quick to take action as she had been to try to sell the house; generally, the old lady had a hesitant nature. Maybe, Dulcie thought, Dirken was banking on that, hoping Lucinda would die before she changed anything about the trust. He argued, he harassed, and if Newlon was not around to stand up for her, Lucinda would grow very quiet, then soon slip away alone-sometimes these human complications were enough to give a cat fits.

Get some spine,Dulcie would think, feeling her claws stiffen.Don’t let Dirken bully you! Send him packing, send the whole tribe packing. Oh,she wanted to shout,get a life, Lucinda. Don’t just roll over for them! Sell the house, do something wild and extravagant with the money! Go to Europe. Spend it on diamonds. Don’t leave a cent to that clan!Lucinda wasso docile that Dulcie wanted to snatch her up and shake some sense into her; if their roles had been reversed, if Dulcie were bigger than Lucinda, she’d have done it, too.

“You’re up mighty early, Aunt Lucinda.”

“I’m always up early, my dear. And what brings you down at this hour?” Lucinda poured fresh tea for herself and sat cradling her cup, looking quietly into the fire as if attempting to hold close around her the tranquility of her early-morning solitude.

“About an hour ago,” Dirken said, “I thought I heard noises outside. I went out, tramped around. Did you hear anything?”

“Not a thing, my dear. What kind of noise?”

“You must have been dead to the world. When I came in, I knocked at your bedroom door, but I guess you didn’t hear me. Why do you lock your bedroom, Aunt Lucinda?”

Lucinda’s eyes widened. “Why would you try my bedroom door, Dirken? I lock it because I don’t want someone barging in unannounced, certainly not before daylight.”

“A bedroom lock with a key,” Dirken said. “So you can go out and lock it behind you.” He hadn’t the decency to apologize for his snooping, or even to look embarrassed; he simply turned his face away, scowling with anger.

“I expect you’ll be working on the house again this morning, Dirken?”

The young man rose, heading for the kitchen and his coffee. In the doorway he turned, watching Lucinda, the firelight catching at his red hair.“I must work on it, Aunt Lucinda. The house needs so much repair. So much to do, if we’re to save this old place-save your inheritance.”

His tone implied that if he didn’t undertake such refurbishing, the house would collapse within weeks, its remains sinking tiredly into the weedy yard, and Lucinda would be out on the street.

Lucinda,Dulcie thought,must not know much about houses.Dirken’s repair and replacement of some of the lap siding had been grossly shoddy work. And Dulcie had observed with considerable interest his curious method of patching the concrete foundation. It did not appear to her that that little project had anything to do with strengthening the decrepit structure.

She had learned, from watching Clyde and Charlie fix up Clyde’s recently purchased apartment building, a good deal about such repairs-though Clyde limited his work mostly to tear-out. But Dulcie had seen how siding should be applied, and how a crumbling foundation looked; she had spent hours lying on the sunny brick patio beside Joe waiting for mice to be dislodged by the workers and observing just such reconstruction operations.

And how arrogant Dirken was about the supposed repairs. His attitude had been, ever since he arrived, not one of tenderness toward his newly widowed aunt, but of confrontation. Not the behavior of a nurturing young relative caring for his uncle’s frail old widow, but of a selfish young man out for his own gain.

Nor did the rest of the Greenlaw clan spend any time comforting Lucinda; they were either harassing her or prowling the village on endless sightseeing excursions, rudely fingering the wares in Molena Point’s expensive shops, leaving grease stains and torn wrappings, their loud complaints seeming to echo long after they had departed. And in the evenings, in Lucinda’s parlor, they were no more pleasant, quibbling about the sale of the house, turning the prefuneral gathering into a bad-tempered brawl.

Send them packing,Dulcie would think, crouching on the fence, her ears back, her tail lashing. She’d hardly been in the public library in two weeks, where usually she spent several hours a day greeting the patrons and playing with the children. She meant to do better; she was, after all, the official library cat, but she couldn’t stop racing across the village to Lucinda’s, to watch the drama unfolding there. Some force was building, she thought. A confluence of emotions and events that was just the beginning of a larger drama, she was certain of it. And she didn’t want to miss a minute. Whatever lay in Lucinda’s immediate future, Dulcie wanted to know about it.

But the most puzzling twist of all was that, while the Greenlaws were so prickly and unpleasant to Lucinda, on the rare evenings that they settled in for a round of Irish storytelling, filling Lucinda’s parlor nearly to bursting, something strange happened: their attitudes were totally different. Suddenly the frail parlor seemed no longer in danger of collapse under their fierce emoting. On storytelling nights a kind of magic sprang alive among the Greenlaws. They seemed gender, easier with one another, nurturing, and warm.

And Lucinda was easier, too. The old woman seemed drawn to the family, clasping her hands at their tales, weeping or laughing with them. Theyseemeda family, then, this obstreperous clan, and Lucinda no longer an outsider against whom they were solidly ranked.

Wilma said it was the old family stories and family history, which Shamas had told so well, that had first drawn Lucinda to him, that Shamas’s commitment to the old ways was perhaps the only real thing about him, that surely this had been the strongest tie between the mismatched couple. Every marriage, Wilma said, must have a fabric of shared philosophy to tie it together. Wilma truly believed that. For Shamas and Lucinda, that richness had come from the old myths that had been handed down for generations through the Greenlaw family.

And oh, those tales drew Dulcie. On warm evenings when the parlor windows were open and she could hear the stories, she would slip across the yard and up a half-rotten rose trellis to cling beside the screen, listening.

She could have pushed right on inside beneath the loose screen. Who would wonder at a little cat coming in? But she didn’t fancy wandering among those big-booted men and bad-mannered kids with too many hands to snatch at her. The Greenlaws might charm her with their stories, but she didn’t trust a one of them.

But how lovely were their Irish tales, filling her with a longing for worlds vanished, worlds peopled with shapeshifters and her own kind of cat. To hear those stories whispered, hear their wild parts belted out, to hear their wonders dramatized as only an Irishman could tell a tale, those were purr-filled hours. Afterward, she would trot away to join Joe, hunting high on the hills, filled with a deep and complete satisfaction.

These were her stories that the Greenlaws told, she had read and reread them, alone at nighttime in the library, when she had the books to herself; this was her history, hers and Joe’s. The Greenlaws didn’t know that, and they never noticed a little cat crouched at the window.

Strangely, even the taleteller’s language was different on those evenings, the loud Irishmen abandoning the clan’s rough speech for the old, soft phrases and ancient words. And there was one old, wrinkled man among them who had such a beguiling way with a story.

“Semper Will,” old Pedric would begin, “he were a packman, and there wadn’t no carts their way, ‘t tracks was all mixey-mirey and yew did need a good pack-donk to get a load safe droo they moors.”

Pedric, unlike his strapping relatives, was thin and bony and wizened; Pedric looked, himself, like an overgrown elven man or perhaps a skinny wizard.

“Will’s track was all amuck, then, with gurt reeds a-growing up and deep holes for tha donk to fall in, yes all a-brim with muck?”

Oh, Dulcie knew that tale of the high banks full of burrows that the donkey would pass, and the strange little cats that would appear there, peering out of their small caves.

“All sandy-colored tha little cats was, and wi’ green, green eyes.” She knew how those burrows led down and down through dark caverns to other lands, to subterranean mountains and meadows lit by a clear green sky. And Pedric told how the cats were not always in cat form but how, down in that emerald world, a cat might change to a beautiful woman dressed in a silken gown. Oh yes, Dulcie knew those stories, and, just as she knew that at least one part of them was true, the Irishmen believed fully in their wealth of tales. They believed just as surely as they believed that the earth was round and the moon and stars shone in the heavens. The Celtic tales were a part of the Greenlaws’ lives, to be loved as musicis loved but to be put aside in their everyday dealings, as a song might be put aside.

Lucinda finished her tea and cookies and rose to carry her tray to the kitchen, seeming hardly aware of the loud barking through the open windows, though Clyde’s house seemed to explode with human shouting and canine bawling.

Looking through the leaves, watching Clyde’s empty yard, Dulcie heard Joe yowl with rage. Half-alarmed, half-amused, she slipped out from the maple tree and hurried along the fence.

“Take them to?” Joe shouted. “Take them to the pound? That’s why I brought them.”

“Don’t be stupid!? kill them?” Clyde yelled.

And Joe came bolting out the dog door, his ears flat, his yellow eyes slitted with rage. As he crouched to leap the gate, he turned and saw her.

He said nothing. He stood glowering, his ears back, the white strip down his gray face narrowed by anger. Dulcie, ignoring him, flicked her ears, leaped down into the yard, and trotted past him to see for herself. She hurried up Clyde’s back steps, her ears ringing with Clyde’s shouting and the wild baying.

Nearly deafened, Dulcie poked her head through the dog door.

The room was filled with giant dog legs, huge paws scrabbling, two giant tails whipping against the cabinets. Clyde was racing around the kitchen trying to put collars on two huge dogs, and such shouting and swearing over a little thing like a collar made her yowl with laughter, then yowl louder to get his attention.

He turned to stare at her.

“If you don’t shut up, Clyde, and make those dogs shut up, every neighbor on the street is going to be down here!” And of course the moment she spoke, the two dogs leaped at her. She hauled back a paw to slash them.

They backed off, whimpering.

She paused, and did a double take. She had scared them silly; they cowered against Clyde’s legs, rolling their eyes at her.

Why, they were puppies. Just two big, frightened pups-two whining pups the size of small ponies and as thin and pitiful as skinned sparrows.

She slipped in through the dog door and sat down on the linoleum.

They seemed to decide she wouldn’t hurt them.

They crept to her. Two wet black noses pushed at her, two wet tongues drenched her with dog spit; they were all over her, licking and whining. Oh, what pitiful, lovable big babies. Gently, Dulcie lifted a soft paw and patted their sweet puppy faces.

5 [????????: pic_6.jpg]

JOE FOLLOWED Dulcie through the dog door, watching half with disgust, half with amusement, as she preened and wove around the pups’ legs. She was purring like a coffee grinder. Any other cat, confronted by the two monster dogs-even puppies-would have headed for the tallest tree.

Not Dulcie, of course. She wasn’t afraid of dogs. But he hadn’t counted on that silly maternal grin, either.

He’d expected her to be disgusted with the rowdy young animals, as most adult cats, or dogs, would be. How ridiculous to see a lovely lady cat, self-contained and sometimes even dignified, certainly of superior intelligence, succumb to this ingratiating canine display. He watched with disgust as the pups licked her face and ears. Not until she was sopping wet did she move away from them, shake her whiskers, and leap to the kitchen table; and still her green eyes blazed with pleasure.

“Puppies, Joe! Clyde, where did you get the huge puppies?” Her peach-tinted paw lifted in a soft maternal gesture. “They’re darling! Such cute, pretty pups!”

“They’re not darling,” Joe snapped. “They’re monsters. Flea-bitten bags of bones. Clyde’s taking them to the pound.”

She widened her eyes, twin emeralds, shocked and indignant.

“They are not,” Clyde said evenly, “going to the pound.” He sat down at the kitchen table. “So what’s with you? What’s the attraction, Dulcie? You’re known all over the village as a dog baiter. What?”

“Dog baiter?”

“Of course. No resident dog will confront you. And the tourists’ dogs try only once.” Clyde looked hard at her. “You think I don’t know about your little games? I know what you do when life gets boring; I’ve seen you sauntering down Ocean early in the morning when the tourists are walking their pets; I’ve seen you waltz past those leashed canines waving your tail until some showoff lunges at you.

“I’ve seen you bloody them, send some poor mutt bolting away screaming. I’ve seen you smile and trot off licking your whiskers.” Clyde looked intently at the smug little tabby. “So what gives?”

“They’re only babies,” Dulcie said haughtily. “Why would I want to hurt babies? Really, Clyde, you can be so unfeeling.” She leaped down to where the pups lay sprawled, panting, on the linoleum. Turning her back on Clyde, she licked a black nose. She couldn’t help the maternal warmth that spread over her as she began to wash the two big babies.

Clyde shook his head and stepped past her toward the door, carrying a bucket of trash. Joe, scowling at the silly grin on Dulcie’s little, triangular face, muttered something rude into his whiskers and left the scene, pushing out behind Clyde. Let Dulcie play “mama” if that was what pleased her. He was out of there.

Scaling the back fence, he galloped across the village, dodging tourists and cars, heading for Dulcie and Wilma’s house, where he could find some peace and quiet without that zoo, and where Wilma’s phone was accessible. If the cops missed that cut line, if they didn’t look for it before the wreck was lifted from the canyon and hauled away, the evidence might be lost for good.

Wilma didn’t like him and Dulcie meddling in police business any more than Clyde did, but she had better manners. She wouldn’t stop him from using the phone.

Trotting past early joggers and a few shopkeepers out watering the flowers that graced their storefront gardens, sniffing the smell of damp greenery and of breakfast cooking in a dozen little cafes, Joe kept thinking of the dead man lying in the wrecked Corvette. A fairly young, apparently well-to-do stranger, and very likely an antique car buff-a man, one would think, who would be closely attuned to the mechanical condition of his vehicle.

Did the guy have some connection in the village, maybe visiting someone? Seemed strange that, just passing through, he would meet his doom at that particular and precarious location.

Whoever cut the brake line had to have known about that double curve. Joe didn’t believe in coincidence, any more than did Captain Max Harper.

The question was, who in the village might have wanted this guy dead?

Hurrying beneath thetwisted oaks, past shop windows filled with handmade and costly wares or with fresh-baked bread and bottles of local wines, he passed Jolly’s Deli and the arresting scent of smoked salmon.

But Joe didn’t pause, not for an instant. Galloping on up the street to Wilma’s gray stone cottage, he made three leaps across her bright garden and slid in through Dulcie’s cat door.

Wilma’s blue-and-white kitchen was immaculate. The smell of waffles and bacon lingered. He leaped to the counter, where breakfast dishes stood neatly rinsed in the drain. The coffeepot was empty and unplugged. The house sounded hollow.

Heading for the living room and Wilma’s desk, he was glad he’d left Dulcie occupied with the pups. She hadn’t been in the best of moods lately-though the pups had evidently cheered her. He didn’t like to admit that something might be wrong between them, had been wrong for weeks, ever since the earthquake. Ever since that threeA.M. jolt when he raced down the street to see if Dulcie was all right, only to meet her pelting toward him wild with worry for him, then wild with joy that he was unhurt. After the quake and the ensuing confusion when people wandered the streets sniffing the air for gas leaks, he and Dulcie had clung together purring, taking absolute comfort in each other; he telling her how he’d heard the bookshelves fall in the spare bedroom as he felt the house rock; she telling him how Wilma had leaped out of bed only to be knocked down like a rag toy. It hadn’t been a giant quake-not the Big One-a few shingles fallen, a few windows broken, one or two gas lines burst, people frightened. But at the first tremble, Joe had run out-Rube barking and barking behind him and Clyde shouting for him to come back-had sped away frantic to find Dulcie.

But then a few days later, a kind of crossness took hold of Dulcie, a private, sour mood. She wouldn’t tell him what was wrong. She left him out, went off alone, silent and glum. All the cliches he’d ever heard assailed him: familiarity breeds contempt; as sour as old marrieds. He didn’t know what was wrong with her. He didn’t know what he’d done. When he tried to talk to her, she cut him short.

But that morning, distracted by the idiot puppies, she’d smiled and waved her tail and purred extravagantly.

Mark one down for the two bone bags. Maybe they were of some use.

Now, settling on Wilma’s clean blotter atop the polished cherry desk, he could smell the lingering aroma of coffee where, evidently, Wilma had sat this morning, perhaps to pay bills. A neat stack of bill stubs lay beneath the small jade carving of a cat. He could imagine Wilma coming to her desk very early, catching up on her household chores. Beyond the open shutters, the neighborhood street was empty, the gardens bright with flowers; he could never remember the names of flowers as Dulcie did. Sliding the receiver off, he punched in the number for the police.

He got through the dispatcher to Lieutenant Brennan, but Captain Harper was out. He didn’t like passing on this kind of information to another officer-not that Harper’s men weren’t reliable. It simply made Joe uncomfortable to talk with anyone but Harper.

Besides, he enjoyed hearing Harper’s irritable hesitation when he recognized the voice of this one particular snitch. He enjoyed imagining the tall, leathered, tough-looking captain at the other end of the line squirming with nerves.

Max Harper reacted the same way to Dulcie’s occasional phone tips. The minute he heard either of them he got as cross as a fox with thorns in its paw.

“Captain Harper won’t be back until this afternoon,” Lieutenant Brennan said.

“That wreck in Hellhag Canyon,” Joe said reluctantly. “I’m sure the officers found that the brake line was cut. Sliced halfway through in a sharp, even line.”

Brennan did not reply. Joe could hear him chewing on something. He heard papers rattle. He hoped Brennan was paying attention-Brennan had been one of the officers at the scene. Maybe they hadn’t found the cut brake line, maybe that was why he was uncommunicative.

“There was a billfold, too,” Joe told him. “In the dead driver’s hip pocket. Leather. A bulging leather wallet. Did you find that? An old wallet, misshapen from so much stuff crammed in, the leather dark, sort of oily. Stained. A large splinter of broken glass was pressing against it.”

He repeated the information but refused to give Brennan his name. He hung up before Brennan could trace the call; a trace took three or four minutes. He didn’t dare involve Wilma’s phone in this. She and Harper were friends. Joe wasn’t going to throw suspicion on her-and thus, by inference, cast it back on himself and Dulcie.

Pawing the phone into its cradle and pushing out again through Dulcie’s plastic door, he headed toward the hills, trotting up through cottage gardens and across the little park that covered the Highway One tunnel. Gaining the high, grassy slopes, he sat in the warm wind, feeling lonely without Dulcie.

She was so busy these days, spying uselessly on Lucinda Greenlaw. Maybe that was all that was wrong with her, watching Lucinda too much, feeling sad for the old woman; maybe it was her preoccupation with the Greenlaw family that had turned her so moody.

All day Joe hunted alone, puzzling over Dulcie. At dusk he hurried home, thinking he would find Dulcie there because Clyde had invited Wilma to dinner, along with Charlie, and Max Harper.

He saw Wilma’s car parked in front of the cottage, but couldn’t detect Dulcie’s scent. Not around the car, or on the front porch, or on his cat door. Heading through the house for the kitchen, he sniffed deeply the aroma of clam sauce and twitched his nose at the sharp hint of white wine. Pushing into the kitchen, he looked around for Dulcie.

Clyde and Charlie stood at the stove stirring the clam sauce and tasting it. Charlie’s red hair was tied back with a blue scarf rather than the usual rubber band or piece of cord. Her oversized, blue batik shirt was tucked into tight blue jeans. She had on sleek new sandals, not her old, worn jogging shoes.

Wilma was tossing the salad, her long white hair, tied back with a turquoise clip, bright in the overhead lights. The table was set for four. Two more places, with small plates and no silverware, were arranged on the counter beside the sink, on a yellow place mat. That would be Charlie’s doing; Clyde never served so fancy. The sounds of bubbling pasta competed with an Ella Fitzgerald record, both happy noises overridden by the loud and insistent scratching of what sounded like a troop of attack dogs assaulting the closed doggy door.

He wondered how long the plywood barrier would last before those two shredded it.

“I just fed them,” Clyde said defensively. “Two cans each. Big, economy cans.”

Joe made no comment. He did not want to speak in front of Charlie.

Charlie knew about him and Dulcie-she had known ever since, some months ago, she saw them racing across the rooftops at midnight and heard Dulcie laughing. That was when she began to suspect-or maybe before that, he thought, wondering.

Well, so that one night leaping among the village roofs, they’d been careless.

Charlie was one of the few people who could put such impossible facts together and come up with the impossible truth. And it wasn’t as if Charlie was only a casual acquaintance; she and Clyde had been going together seriously for nearly a year. Joe liked her. She treated him with more respect than Clyde ever did, and she was, after all, Wilma’s niece. But still he couldn’t help feeling shy about actually speaking in front of her, not even to ask where Dulcie was.

“She’s on the back fence,” Wilma said, seeing him fidgeting. “Where else? Gawking into Lucinda’s parlor.” Wilma shook the salad dressing with a violence that threatened Clyde’s clean kitchen walls.

Joe, pretending he didn’t care where Dulcie was, leaped to the kitchen counter and stared at his empty plate, implying he didn’t need Dulcie, that he’d eat enough pasta for both.

“I talked with Harper,” Clyde said. “About an hour ago. I want you to behave yourself tonight.”

Joe widened his eyes, a gaze of innocence he had practiced for many hours while standing on the bathroom sink.

“Harper says he had another of those snitch calls this morning. Guy wouldn’t give his name. Left the message with Brennan-something about a cut brake line.” He gave Joe a long, steady stare.

Joe kept his expression blank.

“He says this one was a dud. Totally off track. Said that after the call, two officers went back down Hellhag Canyon for another look.”

Joe licked his right front paw.

“The officers said the brake line wasn’t cut. Said the line burst, that it was ragged and worn. That there was no smooth cut as Harper’s informant described. They said they could see the thin place, the weak spot in the plastic where it gave way.

“Nor was there a billfold,” Clyde said. “The officers didn’t find a scrap of ID on the body, or in the car, or in the surround, as the snitch had said.”

Joe could feel his anger rising. Which uniforms had Harper sent down there? Those two new rookies he’d just hired?

Or had the cut line been removed?

Had the man he scented in the ravine that morning replaced the cut, black plastic tube with an old, broken one, and lifted the driver’s wallet?

Those two pups knew the guy was there. He remembered how silent they had grown, how watchful, creeping along sniffing the man’s scent.

“So this time,” Clyde said, “Harper’s snitch was all wet.”

So this time,Joe Grey thought crossly,Harper’s men didn’t have the whole story-and Max Harper needs to know that.

Staring at the dog door, then out the kitchen window, Joe managed a sigh. He looked at the two plates set side by side on the kitchen counter, then back to the window, his nose against the glass. He continued in this vein until Wilma said,“For heaven’s sakes, go over there and get her. Quit mooning around. She doesn’t need to spend all night watching Lucinda.”

He gave Wilma a grateful look and began to paw at the plywood, seeking a grip to slide it out of its track.

“Not the dog door!” Clyde shouted. “They’ll be all over the place.”

Joe widened his eyes at Clyde, shrugged, and headed for the living room. Clyde said nothing. But Joe could feel him staring. The man had absolutely no trust.

He went on out his cat door, making sure the plastic slapped loudly against its frame.

But as he dropped off the front porch he heard Clyde at the livingroom window, heard the curtain swish as Clyde pulled it back to peer out.

Not an ounce of trust.

Not until he heard Clyde go back in the kitchen did he beat it around to the backyard and up onto the back fence where he could see into the kitchen. And not until Clyde was occupied, draining the spaghetti, did he slip around to the front and in through his cat door again, stopping the plastic with his nose to keep it quiet.

Heading for the bedroom, he punched in the number. Quickly he explained the urgency of his message. He got a sensible dispatcher, who patched him through to Harper in his car. Probably Harper was already headed in their direction, on his way for clam pasta.

Joe told Harper that he hadseenthe cut brake line, that there were three little slice marks just above the cut. He said he’d heard someone else in the canyon, but couldn’t see him in the fog. Said he hadseenthe billfold in the guy’s back pocket, with a piece of the broken glass pressing into it.

He reminded Harper where the captain had gotten the information that nailed Winthrop Jergen’s killer. Reminded him where he got the computer code word that opened up Jergen’s files. He jogged Harper’s memory about who identified the retirement-home killer months earlier, to say nothing of finding the arsonist who killed the artist Janet Jeannot. He said if Harper remembered who laid out the facts in the Samuel Beckwhite murder case, then Harper should take another look down Hellhag Canyon, before the wreckers hauled away the blue Corvette.

The upshot was that, five minutes after Joe nosed the phone back into its cradle and returned innocently to the kitchen, Harper called Clyde to say not to wait dinner, that he’d be late, that he needed to run down the highway for a few minutes.

Clyde hung up the kitchen phone and turned to stare at Joe, anger starring deep in his brown eyes, a slow, steaming rage that struck Joe with sudden, shocked guilt.

What had he done?

He had acted without thinking.

Max Harper was headed out there alone, to scale down Hellhag Canyon in the dark. With perhaps the killer still lurking, maybe waiting for the car to be safely hauled away? Harper without a backup.

Cops can be hurt, too,Joe thought.Cops can be shot.He was so upset, he dared not look back at Clyde. What had he done? What had he done to Max Harper?

He wanted to call the station again, tell them to send a backup. But when he leaped down to head for the bedroom, Clyde unbelievably reached up and removed the kitchen phone from its hook.

Joe wanted to shout at Clyde, to explain to him that heneededto call, but Wilma started talking about Lucinda Greenlaw, and Clyde turned his back on Joe. He couldn’t believe this was happening. Didn’t Clyde understand? Didn’t Clyde care about Harper?

The phone stayed off the hook as Charlie dished up the plates. Wilma looked around at Joe, where she stood tossing the salad.“Where’s Dulcie?”

“She didn’t want to come,” he lied-he had to talk in Charlie’s presence sometime. And to Charlie’s credit, she didn’t flinch, didn’t turn to look, not a glance.

“We stopped by Jolly’s alley earlier,” Joe said. “Dulcie’s full of smoked salmon, and too fascinated with the Greenlaws to tear herself away.”

Wilma gave him a puzzled look, but she said nothing. When Wilma and Clyde and Charlie were seated over steaming plates of linguini, Wilma said,“Lucinda and I had lunch today. She was pretty upset. Shamas’s lover is in town. She’s been to visit Lucinda.”

Charlie laid down her fork, her eyes widening.“Cara Ray Crisp, that bimbo who was on the boat when he died? That hussy? What colossal nerve. What did she want?”

“Apparently,” Wilma said, “Cara Ray had hardly checked into the Oak Breeze before she was there on Lucinda’s doorstep, playing nice. Lucinda really didn’t know what she wanted.”

“I hope Lucinda sent her packing,” Charlie said. “My God. That woman was the last one to see him alive. The last one to-”

“She told Lucinda she came to offer condolences.”

Charlie choked. Clyde laughed.

That midnight on the yacht, when Shamas drowned, Cara Ray told Seattle police, she’d been asleep in their stateroom, she’d awakened to shouting, and saw that Shamas was gone from the bed. She ran out into the storm, to find Shamas’s cousin, Sam, frantically manning lines, and his nephew, Newlon, down in the sea trying to pull Shamas out. They got lines around Shamas and pulled him up on deck, but could not revive him. Weeping, Cara Ray told the police that when the storm subsided they had turned toward the nearest port, at Seattle. George and Winnie Chambers, the only other passengers, had not awakened; Cara Ray said they had not come on deck until the next morning, when theGreen Ladyput in at Seattle.

According to the account in theGazette,the storm had come up suddenly; evidently Shamas had heard the wind change and gotten up to help Newlon furl the main sail. On the slick deck, he must have caught his foot in a line, though this was an unseaman-like accident. As the boat lurched, Sam and Newlon heard Shamas shout; they looked around, and he was gone. Newlon had grabbed a life jacket, tied a line on himself, and gone overboard.

He told police that he got Shamas untangled, got him hooked onto a line to bring him up. When they got him on board, they saw that he had a deep gash through his forehead, where he must have hit something as he fell. Seattle police had gone over the catamaran, had thoroughly investigated the scene. They did not find where Shamas had struck his head. The rain had sloughed every surface clean. They found no evidence that Shamas’s death had been other than an accident. According to Seattle detectives, Cara Ray had been so upset, weeping so profusely, that no one could get much sense from her. She had given the police her address and flown directly home to San Francisco, leaving Newlon and Shamas’s cousin Sam and the Chamberses to sail theGreen Ladyback to Molena Point.

And now Cara Ray was in Molena Point, making a social call on Shamas’s widow.

“Poor Lucinda,” Charlie said. “Mobbed by his relatives hustling and prodding her. And now his paramour descends.”

Wilma nodded.“Apparently Cara Ray is as crude and bad mannered as the Greenlaws.”

“They are a strange lot,” Clyde said.

Wilma pushed a strand of her white hair into its clip and sipped her wine.“Every time I see a Greenlaw in the village, my hackles go up.”

Clyde grinned.“Retired parole officer. Worse than a cop.”

“Maybe I’m just irritable, maybe it’s this temporary job at Beckwhite’s. It’s no picnic, working for Sheril Beckwhite. I wouldn’t have taken the job except to help Max.”

At Max Harper’s urging, Wilma had been running background checks on loan applicants for the foreign-car agency. Beckwhite’s had had a sudden run of buyers applying for car financing with sophisticated bogus IDs and fake bank references. They had lost over three million dollars before Harper convinced Sherilof Wilma’s investigative prowess.

“Other than her visit from this Cara Ray Crisp person,” Charlie said, “how’s Lucinda getting along?”

“She’ll do a lot better,” Wilma said, “when Shamas’s relatives go home.”

“Seems to me,” Charlie said, “that being Shamas Greenlaw’s widow would be much nicer than being his wife.”

Wilma laughed.

“She’s certainly a very quiet person,” Charlie offered. “She seems? I don’t know, the few times I’ve talked with her, she’s seemed? so close to herself. Secretive.”

“I don’t think-” Wilma began when, in the backyard, the pups roared and bayed, their barks so deafening that no one heard the front door open; no one heard Max Harper until he loomed in the kitchen doorway.

“What the hell is this? The county pound?” He glared at Clyde. “What did you do, get more dogs? Sounds like a pack of wolfhounds.”

Clyde rose to open a beer for Harper and dish up his plate, liberally heaping on the pasta and clam sauce. Skinny as Harper was, he ate like a field hand. Clyde had known him since boyhood; they had gone through school together, had ridden broncs and bulls in the local rodeos around Sacramento and Salinas.

Dropping down from the kitchen counter, Joe took a good sniff of Harper. The captain’s faded jeans and old boots bore traces of dirt and of bits of leaves and grass, and carried the distinct combination of scents one would encounter in Hellhag Canyon.

“So what’s with the cat killers?” Harper said, glancing toward the back door.

“Stray pups. Followed my car,” Clyde lied. “Up along Hellhag Hill.”

The police captain looked at Clyde narrowly for a moment, perhaps sensing a twisting of the truth. He sat down in his usual chair, facing the sink and kitchen window, his back comfortably to the wall. For an instant, his gaze turned to Joe Grey, who had returned to the counter and was busily licking clam sauce off his whiskers.

“How sanitary can it be, Damen, to let your cat sit on the kitchen sink?” Harper scowled. “Is that a little place mat? Did he have his dinner up there?”

“That’s Charlie’s doing. And you know I don’t lay food on the counter,” Clyde said testily. “You know I use that plastic breadboard and that it goes in the dishwasher after every meal.” He looked hard at Harper. “So what’s with you? Bad night picking up hustlers? Ladies of the night make you late to dinner?”

Harper brushed the dry grass and leaves from his jeans.“Took a swing down Hellhag Canyon.”

Clyde stiffened; Joe saw his jaw clench. He did not look in Joe’s direction.

“The brake line was burst, not cut,” Harper said.

Clyde cast a look of rage at Joe Grey.

“I took some photographs of the surround, though. Infrared light and that new film. Shot some footprints that my men may have missed-the few they didn’t step on,” Harper said uneasily.

“What are you talking about?” Clyde said.

Harper shrugged.“Maybe someone messed with the car. Maybe someone switched brake lines. If so, it would be nice to have some evidence, wouldn’t you say? I have a crew down there now, working it over.”

Clyde closed his eyes.

It must be hard, Joe thought, working a crime scene when the uniforms had already been over it, under the impression it was an accident. And, washing his paw, he hid a huge feline grin. At his word, Harper had not only gone down Hellhag Canyon, he had called in the detectives.

Harper’s detectives were good; they’d probably remove the jagged shards of the driver’s window, see if the lab could find cloth or leather fragments along the broken edges, probably try for fingerprints around the brake line.

Harper’s confidence in the phantom snitch pleased Joe Grey so much that he almost leaped on the table to give Harper a purr and a face rub. But he quickly thought better of that little gesture.

He could see, beneath the table, Clyde’s toe tapping with irritation; choking back a laugh, he turned his back and washed harder.

“Good linguini,” Harper said. “Reminds me of that Italian place in Stockton, down from the rodeo grounds. So tell me about these dogs, Damen. Pups, you said? The way they’re banging on the door, I’d say a couple of big bull calves lunging at the gate. Strays, you said? You plan to keep them?”

“If he keeps them,” Charlie said, pushing back her wild red hair, “he’s-we’re taking them to obedience school.”

Clyde did a double take.“We’re what?”

She stuck out her arm, exhibiting a dozen long red scratches where the pups, in their excitement at having new and wonderful friends, had leaped up joyfully raking her.

“Obedience school,” she said. “You can work with the happy, silly one. I’ll take the solemn pup; I like his attitude.”

Joe looked at Charlie, incredulous. There was no way she was going to get Clyde involved in dog-training classes. She’d as easily get him into a tutu and teach him to pirouette.

Well, she’d learn.

And Joe Grey sat grinning and washing his whiskers, highly amused by Charlie, and immensely pleased at his rise in stature with Max Harper. Harper had moved fast and decisively on Joe’s phone tip, had beat it down Hellhag Canyon posthaste, and that made the tomcat feel pretty good. Made him feel good, too, that Harper was back from the canyon in one piece.

Though he would never let Harper know he cared. Stretching out on the cold tile, he gave the captain his usual sour scowl.

Harper returned his frown in spades. The two of them got along just fine with an occasional hiss from Joe, and Harper grousing about cat germs; anything less would spoil the relationship.

6 [????????: pic_7.jpg]

TWO NIGHTS later, as Clyde fetched the cards and poker chips and began to lay out a cholesterol-rich array of party food, Joe was all set for an evening of imbibing the fatty diet necessary to his psychological well-being and picking up interesting bits of intelligence courtesy of the Molena Point PD, when Clyde dropped the bombshell.

“You are not invited, Joe. You are not wanted in this house when my friends are here playing poker. No more snooping. You’re done listening to private police business.”

“You have to be kidding.”

“Not kidding. No cats on or near the poker table. No cats in the house tonight.”

“You’re making crab-and-olive sandwiches, you know that’s my all-time favorite. And I’m not invited to the party?”

“You can take a sandwich with you. Brown-bag it.”

Joe looked at Clyde intently.“You’re serious. You are turning me out of my own home.”

“Very serious. No more eavesdropping.” Turning his back, Clyde resumed spreading crab and green olives.

“I see what’s wrong. You have your nose out of joint because I was right about that wreck in Hellhag Canyon.”

“Don’t be silly. And even if therewassomething strange about that wreck, whatever Max Harper might, in the presence of his officers and closest friend, find fit to discuss in this house, will be restricted to those human listeners, and to no other. No tomcats. No lady cats. No snooping.Comprende?”

Joe drew himself up to his full, bold, muscular height, his growl rumbling, his yellow eyes blazing.“For your information, if that wreck turns out to be a murder, I’m the one who put Harper onto it. Me. The tomcat you’re booting out of his own home for no conscionable reason. Without yours truly, without the information that I tipped to Max Harper, the killer would go scot-free.”

Clyde turned from the counter to glare at him.“You don’t have much respect for the abilities of our local law enforcement. You don’t seem to think that Harper is capable of-”

“I think Harper is very capable. Why should I expect one of your limited reasoning to understand that if the brake linewasswitched, and the billfoldwasremovedbeforethe police got to the scene of the accident that morning, and if the wreck looked in every other way like an accident, and Harper hadno information to the contrary, he would have no reason to search for evidence.

“That is a dangerous curve,” Joe explained patiently. “There has been more than one wreck there. The morning was foggy. Thick as canned cream. Without my help, Harper would have no reason to think the wreck was any more than an accident.”

“I’ve had enough, Joe. I don’t intend to argue with you. You are out of the house. Don’t come home until Harper leaves. Go now. Go hunt. Go hang out on Lucinda’s fence with Dulcie. Get out of here.”

Joe leaped down, so incensed that, stalking through the living room, he paused long enough to deliberately, maliciously rake his claws down the arm of Clyde’s new leather chair, leaving long, deep indentations just short of actual tears.

And, shouldering out through his cat door in a mood black and hateful, within three minutes-never reentering Clyde Damen’s pokey little cottage-he was set up to listen to every smallest whisper from Clyde’s sacrosanct poker game.

He, Joe Grey, would miss nothing.

Dulcie discovered Joe’s hideaway when she came along the fence from Lucinda’s. The night had turned chill, and Dirken had closed the windows. Annoyed at being shut out, she had left the Greenlaws, galloping along the fence top to see if Joe wanted to hunt.

Clyde’s kitchen lights were all burning. She smelled cigarette smoke and heard Max Harper laugh. She was about to go on, knowing Joe wouldn’t budge on poker night and miss some juicy bit of police gossip, when she saw the two pups behaving so strangely that she stopped to watch them.

Instead of pawing at the back door to get inside and join the party, the pups were down in the dirt beside the back porch, teasing at a vent hole, a little rectangular opening in the foundation that should have had a screen over it but was yawning, the screen cover pushed aside.

Both pups were crouched, heads down, their backsides high in the air, their tails wagging madly as they tried to push in through the small space. Dulcie, leaping down and racing across the lawn, slipped in between their noses-and caught Joe’s scent, over the reek of damp earth.

Peering into the musty blackness, she saw a flash of white-two white paws and white chest, where Joe Grey crouched atop a furnace duct, just below the kitchen floor.

A blanket of fiberglass insulation hung down, as if Joe had clawed and torn it away to bare the floor joists. Atop the heat duct, he stared up toward the kitchen, his ears cocked, his expression sly and triumphant. The voices came clearly to Dulcie.

“I’ll call,” Harper said. They heard the clink of poker chips dropped on the table.

Lieutenant Brennan said,“I’ll raise you two.” Dulcie could imagine Brennan sitting back a little from the poker table to accommodate his ample stomach. A woman’s voice said, “No way, Brennan. I fold.” That would be Detective Kathleen Ray, the darkhaired young detective who had worked the Winthrop Jergen case.

Not all men liked to play poker with women. Not many male cops liked women on the force. Well, these guys were okay. But just for eveners, Dulcie hoped Kathleen Ray went home a huge winner-cleaned them out, even if they were only playing penny ante.

A loud groan announced a pot won. Clyde laughed, and they heard chips being raked in.

“Why are you down here?” Dulcie whispered. “Did you and Clyde have a fight?”

Joe cut her a scowl as sour as yesterday’s cat food. “Clyde shut me out.”

“He what? You can’t be serious. Out of the house? But why?”

“Said he didn’t want me spying on Harper.”

Dulcie stared at him.“What’s the matter with Clyde?”

“The minute I left, he went right out to the living room and slid the plywood cover into my cat door. Talk about cheap? I could claw the plywood off, go on in the living room, and listen, but I’m not giving him the satisfaction.”

“I can’t believe he did that. Maybe he isn’t feeling well,” Dulcie said softly.

“He feels just fine. His usual bad-tempered self. Earlier, when I first got down here, Harper said something about fingerprints. Clyde interrupted him-just in case I was listening.” Joe gave her a narrow-eyed leer. “Well, Clyde can stuff it. I’m hanging in here until I know what Harper’s found.”

Dulcie snuggled next to Joe on the warm, softly insulated heat duct, settling down to listen to endless rounds of poker talk punctuated with scattered gems of police intelligence. Only when the pizza delivery guy arrived, to augment the crab sandwiches, did the ringing doorbell trigger a round of frantic barking from the backyard, and some of the conversation was lost. But then, soon, Harper’s dry, slow voice seeped down through the kitchen floor again, along with the scent of pepperoni pizza.

Besides the infrared photos that Harper had taken the night he went down Hellhag Canyon, and some casts of partial footprints that Detective Ray had made, the department had one fingerprint, which Detective Ray had lifted from the engine near the brake line.

The department, contacting Landrum Antique Cars in L.A., had learned that the Corvette had been purchased only a few days before, a cash sale to a Raul Torres.“Torres,” Harper said, “gave them a Portland, Oregon, address that turned out to be a vacant lot. Very likely the name is just as fake. We’re waiting for the fingerprint ID. State lab’s weeks behind as usual, even for a possible murder investigation.”

The information should have cheered Joe; he remained dour and silent.

Clyde’s poker games had been one of his best sources of information. Four or five cops playing stud poker could do a lot of talking. Clyde was the only civilian, but Harper trusted him like another cop. Maybe, Joe thought, that was why Clyde felt embarrassed to let him sit in. If Joe was lying on the poker table nibbling at the chips and dip, Clyde could hardly halt the conversation, could hardly tell Harper and his officers not to talk in front of the cat.

“So what the hell,” Joe said softly but angrily, as the poker game resumed. “All I’ve ever done is help Harper. Without the evidence you and I turned up, several of those no-goodniks sitting in state prison right now would be out on the street, to say nothing of Troy Hoke cooling his heels for murder in the federal pen.”

Dulcie curled closer to Joe and licked his ear. She had never seen him and Clyde at such odds.

But it was when Harper mentioned Lucinda Greenlaw that Dulcie’s own temper flared.

“Your neighbor,” Harper said. “In the old Victorian house behind you. You know her very well?”

“Lucinda? Not really,” Clyde said. “Wilma sees her pretty often.”

“She’s an early-morning walker,” Harper said.

“I don’t really know. What’s the interest?”

“Houseful of relatives right now gathered for Shamas’s funeral. Pretty loud bunch, I’m told.”

“They don’t bother me. I don’t hear them.”

“Had a talk with Lucinda yesterday,” Harper said. “Asked her to come down to the station, give me a few minutes away from the family.” There was a pause. The cats could smell cigarette smoke.

“She walks on Hellhag Hill a lot. I asked her if she’d happened to be up there the morning that Corvette went over into Hellhag Canyon.”

“And?” Clyde said shortly.

“Said she hadn’t been, that she’d stayed home that day. You? didn’t happen to notice her that morning? Happen to see her go out?”

“What the hell, Max? No, I didn’t happen to notice. What is this? What time are you talking about?”

“Around six-thirty. The 911 call came in, from someone in the trailer park, about that time.”

“At six-thirty I’m in the shower,” Clyde said testily. “Or just getting out of bed. Not staring out my back window at the neighbors.”

Harper said no more. The talk from that point was limited to poker. The game ended early. The cats, dropping down from the heat duct, slipped out through the vent, forcing the pups aside, and headed for the open hills.

They hunted most of the night, until the first gray of dawn streaked the sky. Joe’s mood brightened once they’d killed a big buck rabbit and shared it. Settling back to wash blood and rabbit fur from his paws, he said, “Do you think she might have seen something that morning? Maybe saw one of Shamas’s relatives down there, around the canyon, and didn’t want to tell Harper?”

Dulcie shrugged.“I don’t think she cares enough about any of Shamas’s relatives to protect them-well, maybe she cares about Pedric and Newlon. But would she lie for them?”

Joe looked at her intently.

“What are you thinking? That’s stretching it, Joe, to look for a connection between the Greenlaws and that wreck”

“Whydoesshe walk so early?”

Her green eyes widened.“You’re as bad as Harper. She likes to be alone. You’re a cat, you should understand that kind of need.” She rose. “Fog’s blowing in. She’ll walk this morning. Come see for yourself.” And she spun away at a dead run across the hills, perhaps running from a nudge of unease, from the faint discomfort that Joe’s questions stirred.

Down two valleys and across open hills they ran, through a little orchard and a pasture and up Hellhag Hill-to find Lucinda already there. They paused when they saw her, and went on quietly through the tall, concealing grass, watching Lucinda climb through the drifting fog to the outcropping of boulders where she liked to sit.

Dropping her small blanket and her jacket, she moved on beyond the rocks some twenty feet to a stand of broom bushes. There, producing a package from her canvas tote, she arranged its contents on an aluminum pie plate; the cats caught the scent of roast beef, probably leftovers from last night’s supper. Setting the plate among the bushes, she pushed it deep enough in so it was sheltered, but she would be able to see it.

“The wild cats,” Dulcie whispered. “They’ll come through the bushes from deeper in.”

Among the boulders, Lucinda made herself comfortable on her folded blanket. Quietly turning, she looked up behind her in the direction of the trailer park. The cats didn’t think she could see the trailers from that angle, nor could the occupants see her. There was no one else on the hill, yet she scanned the empty slopes expectantly, looking across the grassy rises and down toward the sea.

“She’s watching for the wild cats,” Dulcie whispered-but she wasn’t sure. Lucinda seemed unusually tense, to be watching only for the cats she fed.

“Why do you follow her, Dulcie?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes? sometimes when she’s here on the hills, she seems almost to be listening.” She glanced at Joe. “Almost as if she hears some sound, something-”

“What kind of sound?” he said irritably.

“Some? something? stirring within the hill.”

Joe scowled and flattened his ears; he didn’t like that kind of talk. She said no more, not mentioning that one day she had seen Lucinda lie down in the grass and press her ear to the earth.

Maybe Lucinda had only been feeling the beat of the sea throbbing through the hill? Could Lucinda feel that vibration, as a cat could? Or had she simply been resting, comforted by the earth’s solid warmth?

It had seemed a very personal moment. Dulcie had felt embarrassed watching her.

“Maybe she thinks she hears the ghost,” Joe said.

“Maybe.” The local yarns that had given Hellhag Hill its name described a crazy old man, living a hundred years ago in a shanty atop Hellhag Hill, who spent his rime throwing clods at trespassers, and who had been stoned, in turn, by a band of village boys; two days later he had died from the wounds to his head and chest. The story said that his spirit had entered inside the hill, and, even to the present day, he haunted the cave that yawned higher up Hellhag Hill-an angry and possessive ghost drawing the winds to him and screaming out at strangers; sometimes you could hear his shouts andcurses.

Early-morning joggers claimed to have seen the ghost, but in the coastal fog one could imagine seeing anything. Tourists came to look for the hag, and spun wonderful stories to take home.

Lucinda waited patiently, they supposed for any small sign of the stray cats approaching the food she had left. The shy animals didn’t show themselves. Only when she rose at last and headed back, the hill now bright with sun, did the strays come out.

They appeared swiftly behind her, thin, wary, dark-faced cats crowding around the pie plate, snatching up the old lady’s offerings. Dulcie and Joe remained very still, watching them. The fog had blown away, the ragged cliffs below emerging dark and wild, the sea black and heaving, the narrow ribbon of highway glistening wet-only the crest of the hill seemed to be warmed by the rising sun. A scream startled Joe and Dulcie. They leaped for shelter. The strays vanished. Lucinda, halfway across the hill, stopped and turned, looking below her.

The yelp came again: It was a dog, one of the pups. The cats knew that voice. A pup yowling with pain and fear. They reared up in the grass to see.

There was no car on the highway to have hurt a puppy. Stretching taller, they saw Clyde and Charlie standing at the edge of the road staring back toward the village. Charlie held the bigger pup on a leash-that was the pup she had named Hestig. The pup fought his lead, lunging and trying to bolt away, his feet sliding on the asphalt as he tried to join his brother, who raced madly toward the village, yipping and screaming.

Clinging to Selig’s back was a small animal, a dark little creature yowling and clawing, its fluffy tail lashing with rage. When Selig swerved from the road, the little animal rode him like a bronc-buster; they vanished among the houses.

Joe stared after them, torn between amazement and a huge belly laugh.“So that was what the pups were afraid of-a mangy little cat. That’s why they didn’t want to come up Hellhag Hill.”

Below them, down the hill, Clyde stood on the road, staring at where the pup had vanished.“Whatwasthat thing? What kind of wild-”

“Cat,” Charlie said, doubled over laughing, and trying to hold the plunging Hestig.

“No, not a cat. It was some kind of wild animal. No cat would? My God. A cat?”

“A very small cat,” Charlie said. “And very, very mad.” She knelt and pulled Hestig close to her, stroking him and speaking softly until he became quiet. “A cat, Clyde. A tiny, angry little cat.” She watched Clyde take off jogging, hoping to round up Selig. “They never,” she told Hestig, “cats never cease to surprise me.”

“I hope,” Dulcie whispered, “that little cat finds her way back.” She imagined the little stray leaping off Selig’s back in the middle of the village, confused among so many cars and people, not knowing where to run.

“Those cats might be wild and shy,” Joe said, “but they haven’t survived without being clever. She’ll be okay. Why was Clyde walking the dogs here? The highway’s no place for those two.”

“Do you think he came to follow Lucinda, after Harper’s questions about her?”

“After he raggedmefor being nosy? That would be more than low.”

They watched Lucinda, across the hill, hurrying down to join Charlie; Charlie had slowed, waiting for her. Lucinda fell into step, smiling as if she had enjoyed the spectacle of runaway Selig, as if she had liked seeing one of the wild, shy felines show some unexpected spunk.

Lucinda and Charlie had known each other only casually, through Wilma, until Shamas’s death drew Wilma, herself, to see Lucinda more often. Then Charlie, with her usual warmth, had taken a deeper interest in the old woman. Gently, Charlie put her arm around Lucinda, gave her a hug. “Did you see poor Selig? Was that one of the little cats you’ve been feeding?”

“I believe it was,” Lucinda said, laughing. “Wild is the word for that one.”

“How many cats are there, Lucinda? Are they all that wild? Where did they come from?”

“I think there are six or seven. They appeared a few days after the quake. I only get glimpses of them, usually one at a time. Only that dark little cat-the one that just rode away on the back of Clyde’s dog-only that one has had the nerve to approach me.”

“Cat the color of charred wood,” Charlie said with interest. “Black and brown swirled together on the palette.”

“Tortoiseshell,” Lucinda said.

“They must be glad of the food you bring. Though surely they are hunters.”

“I’m sure they are. They’re most likely feral cats, they’re far too shy to be simply strays.”

The old woman was silent a moment. Joe and Dulcie slipped quickly through the grass, following close behind the two women.“Maybe,” Lucinda said, “Pedric would have some knowledge about feral cats. Pedric is Shamas’s first cousin. He seems to have some interesting theories about-feral animals.” She hesitated. “Strange theories, maybe. But these cats strike one as rather strange.”

“Is Pedric the thin old man? The one of slighter build?”

“Yes, that’s Pedric.” She glanced at Charlie. “He’s? very kind. He’s one of Shamas’s relatives that I? feel comfortable with. He and Newlon Greenlaw. Newlon? tried to save Shamas, you know.”

Charlie nodded.

“Pedric is? perhaps not as harsh as the others. Perhaps he has more of the old-country ways,” Lucinda said shyly. “Pedric Greenlaw might have stepped right out of his own myths, out of the same dark and shadowed worlds that shape his folktales.”

“He sounds interesting,” Charlie said, pushing back her windblown red hair. “I’ve always loved storytellers. It’s a wonderful art: the skill to draw you in, make you see and live a tale as if you were there, to truly wrap you in the story.”

“Pedric? I think he looks at life through the lens of his stories? through the lens of dead ages. He clings to the old myths just as Shamas did, to the Irish beliefs and folklore woven through their family. That history was very important to Shamas.”

“I didn’t know that about your husband.”

Lucinda smiled.“All the Greenlaws live to some extent a strange double existence. I think that in many ways they truly believe the old tales-believe in the old-world magic.”

She glanced at Charlie.“And yet another part of them-except perhaps Pedric and Newlon-is as cold and selfish as it is possible to be. That? that is the way Shamas was.”

Charlie turned to look at her.

“Well, I’m not grieving for Shamas,” Lucinda said softly. “If I am grieving, it is only? for myself, for what I have? missed.”

And,Dulcie thought,grieving for a life wasted.She thought about what Lucinda had told Wilma, in a moment like this when Lucinda seemed to feel the need to talk, perhaps to bare a bit of her soul.

Lucinda had come to have tea with Wilma; Dulcie had been lying in her favorite spot on the blue velvet couch pretending to nap. Lucinda told Wilma that when the police came to her door that morning to tell her that Shamas was dead, she’d felt a drop of emotion straight down into panic, and then, almost at once, she’d been swept by a surge of relief so powerful that she’d tried to hide it from the officers, such a sense of freedom, of elation that the painful burden had gone from her life, that Shamas’s lies and cheating were ended. That she could, at last, know some peace. Her words had seemed to spring from such a strong need to unburden herself; and when Wilma put her arm around her, Lucinda wept helplessly.

She told Wilma that she should have walked away from Shamas years before, should have taken the responsibility to change her life, but that she’d never been brave enough. Had never had the courage to walk out on Shamas Greenlaw.

But Charlie was saying,“Wherever those wild cats came from, the little creatures are lucky to have you, Lucinda.” Gently, Charlie shortened Hestig’s leash, to make him walk by her heel.

“Maybe with time,” Lucinda said, “they’ll grow tame, and I can find homes for them. The strange thing is,” she said, glancing at Charlie, “how powerfully those wild cats draw me. I don’t usually think about stray animals; the world is full of strays, and I can’t change the world. But these cats?” Lucinda shrugged. “Maybe they’re something to hold on to, just now. Something outside myself, to love and care about.”

Charlie smiled at her, and nodded.

“Perhaps,” Lucinda said, “it’s their freedom, too, that draws me-and the mystery of why they appeared so suddenly on Hellhag Hill, where, in all my years of walking there, I’ve seldom seen any creature.”

The two women turned down Ocean onto the grassy median, Hestig walking sedately at Charlie’s side, watching his manners now, as if the spectacle of a cat attacking his brother had made a lasting impression. If the pup was aware of Joe and Dulcie slipping through the shadows behind him beneath the eucalyptus trees, he gave no sign other than to twitch an ear back, once, and wag casually. And soon Lucinda turned away, not toward her own street as she usually did, but in the opposite direction, into the heart of the village, leaving Charlie and Hestig to cross to Charlie’s apartment above the shops on Ocean.

None of the shops was yet open, but the little cafes were busy. The cats followed Lucinda, padding along behind, dodging joggers and dog walkers. The old lady was just passing the post office, watching a yardman across the street watering the planter beds in front of Cannady’s, that nice Western shop that Dulcie loved, which had such beautiful embroidered denim and leathers. Cannady’s front garden was brilliant with impatiens and lilies, behind its low wrought-iron fence. Lucinda had stopped to admire the garden when Dirken and Newlon Greenlaw came around the corner-and immediately Lucinda drew back into the shadows, stood very still, watching them.

The two men were walking slowly just at the curb, so close to the line of parked cars that the cats heard Newlon’s jacket brush against a rearview mirror. Both men walked hunched, their heads bent as if looking into the car windows.

It took only a second. The two were quick; they paused, the cats heard a little click as if a car door had opened, another click as it closed again, and the men moved on, Newlon shoving something into his jacket pocket, some small item he had snatched from the seat of the car. A camera? A purse? Perhaps a cell phone.

Lucinda stood staring, a look of shock and anger on her face-a look as if she had been personally affronted.

Then she turned away and hurried into the Swiss House, taking refuge in the first empty booth, busying herself with the menu. The cats, leaping up onto the window box among the flowers, watched her ordering, watched her settle back sipping her coffee. Lucinda was more than usually pale, and her thin old hands were shaking.

7 [????????: pic_8.jpg]

DINO’S HAD the best fish and chips in the village. Max Harper, having picked up an order of takeout, sat in his king cab pickup eating his dinner and watching, through the lighted motel window across the street, Cara Ray Crisp skinning out of her sweatshirt. Cara Ray hadn’t bothered to pull the blinds. She was only a slip of a thing, tiny and thin, but well endowed, the kind of delicate creature who would have appealed exactly to Shamas Greenlaw.

Harper had backed his truck into a narrow drive between Harren’s Gallery and Molena Point Drugs, a lane so overgrown with jasmine that the vines trailed across the truck’s roof and down the side windows. For some time Cara Ray had talked on the phone, lying nude on the bed, propped against the pillows, sipping on a canned drink; and now she was tying on abikini top. As he watched her roll her long blond hair into a knot and secure it, and pull on the bottom half of her bathing suit, Harper had no notion that he, in turn, was watched, from the backseat of the king cab.

Sitting on the cab floor behind Harper, peering up between the bucket seats, Joe Grey could see through the windshield the little pantomime in Cara Ray’s lighted motel room, and he had to smile. Max Harper, spying on Cara Ray’s strip act like some cheap voyeur, would be enjoying every rousing minute-free entertainment served up with his takeout dinner, all in the line of duty.

The fish and chips smelled so good that Joe was tempted to slash out with a quick paw and snag a nice warm chunk of fried cod. Maybe Harper wouldn’t miss just one piece. Why was it that, so often when he did a bit of surveillance, the watchee enjoyed a nice meal, while the watcher ended up faint with hunger?

As Cara Ray stepped to the window, Harper drew back behind a lifted newspaper. She stood looking down at the street, then turned away again, a towel over her shoulder as if she were headed for the pool: a little break between her callous and bad-mannered visits to Lucinda Greenlaw. She’d been to see the old woman three times in three days, the last encounter stretching into dinner and on to midnight-Dulcie said the sleek little blonde had made herself very much at home among the male Greenlaws, drawing the cousins and nephews to her like flies to honey, despite the fact that the Greenlaw clan didn’t take quickly to strangers. She said Newlon and Dirken had been all over Cara Ray. “No queen in heat, with a dozen toms raking around her, has any more nerve than that one.”

Cara Ray had pulled up at Lucinda’s that first day in a gleaming new Jaguar, wearing a fur wrap against the chill of Molena Point’s ocean breeze. The mink and the car, Dulcie said, were very likely gifts from Shamas. Lucinda had answered the door wearing a voluminous apron and wiping flour from her hands.

“I’m Shamas’s friend, Mrs. Greenlaw. From the boat. I was there the night Shamas died.”

Talk about brass. And Lucinda too polite to send her packing. The older woman had asked Cara Ray in and even made tea for her. Dulcie had watched, disgusted, as they settled down before the fire. But the day was chill, and through the closed windows, she couldn’t hear a word; it wasn’t necessary, though. From their expressions and Cara Ray’s body language, even a dunce could see that the little blonde was buttering up Lucinda shamefully.

The moment Lucinda rose to make fresh tea, Cara Ray had gone into action.

She was swift and thorough, riffling through Lucinda’s desk and through her checkbook. She had begun on the books that lined the fireplace, reaching behind the lower rows to feel along the walls, when she heard Lucinda return.

Lucinda entered the room to see Cara Ray sitting innocently cuddled in her chair beside the hearth.

Of course Dulcie couldn’t leave that little episode alone; since Cara Ray’s arrival, Dulcie had hung on the fence every waking moment. If Molena Point Library had a resident cat, she was not currently in residence; she hardly went home for meals. Cara Ray returned the next day and the next, and Dulcie was there. Again on the third day Cara Ray stayed until midnight.

Now, with Joe and Dulcie’s “meddling,” as Clyde would put it, with Dulcie’s anonymous suggestion to Harper, the captain was-pardon the pun-taking a good look at Cara Ray. It had begun earlier that afternoon, when Harper had stopped by Clyde’s and mentioned he had a make on Raul Torres, and Joe and Dulcie decidedto take a ride.

It was Saturday, and at Harper’s suggestion, Clyde planned to take Selig up to Harper’s pasture to work on the pup’s obedience training in a large, open area. The two pups were impossible together; Charlie had taken Hestig home to her apartment. She and Clyde couldn’t even attend the same obedience class; the pups did nothing but taunt each other, play on each other’s foolishness. Joe had been shocked out of his claws when Clyde actually signed up for the class at the community center.

Surprisingly, both pups had learned toSit,toComeon command, and, sometimes, to take the sitting position atHeel-except when they were together. Then they were oblivious, had never before heard those words, had no notion what they meant.

So that afternoon Harper, still in uniform, had taken a few hours off, left his unit parked in front of Clyde’s, and he and Clyde had headed up the hills in Clyde’s ‘29 Chevy, the convertible top folded down, Selig securely tethered in the rumble seat-and Joe and Dulcie concealed on the little shelf behind the seats, beneath the folded leather top.

It was hot as sin in there, but, crouched just behind the men’s heads, they could hear every word.

“You started to tell me about this accident victim,” Clyde said, turning up Ocean. “Torres, you said?” He seemed far more willing to talk with Harper about the case when he thought Joe wasn’t around.

“Raul Torres. He did give the antique car agency his right name. Torres was a PI working out of Seattle. I don’t know why he used the fake address. Maybe he used that routinely, for security reasons.” Even Max Harper, Joe thought with interest, seemed more comfortable relating information in a supposedly cat-free environment.

“I called Torres’s office a dozen times before I got his secretary. She was closemouthed until I identified myself. Said she’d call me back While I waited, she called the station, checked me out. Called me back to say Torres was on vacation, that she didn’t expect to hear from him for maybeanother week She’d gone in to do the billing.

“I told her Torres was dead. Took her a few minutes to take that in. When she felt like talking again, she said she’d made reservations for Torres at the Oak Breeze, in Molena Point, beginning last Saturday. That he’d gone down to L.A. on a case, had planned to leave there Saturday, was meeting someone in Molena Point Saturday night, a woman-girlfriend, she said.”

“You find a motel registration?” Clyde asked as he turned up the long dirt road leading to Harper’s acreage.

“Nothing under Torres, not in Molena Point. But the fact he was a PI keeps me digging.”

“So he was a PI,” Clyde said. “That doesn’t mean he was murdered.”

“Of course not,” Harper said, amused. “But it does make me wonder.”

The house at the end of the lane was white clapboard, with a four-stall barn behind and an open, roofed hay shed. The stable yard was shaded by three huge live oak trees, the garden weedy and neglected since Harper’s wife died. They pulled up beside the barn, and while the two men were occupied tying a long, thin line to Selig’s choke chain, the cats, panting from the heat, slipped out from under the folded leather top and beat it for the hay shed.

Scorching up the stacked bales to crouch high beneath the shadowed roof, they watched Harper head for the house and return carrying two cans of Coke. The slam of the screen door started Selig barking, and Clyde couldn’t shut him up.

One word from Harper, and the pup was silent.

Clyde scowled at Harper and led Selig out into the pasture; the puppy pressed his nose immediately to the ground, jerking on the lead, ignoring Clyde, snuffling deeply at the delicious scent of horse manure.

Dulcie made herself comfortable on the baled hay, raking her claws deep.“Torres died Sunday morning,” she said softly.

Joe rolled over, slapping at straws, and turned to look at her.

“If Torres drove up from L.A. Saturday,” she said, “and if he was with a woman in the village on Saturday night, as his secretary told Harper, then what was he doing driving south again, before dawn on Sunday?

“And who was the woman?” Her green eyes narrowed. “Cara Ray told Lucinda she arrived Saturday. Don’t you think it strange that Torres and Cara Ray would come to Molena Point on exactly the same day?”

“Dulcie?”

“Torres worked in Seattle. Shamas still had a business there.”

“So?”

“Lucinda told Wilma that when Shamas went up to Seattle she was sure he took a woman with him, not someone from Molena Point but someone he’d meet at the San Francisco airport-Lucinda did keep an eye on his phone bills.”

Dulcie smiled smugly.“Cara Ray lives in San Francisco, not too far from the airport. Shamas flew to Seattle, out of that airport, about once a month.

“So?” Joe said.

“Cara Ray was Shamas’s lover. But was she Torres’s lover, too? Did she see Torres, as well, when she was in Seattle? She must have been busy.”

Joe rolled over again, scratching his back against the rough straw; he looked at her upside down.“Say you’re right, Torres was in Molena Point to meet Cara Ray. What was he doing on the highway, Sunday morning?”

“Maybe they had a fight. Maybe he drove off mad, and that’s why he skidded.”

“What about the other car-the second car I heard, just before the crash?”

“Could someone else have known he was here? Cut his brake line, then-maybe phoned him, brought him out on some wild-goose chase, maybe something to do with the case he was working on in LA? That might explain why he was headed south again. Then they followed him, in the heavy fog, and honked to confuse him?”

“That’s really reaching for it, Dulcie.”

“Whatever the truth, there’s a connection. Cara Ray and this Torres didn’t just happen to arrive in the same town, on the same day. And why was Cara Ray snooping through Lucinda’s papers?”

Joe sighed at the monumental tangles that female logic could weave.“Even if there was a connection, we can’t pass on that kind of shaky guesswork to Harper.”

“Maybe no one’s mentioned Cara Ray to him. Maybe he has no reason to be interested in her. If he doesn’t know about the Seattle connection?”

“Dulcie?”

“We’d only be telling him the name of the woman Torres may have met. What harm in that?”

“Maybe. But we can’t call Harper from here.”

“Why not? There’s a phone on his belt.”

“Do you see a phone in this hay shed?”

She gave him a sweet, green-eyed smile.“There in the dinette, you can see it through the bay window; the phone’s right there on the table.”

Joe sighed.

“Go up on the shed roof, Joe. Where I can see you from the house. Signal me if he heads that way.” She leaped down the baled hay and was gone, streaking for the screen door.

Joe rose and shook the hay off. Sometimes Dulcie was impossible. He swarmed up a post to the roof of the shed. Impossible, clever, and enchanting.

Clyde thought that he, Joe Grey, got rabid over a robbery or suspicious death. But Dulcie set her teeth into a murder case as if she were fighting rattlesnakes.

Keeping low, out of the men’s view, and trying not to let his claws scritch on the galvanized roof, Joe slipped to the edge, where he could see the house.

Behind the bay window, a small shape moved, padding across the table.

Watching her paw at the phone, he remembered the night they’d memorized Harper’s various phone numbers from Clyde’s phone file. Clyde had pitched a fit because they’d left a few tooth marks in the cards; he could be so picky. It was a huge stroke of luck that Pacific Bell had recently offered free blocking for that insidious caller ID service that so many phones had subscribed to-including Molena Point PD.

Harper had caller ID blocking for his own phones, and with a little encouragement Clyde had come around-it was free, wasn’t it?

Wilma, always sensible, had subscribed at once. Wilma told Clyde there was no way he could stop Joe using the phone. She said if Clyde wanted to save himself acute embarrassment, he’d better go along with the blocking.

Out in the field, Clyde stood fifty feet away from Selig, his arm raised in an exaggerated signal, shouting“Sit! Sit, stay.”

Selig grinned at him and bounced around, playing with the nylon line that was supposed to control him.

Max Harper stood looking on, trying not to laugh. Faintly, Joe heard Harper’s phone buzz.

Harper picked up, and listened. An irritated look spread across his lean face. His replies were brief. But he didn’t hang up.

Harper might not like these anonymous phone calls, might not like the unsettling and impossible suppositions that they stirred, but he didn’t ignore them.

Behind Harper, Clyde walked across the field to Selig. With a lot of pushing, he made the pup sit. Then backing away, holding the line, Clyde didn’t take his eyes from the pup. The object was to get maybe fifty feet from Selig, making sure he remained sitting, to wait for a little while, then call him. The trainee was supposed to sit still until summoned by the trainer, then run directly to him and sit again, facing the tall human god.

What actually occurred was that the pup kept moving his butt around, only barely remaining in the sitting position, wild to lunge and run, and when Clyde did finally call him, Selig ran around Clyde, circling until Clyde’s legs were wrapped in the line. Harper, scowling into the phone, couldn’t help a lopsided grin as the pup hog-tied Clyde like a roped calf.

So far Clyde had made five attempts at this maneuver. During the first four lessons, Selig, when he was called, had run in the opposite direction, his nose to the ground.

Harper still had the phone to his ear, his expression sour but thoughtful. Dulcie would be telling him that Raul Torres arrived in Molena Point the same day as Cara Ray Crisp. That Cara Ray was staying at the Oak Breeze Motel. Dulcie wouldn’t elaborate on that point She’d probably say something like,I know it’s not really police business. Yet. Unless, of course, Shamas Greenlawdidn’tdie naturally.Joe could almost hear her whispering into the phone,Don’t you wonder, Captain Harper, why a PI from Seattle-where Shamas used to live, where Shamas still had a business-would plan to meet Shamas’s lover in Molena Point just two weeks after Shamas was drowned?

Joe watched Harper tuck the phone into his belt and cross the field to Clyde. If Harper had paid attention to that phone call, and if he meant to head back to the village to check on Cara Ray, he’d have to take either Clyde’s car or his own pickup; he’d left his police unit parked in front of Clyde’s place. Harper hadn’t made a call after Dulcie hung up, as if to send one of his officers to check on Cara Ray.

Harper and Clyde stood talking, then Harper headed toward the house. Joe, flattening himself against the metal roof, was about to signal Dulcie when Harper turned toward the stable, where his pickup was parked.

Joe beat him there. As Harper stepped into the cab, Joe had slid behind him into the back section of the king cab-avoiding the slamming door by a split second. There’d been no time to get Dulcie, she was still in the house.

He’d hoped she wasn’t snooping around Harper’s place, prying into the police captain’s personal life. She was so nosy. Oh, that would be too low.

Joe had liked the feel of the big truck careening down the hills, had listened to Harper calling the motel office, asking the location of Cara Ray Crisp’s room and if she had anyone with her. Not until Harper had stopped for takeout did Joe realize how hungry he was. The aroma of fish and chips had been almost more than he could stand. Then Harper was backing into the alley, Joe drooling for a bite of fried cod.

But now the cod was gone. And Cara Ray Crisp had turned out her light and left her room. Joe listened to Harper wad up the sack and napkins and stuff them in the trash bin. Wind swirled into the cab as Harper opened the door.

And Joe was alone, shut into Harper’s pickup, the door slammed practically in his face.

Leaping to the back of the front seat, he watched Harper cross the street into the patio of the Oak Breeze and move on past the pool toward the manager’s office, never glancing toward Cara Ray as she descended the stairs and chose a chaise by the pool. Dropping her towel across it, she stretched out.

Cara Ray was not the only sunbather. Half a dozen other greased bodies reclined like oiled sardines laid out on grids to dry. The sun was low, but the evening was still warm, the pool as blue as the eyes of a rutting Siamese.

The police captain, moving on into the office, would quickly find out when Cara Ray had checked in, what name and credit card she had used, if she had arrived in a car, if Raul Torres had been registered, if Cara Ray had registered for a single or double, if she had been seen with anyone.

But, Joe wondered, if she had come here to meet Torres, and Torres came up missing, why hadn’t Cara Ray gone directly to the police? Why wasn’t she looking for the guy?

With questions buzzing in his head as thick as flies on stale cat food, he watched a young man come around the corner from the direction of the parking lot, wearing loose swim trunks, flipflops, and an open shirt, heading for the pool. Choosing a chaise near Cara Ray but facing the opposite direction, he adjusted the back to a moderate recline, made himself comfortable, and opened a newspaper.

Behind the paper, he spoke; he didn’t look around at Cara Ray. He was a big-boned, wide-shouldered guy. Square jaw, sandy hair, and freckles-If this guy isn’t a Greenlaw,Joe thought,yours truly is a ring-tailed gorilla.

And was he staying at the Oak Breeze? Or had he parked in the visitors’ lot behind the motel? As far as Joe knew, none of the Greenlaws was staying in a motel; they were all too tight with their cash. Had this guy met Cara Ray at Lucinda’s and made a date with her? Or were they old friends? And why the secrecy?

Dropping down onto the front seat of the king cab, Joe fought the door handle, pawing and pulling at it-but even his considerable tomcat strength was almost no match for General Motors. He got the door open at last, bruising his paws. Within seconds Joe was across the street crouching in the geraniums that bordered the wide tile patio, looking out at Cara Ray reclining on her chaise beside the long, blue pool.

8 [????????: pic_9.jpg]

THE GERANIUM thicket was dense and tall enough to conceal a dozen tomcats, but the long stretch of tiled paving beyond it, between Joe Grey and his quarry, offered no cover. Away across the open patio, Cara Ray and the man behind the newspaper were speaking quietly. Cara Ray, stretched out on her chaise on her stomach, had untied her bikini bra to avoid strap marks, her well-oiled body highlighting a golden tan. Joe, watching her lips moving, tried to tell what she was saying, but he wasn’t any good at lipreading. He supposed, like most things in life, that skill took some effort to master. Near him under the geranium leaves, a sparrow was hopping, picking up seeds, forcing Joe to exercise every ounce of self-control not to snatch the dumb little morsel and chomp him.

The flowers were so pungent and spicy that his fur would smell like geraniums for the next week. Beneath his paws, the earth was damp; as he sauntered out onto the patio he left a trail across the tiles of dark, wet pawprints.

Cara Ray had her eyes closed. Joe lay down beneath her chaise, behind her visitor, stretching out on the warm tile paving. His view up through the webbing was of Cara Ray’s cheek and a lot of her anatomy. She smelled like coconut oil. He couldn’t see her companion’s face, only the breadth of his shoulders, and his legs and feet, which were indecently hairy, for a human. Dark, curly hair, though the hair on his head was light. His body had the kind of tan that, once it has peaked, begins to look dull and flaking. Compared with Cara Ray’s blond radiance, he looked like a dust-covered mannequin that someone had dragged from an attic and posed on the chaise with an open newspaper.

“Are you sure you didn’t find anything, Cara Ray? Where were you looking?”

“Sam, you’d know if I did. It’s only been three days. Sitting in that old woman’s stuffy parlor drinking tea until I think I’ll throw up-and at night, listening to their boring stories. Grown men and women, telling fairy tales.” She raised her head to look at him.“Youmade yourself scarce enough.” Glancing down, she saw Joe under her chaise, and caught her breath. Snatching up her towel, she flapped it at him. “Shoo. Shoo.”

Joe rose and moved away, out of her line of sight.

“Wha’d you want me to do, Cara Ray, jump up and throw my arms around you? Anyway, who’d have the chance, with Cousin Dirken all over you?”

Cara Ray laughed.“Farting around repairing that house. What a joke.” She glared under the chaise, didn’t see Joe.

Sam sniggered.“Pulling off the siding, chopping holes in that old cement and filling ‘em up again.” He fished a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, carefully selected one from the center, where it presumably wasn’t crushed, and lit up. “Dirken tags me around every minute I’m at the house, won’t let me out of his sight. Nearly has palsy if I head out into the yard.”

She half rose, holding the bra.“If he watches you so close, then how do you thinkIcan do any better? He tags me, too-as bad as Newlon.”

“When Dirken watches you, Cara Ray, his mind isn’t on what you’re looking for. More likely on what he’swantingto look for.”

She bellowed out a laugh, an alarming bray for such a sleek, petite lady.

“And the old woman?” he said. “She suspect anything?”

“Not a clue. Dim as a blind deacon passing the collection plate.” She rolled over on her back, clutching her untied bra to herself, revealing more white skin than tan. “What about Torres?”

He lowered the paper and raised up, looking around at the other sunbathers.“Torres died in an accident, Cara Ray. His brakes failed.” He half turned, his face in profile behind the raised newspaper. “It’s time you got some results out of that old woman.”

She sat up, straddling the chaise, tying on her bra.“I’m working on it. You think I can just waltz in there and make nice to hiswidow,right away we’re bosom buddies? You think that dry old biddy is going to trust me? Share all her girlie secrets, right down to what Shamas was like in bed-if she can remember that far back. You think she’s going to cozy up to me the way she does to Pedric? And we don’t need that buddy-buddy stuff, either, between those two. I think?”

“Well,I have to be careful, Cara Ray. You know my old parole officer lives in this burg.”

“Not likely you’ll run into him. Why would you? If you stay out of jail.”

“It’s a her. And I damn sure might run into her. She and Lucinda are thicker than cats in a bowl of cream. All I need is for that bitch to get on my case. She sent me back twice, always hassling me. Sent me right damn back to federal prison.”

“So? You’re clean now. You told me you were clean.”

He glanced back at her and smiled.

She laughed.“If you?” She stopped speaking, rolled over suddenly onto her belly, hiding her face.

Joe, stretching up to see what had startled her, backed deeper under the chaise as the uniformed captain swung out of the motel office. Harper didn’t seem to notice Cara Ray, not a blink as he headed across the patio toward the street. Joe kept his head down, hiding the white strip on his face and his white paws, muttering a little cat prayer that Harper, watching Cara Ray out of the corner of his eye, wouldn’t notice one small, gray, immobile hunk of cat fur crouching in the shadow under the chaise.

Leaving the patio, Harper walked right on past his king cab, never glancing at it. Probably he’d leave the truck parked between the buildings under the jasmine vine until Cara Ray and her friend had left the pool area. It was just after Harper left that the conversation turned even more murky. Sam, turning the newspaper page as if he were reading, said, “I need to move on, Cara Ray. Before the funeral. I’ve details to tend to.”

“You leave before the funeral,” she snapped, “don’t you think someone will wonder? The funeral’s what you came for. And as to the machine sales, that little adventure was your idea, not mine.”

“One road leads to the other, Cara Ray.” “What about the boat? The cops been back on it?” “Why would they? They got no reason. And what would they find? There’s nothingtofind.” He snapped the newspaper irritably. “It was an accident, Cara Ray.” “One road leads to the other, Sam,only if you make a track between them.” Cara Ray rose; her look was as brittle as broken glass. Heading for the stairs, her blue eyes and delicate features shone as cold as an arctic ice field.

9 [????????: pic_10.jpg]

THE TEA tray, on the coffee table before the fire, was set with Wilma’s hand-thrown ceramic cups and saucers and arranged with an assortment of lemon bars, scones, and fruit-filled custards. The blazing fire cast bright reflections across Wilma’s deep-toned oriental rug and across the blue velvet couch and love seat. Above the mantel, a rich Jeannot painting of the Molena Point hills lent further richness to the cozy room. Behind Wilma’s cherry desk, the white shutters were open to the stormy afternoon, framing the old oak trees that twisted across her tangled flower garden. Wilma had put on a CD of Pete Fountain, the bright clarinet jazz filling the house with its happy sound. Dulcie sat on Wilma’s desk, her green eyes deeply amused. They were waiting for Lucinda.

“It was a cat,” Dulcie was telling Wilma. “A tiny little cat, riding that big pup. You should have seen Selig racing away with the littlest, scruffiest kitten you can imagine raking his backside. Kitten the color of charred wood, and fierce-angry as a tiger.”

It seemed to Dulcie that all her world suddenly was filled with young animals, both exasperating and lovable. She had spent the morning sitting on Clyde’s back fence beside Joe, watching as Clyde tried to train Selig. Selig had accepted the command,Sit.He knew what it meant, and he obeyed when the mood struck him. ButDownseemed a position with which he was not conversant. Clyde might be a fine auto mechanic, but as a dog trainer he was about as effective as a declawed cat in a room full of Rottweilers.

Wilma adjusted the quilted tea cozy and glanced across at Dulcie.“Where do you suppose those cats came from? You always told me the hill wasn’t inviting to cats, that the village cats didn’t like to go there.”

“Sometimes it does seem a frightening place,” Dulcie said. “But that young cat doesn’t seem to mind; she acts as if the whole hill belongs to her.”

Dulcie licked a bit of scone and custard that Wilma had put on a small flowered plate for her.“I saw those cats, the first time, a week after the earthquake, slipping across the hill like shadows. I couldn’t get close, I could hardly see them except the little dark one. She stopped and looked back at me, stood for a long time, staring, before she raced away. I thought she wanted to comenearer, but then she’d glance behind her almost as if the others didn’t want her to get friendly.”

Dulcie smiled.“She’s a terrible little morsel, with that dirty blackish-and-brown fur all matted and sticking out every which way. No more than skin over bones, and she can’t be four months old.”

“Do you suppose they lost their home in the earthquake?” Wilma asked.

“Maybe,” Dulcie said. “Maybe they’re a small feral colony that fled up the coast when the quake hit.” The epicenter of the earthquake had been some eighty miles to the south of Molena Point. “Maybe they’re from one of those managed colonies that you read about.”

Occasionally, Dulcie’s favorite cat magazines would do a story about feral-cat colonies that were fed by groups of volunteers, people who trapped the cats to treat them for illnesses or injuries and give them their shots, then turned them loose again, to live free.

“Little feral kittens,” she said softly.

Wilma stopped fussing with the tea tray and gave her a long look; but something in Dulcie’s tone kept her from pursuing the subject.

That little feral kitten,Dulcie thought.So bold and wild.She ate a bit more scone, lapped up her custard, and watched through the window as Lucinda Greenlaw’s New Yorker drew to the curb. Wilma’s purpose in asking Lucinda over for tea, that day, was not simply social, but to find out about Cara Ray Crisp, a favor for Max Harper. Harper didn’t often ask his friends for this sort of snooping.

Of the five people on the boat when Shamas drowned, Newlon had come directly from docking theGreen Ladyat Molena Point harbor, to be with Lucinda. Winnie and George Chambers had made their condolence call a few days later; Winnie Chambers had been sympathetic and gentle, but her husband George had seemed stiff. Dulcie had watched him fidget, definitely ill at ease-as if tenderness and excessive emotion were not in his nature. Sam Fulman had come sauntering in two days after Newlon arrived, saying he’d had to run up to the city on business.I’ll just bet,Dulcie had thought. Lucinda had not, of course, expected to see Shamas’s mistress at her door at any time, come to make condolences.

The six members of the sailing party had all performed the duties of crew on the three-cabin vessel, though Dulcie had her doubts about how much work Cara Ray undertook. More likely her contribution was in bed.

In Seattle, where theGreen Ladyhad gone into port after Shamas drowned, the police had put the death down as a drinking accident; Shamas’s blood alcohol had been high enough to easily account, under the midnight-storm conditions, for a fatal error of judgment and balance.

With Dulcie’s phone tip, Captain Harper had become increasingly curious. He had no real grounds, however, to question Cara Ray-hence Wilma’s conversation with Lucinda.

Dulcie, curling down on the desk as Lucinda settled comfortably before the fire, watched Wilma pour out the tea and serve the little plates and listened through the small talk about Wilma’s garden and the weather, as Wilma gently moved the conversation toward Cara Ray’s visits.

“I suppose Cara Ray drove down to Molena Point alone?”

“Oh, I’m sure she’s here alone. Well, at least she hasn’t mentioned anyone else. She doesn’t drive over, except that first time. She walks the few blocks from her motel. The second time she came, Dirken drove her home. The next night, too, because it was late, nearly midnight.” Lucinda raised an eyebrow. “I expect Newlon and his cousins would all have liked the opportunity.”

“She didn’t mention anyone she might have driven down from the city with? Or perhaps someone she knew here in Molena Point?”

“No, she didn’t. The woman is not that free with information about herself. What is it, Wilma? Why the questions?”

“Nothing,” Wilma said. “Simple curiosity. If she is such a beauty, as you say, I thought perhaps? one would wonder if there’s a? gentleman friend.”

Lucinda went silent, drawing into herself.“You mean another gentleman friend, since Shamas.” She looked at Wilma helplessly.

This was not, Dulcie thought, easy for either of them.

“She spent a lot of time with you,” Wilma said. “I suppose she talked about the accident.”

Lucinda nodded stiffly.“She did. On her first visit. But she said nothing that the Seattle police didn’t tell me, if that’s what you’re after.”

“She seems,” Wilma said smoothly, “to have made herself very much at home.”

Lucinda flushed.“She? made no bones that she was Shamas’s ‘good friend,’ as she put it.”

Lucinda sipped her tea nervously.“She has no shame. She told me how she had loved to sit on shipboard in the evenings listening to Shamas tell his wonderful tales.”

“That first visit-what else did she talk about?”

“What is this, Wilma? What are these questions? Why are you doing this?”

“I’m trying to understand,” Wilma said quietly. She did not mention Max Harper, nor would she. What she was doing for Harper, Dulcie knew, put Wilma almost in the category of a police snitch. And a snitch didn’t reveal her role; that did not make for good law enforcement.

“I’m trying,” Wilma said, “to understand why Cara Ray came here. And why you’ve allowed her in, Lucinda. Not once, but three times. What could she possibly?”

“It was the Greenlaws,” Lucinda said crossly. “Dirken, Newlon-they made her very welcome; that first day, they asked her to stay the evening.”

“Did you? show her around the house?”

Lucinda flushed.“She said? that Shamas had bragged so about it.”

Dulcie felt her tail lashing. She couldn’t believe that even Lucinda would be so spineless. She could just imagine Lucinda taking that woman on a nice little guided tour of Shamas’s home, pointing out all the valuable antiques.

Was that what Cara Ray was looking for? Small items she might steal, valuable pieces that perhaps Shamas had mentioned? His old and valuable chess sets, for instance, which had been written up once in theGazette.Or the authentic scrimshaw and carved-ivory collection that Shamas had liked to show visitors. Had Lucinda showed them all to Cara Ray? What was it in human nature that made people so trusting?

“Why do you allow it?” Wilma said gently. “Why don’t you send her packing?”

“I truly don’t know. Partly, I suppose, a false sense of good manners. It’s hard to break habits instilled in you so severely as a child. The same hidebound manners,” Lucinda said with uncharacteristic boldness, “that keep me from sending the whole Greenlaw tribe packing.

“Well,” she said, smiling, “at least the Greenlaw women have begun to do the cooking. Not that I like their heavy meals, or like them in my kitchen. But I don’t have to cook for that tribe.”

Ibet you still have to buy the groceries,Dulcie thought with a catty little smirk.

“The rest of the clan will arrive in a few more days,” Lucinda said. “Then the funeral, and they’ll be gone again, and Cara Ray, too.

“Oh, I dread the funeral, Wilma. His family is going to turn it into a regular dirge of moaning and weeping and showmanship. I don’t think they cared a fig about Shamas, but they’re planning all manner of things for the wake, weepy poetry readings, flowery speeches-I’d rather havenoceremony.”

“Certainly,” Wilma said, “this Cara Ray won’t have the nerve to show her face.”

“She has bought a new dress for the occasion. ‘A little black dress,’ she told me.”

Wilma’s eyes widened. “She wouldn’t actually?”

Lucinda’s face flushed. “She intends to be there. She’s a whore, Wilma. Nothing but a common whore.”

Dulcie stared-she had never heard Lucinda speak so plainly. Maybe there was more grit to Lucinda Greenlaw than she had ever guessed.

“Lucinda, send that woman packing,” Wilma said. “Back to San Francisco. Don’t let her take advantage of you.”

“I? have a feeling about her, Wilma. That? that she knows things about Shamas I should be privy to.”

“What sort of things?”

“Something important. Something? I don’t know. Not personal things, but something to do with the estate, with his businesses. I want? to keep her around for a while.

“She’s buttering up Shamas’s nephews shamefully, but-well, they were all on shipboard together. I just? don’t want to send her away, yet, Wilma.”

Dulcie washed her paws, puzzling over Lucinda. All the pieces she knew about Lucinda Greenlaw never seemed quite to fit together. Lucinda seemed so shy and docile, yet sometimes she was surprisingly bold.

Dulcie was still wondering about the old lady that evening, as she and Joe peered through the lighted window into the crowded parlor-as they watched Cara Ray make nice with the younger Greenlaw men, the little blonde flirting and preening, drawing cold looks from Lucinda.

10 [????????: pic_11.jpg]

SEATED ON the Victorian couch between Dirken and Newlon, Cara Ray looked like a porcelain doll, her short pink skirt revealing a long expanse of slim, tanned leg as she dished out the giggles and charm.

If I were a human person,Dulcie thought jealously,I’d have legs even nicer. And I wouldn’t be a cheap hussy.From the fence, the cats enjoyed front-row seats to Cara Ray’s brazen display-she was the center of attention. They watched, fascinated, as she drew the Greenlaw men in like ants to syrup. Only Sam, Cara Ray’s friend from the Oak Breeze Motel, sat across the room as if he didn’t much care for her company.

The half dozen big-boned Greenlaw women watched Cara Ray’s performance with quiet anger. The dozen Greenlaw children who hunkered on the floor between the chairs of their elders watched their mothers, watched Cara Ray, and smirked behind their hands. The children, Dulcie thought, were amazingly obedient and quiet tonight, nothing like the way the little brats shouted and pushed and broke things in the village shops. Near the hearth, beside old Pedric, Lucinda sat quietly, too. The cats couldn’t read her expression.

Of those on board ship when Shamas drowned, only Winnie and George Chambers were not present. Harper had told Clyde he talked with them twice. Their answers to his questions were the same as they had given Seattle police, that they had not awakened that night, that they were heavy sleepers, had slept through the storm, did not know that Shamas had drowned until the next morning.

But tonight was story night and the cats forgot questions and police business as Dirken rose to tell his tale, standing quietly before the fire waiting for silence to touch the crowded room. But outdoors, around the cats, the breeze quickened. Wind whipped the parlor curtains and a gray-haired Greenlaw woman rose to shut the windows.

A series of slams, the windows were down, and the cats could hear nothing; Dirken’s voice was lost.

“Come on,” Dulcie hissed, “before they shut the back door, too. Maybe the screen’s unlatched.”

“And get shut in with that bunch?”

But he dropped from the fence and was across the weedy grass ahead of Dulcie and in through the screen, leading the way through the kitchen behind two stout Greenlaw women who stood at the sink rinsing dishes.

In the shadows of the dining room beneath the walnut buffet, they gained a fine view of table and chair legs, of human legs and a child here and there tucked among their elders’ feet. Neither Joe nor Dulcie liked the assault of so many human smells and so much loud talk and louder laughter; but who knew what the evening might offer?

Before the fire, Dirken looked smug and full of himself. His red hair hung over his collar in a shaggy ruff; his blue shirt fit tight over muscles that indicated he worked out regularly-prompting Dulcie to wonder if he had installed, in his travel trailer, some sort of gym equipment, to keep in shape while he took his little jaunts.

All the clan lived in new and luxurious trailers or RVs when they were on the road, which, Dulcie gathered from Lucinda’s remarks, was more than half the year. What these people did for a living wasn’t clear. If they traveled on business, what kind of business? Some kind of sales, Lucinda had told Wilma. But that was all she told her.

When the Greenlaw clan first arrived at the Moonwatch Trailer Park, the dozen nearly new travel vehicles checking in as a group, the proprietor had spoken to Max Harper, and Harper had checked them out. Since then, Dulcie had seen the police cruising that area on several occasions. She didn’t know what such a large traveling group might add up to, to alert Max Harper, but she didn’t laugh at him.

Standing before the hearth, Dirken waited. The parlor was hushed. The family, usually so violent and loud, so rude, was quiet now, and gentle-as if the tradition of story time touched powerful emotions, drawing them together.

“What shall it be?” Dirken said. “What will you hear? ‘Paddy’s Bride’? ‘The Open Grave’?”

“Tell ‘Drugen Jakey,’” Lucinda said softly. “Tell ‘Drugen Jakey’ again?”

“Yes,” said old Pedric, laying his hand on hers. “‘Drugen Jake’ fits these hills.”

Dirken looked at them with annoyance.

But then he masked his frown, whatever the cause. His voice softened, his manner and stance gentled, his voice embracing the old-country speech.“That tale be told twice before,” he told Pedric.

“Tell it,” a young nephew spoke up. “That tale belongs well to these coastal hills.”

“Ah,” Dirken said. “The green, green hills. Do they draw you, those rocky hills?” His laugh was evil. No one else laughed. Lucinda looked startled. Pedric watched quietly, clasping his wrinkled hands together, his lined face a study in speculation.

“All right, then,” Dirken said, “‘Drugen Jakey’ it will be. Well, see, there was a passel of ghosts down the village coomb, and worse than ghosts?”

Standing tall before the fire, his red hair catching the flame’s glow, his booted feet planted solidly, Dirken seemed to draw all light to himself.

“No man could graze his beasts down there for fear of th’ underworld beings. Th’ spirits, if they rose there and touched his wee cattle, wo’d send them flop over dead. Dead as th’ stones in th’ field. Devil ghosts, hell’s ghost, all manner of hell’s critters?”

In the silent room, cousins and aunts and nephews cleaved to Dirken’s words, as rapt as if they had never before heard the ancient myth.

“Oh yes, all was elder there?” Dirken said, and this was not a comfortable tale; Dirken’s story led his listeners straight down into a world of black and falling caverns that, though they excited Dulcie, made her shiver, too. Joe Grey didn’t want to hear this story; it made him flatten his ears and bare his teeth, made him want to scorch across the room and bolt out the nearest window.

But as the tale rolled over them all, painting the deep netherworld, Lucinda looked increasingly excited. Soon she seemed hardly able to be still, drinking in the nephew’s words as he led his listeners down and down among lost mountains and ragged clefts and enchanted fields that had never seen the sun, never known stars or moon.

Speaking the old words, Dirken seemed caught, himself, in the story, though he might have told it perhaps a hundred times-his broad Irish face gleaming as he painted for them a Selkie prince who, taking the form of a ramping stallion, charmed three human girls and led them down from this world through a clear, cold lake to waters that had never reflected earth’s sky. He spoke of griffons, of harpies, of a lamia rising from the flames of hell; he described so convincingly the hellbeasts that soon Dulcie, too, wanted to escape. Dirken spoke of upper-world fields and hills quaking and opening to that cavernous land. The stories made Joe Grey swallow backa snarl, made Dulcie back deeper beneath the buffet, hunched and tense.

It’s only a story,she told herself.Even if it were true, this place and this time are safe. Those stories, those times are ancient, they are gone. Whatever might once have lain beneath these hills, that was olden times, that isn’t now. Whatever strange tie that Joe and I might have to such a place, it can’t touch us here in this modern day, can’t reach us now.

And that knowledge both reassured and saddened her. Crouched in the shadows beneath Lucinda’s buffet, she felt a sense of mourning for her own empty past.

She had no certain history such as the Greenlaws knew. No real, sure knowledge of the generations that had come before her. The stories she had adopted as her own, from the Celts and Egyptians, were tales she had taken from books. She could not be certain they were hers, not the same as if the mother she had never known had given them to her.

If you don’t know the stories of your own past,Dulcie thought sadly,what can you cling to, when you feel alone? If you don’t have a family history to tell you who you are, everything flies apart.

It was when the storytelling had ended and trays of sandwiches were brought out from the kitchen with pots of tea and coffee, and everyone was milling about, that the cats saw Cara Ray rise and move away through the crowd, through the kitchen, and out to the backyard. They followed her, winding between chair legs and under the kitchen table and swiftly out through the screen door.

Crouched beside the back porch, they watched Newlon come out, too, furtively looking about. He saw Cara Ray, a dark shadow standing by the far fence, and approached her through the weedy yard. Cara Ray turned away stiffly, not as if she were waiting for Newlon, but as if she didn’t want him there. When he moved close to her, she pushed him aside so hard he lost his balance and half fell against the fence.

“Leave me alone, Newlon. Stay away from me.”

“What did I do, Cara Ray? You were all sweetness, there in the parlor.”

“Only in front of the others, so they wouldn’t? Stay away, Newlon. And stay away from Lucinda. You didn’t need to come here.”

“Of course I needed to come. On the boat, you? Shamas is dead, Cara Ray. Now we can?”

“I told you, Newlon, leave me alone. I don’t want to see you. Do you want me to go to the police?” she said, glancing toward the house. “Do you want me to tell them how Shamas died?”

“What would you tell them, Cara Ray?”

“You might be surprised.”

The cats, crouched in a tangle of dead weeds, listened with interest but drew back when the back door opened again and Dirken stepped out, moving through the dark yard as if he knew exactly where Cara Ray would be standing.

“Go on, Newlon. Dirken won’t like to find you here.”

“But I? But Cara Ray?”

“Go on, Newlon.” And, watching Newlon slip obediently away, Cara Ray smiled as lethally as a pit viper coiled to strike.

11 [????????: pic_12.jpg]

“I DON’T like to give you advice,” Joe told Clyde from atop the back fence, “but dogs really don’t respond very well to?”

Clyde looked up from the ragged lawn where he was trying to make Selig sit at heel.“Of course you like to give me advice. When have you ever been shy about laying your biased feline opinions on me?” Selig, in response to Clyde’s command, lay on his back, waving his paws in the air.

“So do it your way,” Joe said, amused.

Clyde turned his back, giving the pup his full attention.“Up-Sit,” he told Selig.

Selig wriggled and whined.

Clyde jerked the lead. Selig flipped over onto his feet and danced in a circle around Clyde, leaping to slurp his tongue across Clyde’s nose.

Silently Joe watched the little display of superior human intelligence.

Clyde turned to glower at him.“Shut up, Joe, and go away.”

“I didn’t say a word. But I can see that you’re right. You don’t need my advice. Anyone can tell you’re doing wonders with that puppy. I’d say you have absolutely no peer as a dog trainer. In fact-”

“Can it, Joe. The truth is, he’s just too young to train. He’s still a baby. In a few months when he’s older, he’ll-”

“In a few months when he’s older, if he keeps on playing with you and ignoring your commands, he’ll be a hundred times harder to deal with.”

Clyde sighed.

“For one thing, he’ll be twice as heavy, twice as hard to lift when he pulls that stuff. What you ought to do, is-”

“You’re going to hand out advice whether I want it or not. You can never keep your opinions-”

“You’re losing him, Clyde. You’re losing him before you have a good beginning. You can’t train a puppy like this-you’re going to make him untrainable.”

“And how do you know so much? What makes a mangy tomcat an authority on dog training?”

“I’m an animal. I know how an animal’s mind works. Cat or dog. You’re not thinking like a puppy. You just-”

Clyde stepped closer to the fence, fixing Joe with an enraged stare.“You are an expert in every facet of life. You not only read the editorial page and treat me to your learned interpretations, you are now a dog-training expert. To say nothing of your unmitigated conceit in furnishing the law-enforcement officers of this community with your invaluable consultation.”

“Can’t you move on past that incident? You’ve been chewing on it for days.” Joe glanced around at the neighbors’ houses. All the windows were blank, the yards empty; but he kept his voice low. “What was I supposed to do? The guy’s lying dead in his car, brake fluid dripping all over the place from a brake line that was cut as straight as if it had been sliced with a meat cleaver, and I’m supposed to walk away and say nothing?

“I hear a second car on the highway, hear it honk its horn just before the skid, and there are no other witnesses that I know of, and just because I’m a cat, I’m supposed to withhold that information from the law.

“Well, thank you very much, Clyde, but I don’t think so. And as to the dog training, if you’re so stiffnecked you can’t accept a little friendly advice when it’s offered in a kindly manner, then screw it. Go ahead and ruin a good dog!”

Selig, driven to madness by the lack of attention and his need to play, reared up against the fence, drawing his claws down the wood in long gouges-knowing that if he kept at Clyde long enough, Clyde’s ridiculous attempt at lessons would end and they’d have a nice roughhouse, rolling in the grass. Leaping at Clyde, raking at his arm and cheek, Selig left four long red welts down the side of Clyde’s face, narrowly missing Clyde’s eye, all the time barking with excitement into Clyde’s left ear. Joe imagined Clyde’s eardrum throbbing and thickening from the onslaught of those powerful sound waves. Clyde whacked the pup across the nose with the folded leash, his face red with pain, anger, and embarrassment, and his cheek bleeding.

Joe said no word.

“All right,” Clyde shouted, tossing the leash at the tomcat. “If you’re so damned smart, you train him!” And he spun around and slammed into the house.

Joe stared down at the leash lying in the grass. Selig began happily to chew it, working the good leather into his back incisors and gnawing with relish, his brown eyes rolling up to Joe, filled with deep satisfaction.

Joe considered taking the leash away from the pup and settling him down to a lying position with a sharp command and a few claws.

But he’d only make Clyde more angry, and more out of control.

And what good, for Clyde, ifhe,Joe Grey, trained the pup? What would Clyde learn?

A cat had to balance his willingness to help humankind with the knowledge that people must learn to do things for themselves.

After all, Clydehadbought a highly recommended dog-training book, and had actually read it. He had registered for, and attended two sessions of the dog-training class that Charlie insisted on-though so far, nothing seemed to have sunk in.

All Clyde did was baby the pups, laugh when they acted silly, and get mad when they didn’t mind him. The trouble with Clyde was, he was a pushover. He wanted the puppies to love him, he wanted to play with them and have fun.

If he’d just figure out how to make learning the best game of all, he could teach them anything. If he could make those babies love their obedience routines, he wouldn’t have a problem.

Trotting along the top of the fence to the maple tree that had become Dulcie’s second home, Joe stuck his nose in among the leaves.

Dulcie, curled up atop the fence, was glued to the scene at the Greenlaw house like ticks to a hound’s ear. The sporadic hammering he’d been hearing all afternoon came from a second-story dormer, where Dirken, perched on a tall ladder, was replacing some siding, nailing on the boards none too evenly. Joe nudged her. “You want to hunt? It’s getting cool. The rabbits?”

She shook her head, watching Dirken.“He ripped the siding off and looked all around inside with a flashlight. There’s a dead space in there, I think it goes under the attic. Those boards he took off, they’re maybe a little bit soft, but not really rotted. I had a look-until he chased me away.” Dulcie smiled. “I don’t think Dirken likes cats.

“Anyway, that siding’s no worse than the rest of the house.”

She glanced at Joe, saw his expression, and her eyes widened.“Okay, so I’m hanging out here too much. So come on,” she said softly. “Let’s hunt. Whatever he’s looking for, I guess he didn’t find it.” She gave him a sweet, green-eyed smile. “Come on, Joe. Let’s go catch a rabbit.” And she fled along the fence, dropped down into the next yard, and led Joe a chase through the village and up the tree-shaded median of Ocean, slowing at the cross streets, racing across the park above the Highway One tunnel and up into the hills.

There, among the tall, dense grasses, they killed and feasted, reveling in warm blood-for a few hours, indulging their wild, pure natures, forgetting the tedious intricacies of civilization and the trials of the human lives that touched them. Racing across the hills, madly, deliriously dodging and leaping, they came to ground at dusk in the ruins of an old barn and curled up together for a nap, daring any fox or raccoon to approach them.

But just before dawn they shrugged on again the cares of civilized life. Trotting home, they indulged in a detour up the roof of the Blankenship house and heard, through the open window, Mama talking to black-and-white Chappie, whom Dulcie had brought to her when he was a kitten. Chappie was grown now and handsome. Mama talked, but Chappie didn’t reply; nor could he, except with soft, questioning mews.A good thing,Dulcie thought,that he’s just an everyday cat. If hecouldtalk, Mama wouldn’t let him get in a word.Leaving the Blankenship house, they fled through the village to Jolly’s alley-a lovely example of civilization, the brick paving regularly scrubbed, the stained-glass windows of the little shops all polished, the jasmine vine neatly trimmed and sweet-scented, and the gourmet offerings always fresh, set out for village cats.

There they breakfasted on Jolly’s cold prime rib, leftover shrimp cocktail, and a dab of Beluga caviar; and it was not until the next night that Joe’s opinion about dog training was vindicated, that Max Harper gave Clyde exactly the same advice, word for word, that Joe Grey had given him.

Joe was sauntering up the back steps to the dog door when he heard dog claws scrabbling inside, on the linoleum, and Harper’s angry voice. “Get down! Stop that!” There was ayip,and puppy claws skidded across the kitchen floor.

Pushing inside to the heady smell of broiling hamburgers, Joe paused in the laundry, where old Rube and the three cats were taking refuge.

The kitchen was alive with the two gamboling pups rearing and bouncing like wild mustangs crazy on loco weed. Max Harper sat at the kitchen table, his long legs tucked out of the way, observing the enthusiastic youngsters in much the same way he might watch a gang of hophead street kids tearing up his jail.

Harper did not hate dogs. Harper loved dogs. When his wife, Millie, was alive they always had several German shepherds around their small ranch.

But Harper’s dogs, like his horses, were well mannered, carefully and patiently trained. As Joe stepped into the kitchen, Harper was saying, “I don’t mean to tell you your business, Damen. But these young dogs need a bit of work.”

Joe turned away, hiding a grin.

“They’re growing pretty fast,” Harper said. “The bigger they get, the harder they’re going to be, to-”

Clyde turned from the stove. His expression stopped Max.

“You don’t want my opinion?”

Clyde said nothing.

“Well, of course you’re right. They’re your pups, you don’t need to be told how to handle them.” He gave Clyde a long, droll stare. “I’m sure you’ll work it out-find homes for them before they tear down the walls.”

“They’re only puppies, Max. Don’t be so critical. You sound just like-likeCharlie”Clyde said hastily, glancing down at Joe. “Charlie says that stuff.” He took a long swallow of beer. “They’re just puppies. The vet says they’re only four or five months old. Give them time, they’ll settle down.”

“You’re saying they’re too young to train.”

“They’re just babies!” Clyde repeated.

“And already as big as full-grown pointers. If you don’t do something now, before they get any larger, they’ll be completely out of hand. If you don’t mind my saying, what you ought to do is?”

Clyde banged a plate of sliced onions onto the table, slammed down bottles of catsup and mustard, and dropped two split buns into the toaster.

Joe dared not make a sound. Laughter stuck in his throat like a giant hair ball. He watched Hestig rear up to smell the grilling hamburgers, watched Clyde drag the pups out to the backyard and shove the plywood barrier across the dog door. Clyde turned to look at Harper.

“Wilma says you were asking her some questions about Shamas Greenlaw’s relatives. What are you working on?”

“Simple curiosity,” Harper said shortly.

Clyde raised an eyebrow.

“For the last week or so, we’ve had a rash of shoplifting. Petty stuff.”

“The past week,” Clyde said.

“About the same length of time that Shamas’s relatives have been camped up at the Moonwatch. I’m just a bit curious.”

“Same kind of curiosity that took you sliding down Hellhag Canyon the other night.”

“What’s this, some kind of cross-examination?”

Clyde just looked at him.

“That trip down the canyon was well worth the trouble,” Harper said.

Clyde said nothing.

“I got a phone tip. Okay?”

Clyde’s gaze flickered.

The toaster popped the buns up. Clyde snatched them out and began busily to butter them.

Harper sipped his beer, watching Clyde.“Maybe I didn’t give you all the details. The night I went down the canyon, I get down to the wreck, my torchlight picks out a couple of scrape marks in the earth, where my men hadn’t stepped.”

Clyde dished up the burgers and put them on the table. Harper reached for the mustard.“There were pawprints on top of the scrapes. Big pawprints. And a small set of prints, like maybe a? squirrel.”

“You saw animal prints,” Clyde said.

“On top the animal prints was the clear print of a jogging shoe.”

“So someone went down the canyon. People go down there to hike. Naturally a hiker would be curious, seeing a wrecked car, particularly a vintage Corvette. Pity, to wreck a nice car like that.”

“To say nothing of getting dead in the process,” Harper said dryly.

“So you found a shoe print,” Clyde said with less rancor. “And??”

“Portions of the same print leading to the brake line, and two going away from it. Fragments, but enough to show a grid.”

Clyde put down his hamburger and paid attention.

“Several of the prints had been stepped on by the diamond pattern of my men’s boots-both those men wear the same brand of boots. Someone besides my men was down there,” Harper said, “just after the wreck. First, some kind of animals came prowling, directly after the wreck. Then a man wearing jogging shoes-those sets of prints were laid down before my men arrived-and my men were on the scene not ten minutes after the accident.”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

Harper looked hard at Clyde.“I’m saying that the brake line could have been switched after the wreck. That there’s evidence it may have been switched. Why are you so defensive?”

“Why would I be defensive?”

Harper shrugged and sipped his beer.“Maybe those two pups belonged to the dead man. That would explain why they were roaming around Hellhag Hill where you said you found them. Or maybe they belonged to the guy in the jogging shoes, maybe they followed him down the hill, were milling around while he switched the brake line.”

“That’s a lot of conjecture. I’ve never heard you-”

“All conjecture, so far. All bits and pieces. I’m simply playing with the possibilities. Say the pups wouldn’t follow him back up the canyon, say they got silly and ran off the way pups will, and later wandered up Hellhag Hill, where you found them.”

“So what does that prove? What does that have to do with the brake line?” Clyde looked hard at Harper. “For that matter, what about the dead man? What have you got on him?”

“I thought I told you. Raul Torres was a PI working out of Seattle.”

“That’s all you told me.”

“Hotshot PI. Irritated the hell out of Seattle PD.”

“Hotshot in what way?” Clyde asked, popping another beer.

“In the way he ran his investigations. Always mouthing off, Seattle tells me. Making people mad.”

Clyde shrugged.

“Seattle’s interested in what Torres might have been working on, down here. Torres’s secretary said he was meeting a girlfriend, but Seattle thinks he was on a case.”

“You have a line on the girlfriend?”

“A Seattle girl, living in San Francisco. Had a connection in Molena Point, a friend down here.”

Joe watched Harper, puzzled. Was Harper not telling Clyde everything? And what, exactly, did that mean?

“Seattle says she’s something of a high roller. Particularly likes yacht cruises.”

“Cara Ray Crisp?” Clyde asked.

Joe relaxed. Harper was just stringing it out.

Harper nodded, and busied himself arranging sliced onions on his burger.

Clyde rose, fetched a jar of horseradish from the refrigerator, and behind Harper’s back cast a scowl at Joe that was deep with meaning, that said,Get out of here. Now. Go out to the backyard, Joe, and catch a mouse.

Joe leaped to the counter and settled down, glaring.

Clyde looked as if he might wring a little cat throat. But he turned back to Harper.“Do you suppose Cara Ray was seeing Torres while Shamas was alive? What kind of case was Torres working?”

“We think it’s possible he was running an investigation on Shamas.”

Clyde couldn’t help but glance at Joe. “What kind of investigation? Women? You mean Lucinda actually-”

“No, Lucinda didn’t hire him. He had apparently been checking into a Seattle machine-tool manufacturer, for some company that got stung on their products. It’s possible Shamas was involved. The secretary wasn’t too sure what it was all about, she said she only does a few letters and the billing. She thought it was some kind of lawsuit.” Harper busied himself with his second burger.

Clyde was quiet.

Joe Grey sat very still, pretending to look out the window into the dark backyard. But beneath his sleek silver fur, every muscle twitched. Max Harper’s words had fired every predatory cell; he was as wired as if Harper had waved a flapping pigeon in his face.

12 [????????: pic_13.jpg]

THE NIGHT was fading. A thin moon hung low over the sea, and a sharp wind whipped across Hellhag Hill, pushing at the scrawny, half-grown kitten, flattening the grass around her where she crouched sucking up a meager meal, licking up bits of kibble mixed with dirt, a thin scattering left from the previous day after the bigger cats had fed. A woman had brought the food.

Always she wanted to approach the woman, but the other cats would never let her; they hazed her away, wanting nothing to do with humans except to take their food-and they took it all. Hunkering down, belly to the earth, she gulped the last crumbs, shivering.

The kit was fierce enough when she was alone; certainly she had no fear of dogs. Many days earlier, when the two huge puppies had jumped and barked at her, she had attacked one of them as wildly as a bobcat-had been greatly amused to ride it right among the village streets. Oh, that had been a wild race, all her claws digging in.

But she feared her feline peers; she feared the vehemence of the clowder leaders, their fierce circling and hissing and striking out. She wouldn’t challenge that hierarchy of big, mean cats. Not many cats ran in a clowder like a pack of dogs, but feral cats often lived together in such a clan-the pack leader had told her that-for strength within their own territory and for protection. He said her own group ran in a clowder because of whothey were, because they were not like other ferals.

The dog had found that out. Found out that she was not simply another frightened kitty.

The woman had been on the hill when she rode that dog; the woman must have laughed. The clowder cats didn’t like the woman, but the kit liked to slip close to her, unseen. She liked to see the woman take pleasure in the fog and in the dawn. The woman loved the hill and loved the sky and the sea, and so did the kit love those things. Nor did she think it strange to have such thoughts, any more than it was strange to be always hungry. Her thoughts were part of her, her hunger was part of her-hunger was a beast’s natural condition. What else was there but this wary and hungry existence-and then her private thoughts to warm her?

Yet therewassomething else. Therewasmore in life than hunger and fear and cold-more, even, than her own excited musings. But what that something was, she hadn’t worked out. She knew only that somewhere food was plentiful and delicious and that one could be warm and there were soft beds to sleep on-the kind of sleep where a cat needn’t doze with one eye open, jerked awake by the slightest sound.

Finishing the crumbs, and finding no homely wisdom scattered among them through the dirt, she crept out of the grass into the gusting wind and leaped atop a boulder, stood up bold in the blow, surveying the hill that tossed and rippled around her. Grass lashed and ran in silver waves, and beyond it the sea crashed and surged like a gigantic and sensuousanimal spitting its foam white against the sky.

With her mottled black-and-brown coloring, her blazing yellow eyes, and the long hair sticking out of her ears in two amazing tufts, the young cat resembled a small bobcat more than a domestic feline. Her thin body seemed too long for a normal cat, and she was far more swift and agile.

She hadn’t a bobcat’s tail, though, but a long, fluffy plume, an appendage of amazing length lashing as importantly as a flag of national significance; and though her coat was dense and short, she had longhaired pantaloons like furry chaps, her fluffy parts so bushy that one had to wonder if God, in some temporary absentmindedness, had fashioned this cat from leftover and mismatched parts.

Perhaps God had been in a joking mood when he made her? He seemed, as well, to have filled her with more imaginings than any proper cat could contain. The very look in her round yellow eyes and the set of her little thin face implied teeming and impatient dreams, wild and untamable visions.

This cat had no name. She had made for herself a dozen names as ephemeral as the wildflowers that came and went across the hillside. But if she had a real, forever, and secret name that belonged to her like her own paws and tail, she didn’t know what it was.

Standing in the wind atop the boulder, she speculated about the mice that burrowed beneath the stone, that she could never catch, and about the songs the wind whispered and the habits of the cottontail rabbits she had scented in the grass(I’m faster than any rabbit. Why can’t I catch them?),and about the nature of the gulls that wheeled and screamed above her. And, filled to bursting with questions, in her fierce small presence shone a power far bigger than she, a power that glowed from her yellow eyes, and of which she had little understanding.

But now, far below her along the highway, another cat came trotting, leaped into the grass at the foot of the hill, and started up toward her. This cat was not one of her clowder.

But it was not a stranger, either. She had seen this one before, this brown tabby with the peach-tinted nose and ears. The cat disappeared suddenly, into the whipping tangles. She waited for it to appear again, her yellow eyes wide, her pink mouth open in a soft panting.

The cat poked her head out, looking up toward the boulders, her gaze so intent that the tortoiseshell kit took a step back. The two remained frozen in a staring match not of confrontation but of curiosity. Intense, wary, excited. Diffidently, the scrawny kit waited for the older cat’s lead-but suddenly the adult cat backed away again and vanished into the grass as if uncertain in her own mind.

The stray fascinated Dulcie but filled her with a peculiar fear. Even at this distance, she could see in the kit’s eyes a difference, a bright wildness.

How thin the kit was, all frail little bones, but with that balloon tail and those huge pantaloons. When Dulcie drew back out of sight, the kit, shifting nervously from paw to paw, opened her pink little mouth.

She yowled.

Three shrill, demanding yowls, amazingly loud and authoritative for such a small morsel, an imperative command. Fascinated, Dulcie was about to show herself again and approach closer when the kit crouched, staring away past Dulcie, wide-eyed, and suddenly she spun and fled like a feather sucked away in a whirlwind.

She was gone. The hill was empty. Dulcie reared up to look behind her and saw Lucinda Greenlaw coming up the hill, and with her, stumbling along at a hurried and uneven gait, came Pedric.

But perhaps it was not Lucinda who had startled the kit, nor even Pedric, because at the humans’ approach, a half dozen cats reared up in the grass staring at Lucinda and Pedric, then leaped away like terrified birds exploding in every direction, vanishing wild and afraid. These were surely a part of the kit’s clowder, surely she had run at their cue.

Dulcie thought it strange that Lucinda would bring Pedric on her solitary walk, that she would bring anyone-though she did seem to trust the old man; she seemed to have a closeness to Pedric as she had with Newlon.

Her friendship with Pedric was new and tentative. She had not met Pedric or most of the Greenlaw family until they arrived for the funeral, while she had known Newlon longer, Wilma said; and it seemed to Dulcie that Lucinda had some sort of quiet understanding with Newlon.

When Pedric and Lucinda headed in her direction, Dulcie slipped beneath a tangle of dense-growing broom bushes. How very much at home old Pedric looked as he climbed Hellhag Hill, almost as if he belonged there. Watching the two approach, she glimpsed the tortoiseshell kit again creeping down the hill toward the two humans, her yellow eyes bright with curiosity.

“Such a peaceful hill,” Pedric said, sitting down with his back to a boulder, very close to where Dulcie sat unseen.

Lucinda made herself comfortable on the little folded blanket she always carried.“I’ve come here for years. I like its solitude.”

Pedric looked at Lucinda strangely.“Solitude. That puts a kinder shape to loneliness.”

She looked at him quietly.

“The loneliness of living with Shamas.”

“Perhaps,” she said.

Pedric’s lean old body cleaved easily to the lines of the hill. “It is a fine hill, Lucinda.”

“Do you sense its strangeness?”

He inclined his head, but didn’t answer.

“I come here for its strangeness, too.”

They were silent awhile; then he turned, looking hard at her, his thin, wrinkled profile fallen into lines of distress.“Why didn’t you ever leave him? Why, Lucinda? Why did you stay with him?”

“Cowardice. Lack of nerve. When he began with the women, I wanted to leave. I tried to think where to go, what to do with my life. I have no family, no relatives.”

She picked a long blade of grass, began to slit it lengthwise with her thumbnail.“I was afraid. Afraid of what Shamas might do-such a lame excuse.”

She looked at him bleakly.“How many women have wasted their lives, out of fear?

“I never really believed that I could sue Shamas for divorce and get any kind of community property-there was so much about his various ventures that seemed peculiar. I did snoop enough to know he did business in a dozen different names, and I? it was all so strange to me, and frightening.

“Shamas said that much of the income was from bonds, stocks, investments that would bore me. I thought, if I left him, there would be a terrible legal muddle trying to sort it all out.”

She looked down, then looked up at him almost pleadingly.“I was afraid of Shamas. Because he controlled the money, and? that he might harm me. He was so? demanding. Autocratic. He would not tolerate being crossed.”

“Not an easy man to live with.”

“Not at all. So instead of leaving, I went off by myself for a few hours at a time-returned to care for the house and make the meals.”

Pedric shook his head.

“It helped to get away alone, take long walks and lick my wounds.”

“And now that he is dead?”

“Now I’m free,” she said softly.

Pedric nodded.

“With Shamas gone, slowly I am healing. The stress and anger are easing. One day, they will be gone.”

Lucinda sat up straighter.“I mean to take charge now, where I never did before. It may seem mercenary, Pedric, but I’m going to think, now, about my own survival.

“There’s more than enough money for my simple tastes. Money can’t make me young and pretty again, but it can bring me some small pleasures. I have retained a financial advisor. There’s so much I don’t know, records I haven’t found.”

Dulcie watched Lucinda, puzzled. She sounded as if she had planned for a long time what she would do if she outlived Shamas.

“The trust was the one thing Shamas did that? has been of benefit. He did it not for me, but simply to avoid probate taxes. Shamas hated any kind of taxes.”

Lucinda looked at Pedric intently.“The things I don’t know about how Shamas made the money-I really didn’t want to know. I could have snooped more efficiently, found out more. I? didn’t want to get involved in knowing, in deciding what to do if Shamas’s ventures were? illegal.

“Cowardice,” she said softly, and her face colored. “I just? I just wanted out.”

“You were married late in life,” Pedric said gently. “Shamas grew into certain ways long before you met him. Ways that were not always respectable.” A wariness crossed Pedric’s face. “Family ways,” he said, “that I cannot condone, that I have tried to remain free of, though I have lived all my life near the family. Tell me-what did you know about Shamas, when you married?”

“He let me know that he was well established in his Seattle enterprises, but he was vague about what they were. He said he wanted our time together to be filled with delight, not with mundane business affairs.”

“And you never questioned that.”

“Not in the beginning. The longer I waited to press him for answers, the more difficult that was. He took care of the banking and gave me a household allowance. He didn’t offer any information. That rankled. But I didn’t do anything about it.

“There was plenty of money for trips, for new cars every year-until I said I didn’t want a new car, that I liked the one I had.” She looked at Pedric. “I was afraid to ask him the important questions. I grew afraid of where the money came from. The longer we were married, the more secretivehe was. I knew he spent a lot on his own. At first on clothes, and on business lunches, he told me. Then, later, it was obvious that he was with other women.

“Yet as miserable as I was, I was too cowardly to change my life.”

“So you escaped into your long, lonely rambles.”

“They never seemed lonely-only soothing. From where we’re sitting you can’t see the village, not a single rooftop, and in the wind, you can’t hear the occasional car. I would sit up here imagining there was not another soul for hundreds of miles, that this little piece of the world was all my own.”

“Yes,” Pedric said, “I understand that.”

She looked at him quietly.“I have continued to come here for that kind of aloneness, so very different from being lonelywithsomeone.”

She smiled.“The hills are so green, the sea so wild. It is easy to imagine that I am in the old world, somewhere on the sea cliffs of Ireland.”

Pedric turned to look above them. From where Lucinda had chosen to sit that day, they could see the trailers lined up, each in its own little patio. The wind had overturned deck chairs and whipped the laundry on a clothesline. A trailer door, left on the latch, banged and slammed. Above the trailers and RVs, the eucalyptus trees that shaded the park crackled in the wind as loud as the snapping of bonfires.

Above the trailer park, Hellhag Hill rose another hundred feet, its bulk seeming to press the narrow shelf with its frail trailers, far too close to the edge.

“I seldom look up there,” Lucinda said. “Usually I sit where I can’t see any sign of civilization. From the first time I came here, the hill has put me in mind of the wild, empty hills in the old, old tales that Shamas told me.

She looked shyly at Pedric.“That was what first drew me to him. The stories. I loved his stories, and the caring and passion with which he told them.”

She sighed.“This hill gave me back that sense of magic. Gave me back that quality in Shamas that I found so appealing-and that he took away from me.”

Pedric gave her an odd look.“This is not the old country, Lucinda. Not the old world, where such tales are a dear part of one’s fife. In this modern world, magic-if such ever existed-most surely does not happen.”

She looked at him quietly.“That is not how you make me feel, when you tell your stories.”

He shook his head, looking around him.“The hill is delightfully wild, but it is only a hill, an ordinary California hillside-probably with poison oak growing beneath us, right where we’re sitting.”

Lucinda laughed. She looked up at the trailers and RVs.“Which of those is yours, Pedric?”

“The green trailer, there at the end.”

“Right at the edge,” she said softly. “So that, every morning when you wake, and every night before you sleep, you see not the other trailers, but the open hill dropping away below you.” She smiled. “Why did you park just there, where the view must be vast and empty? Don’t tell me you’re not touched by a sense ofothernessabout this place?”

He simply smiled.

After a moment, she said,“And why have all these frightened animals come to the hill so suddenly? The strange, wild cats that I feed, and those two thin, uncared-for puppies that Clyde Damen has taken in? Why did they appear all at once? No one abandons that many animals all at one time.” She watched him intently.

“I can tell you where the pups came from,” the old man said. “All very ordinary. But yon cats,” he said, falling into the old speech, “th’ cats be a band of strays that wandered here, that’s all.” He looked hard at her. “You are not imagining th’ cats are anything other than common, stray beasties? Why, th’ world be full of such, Lucinda.”

She laughed at him, and touched his hand.

“Not imagining th’ hill be full of burrows?” Pedric persisted. “Not imagining th’ bright eyes looking out?” He smiled and raised a shaggy eyebrow.

Pedric’s gentle teasing made such a notion seem silly even to Dulcie; though she was certain the hill was not ordinary.

And when Dulcie looked up, the little kit was hunched not a yard away from her, crouched deep in the bushes, peering out, her yellow eyes round and amazed, her fluffy tail twitching with curiosity.

“Maybe Iampicturing that old tale of the cats beneath the hillside,” Lucinda said to Pedric. “Who is to say what is possible?” She fixed an intense look on the old man. “Thereissomething strange about Hellhag Hill. You will not admit it, but I think you see it. And I am not the only one who has noticed.”

“So,” Pedric asked softly. “And what about th’ yon cat watching us? Th’ yon beastie half-hidden in the grass? Is there something strange about that little cat?” Looking into the tangles, he watched Dulcie with interest. He did not see the kit. “Wo’d that little beastie, who is spying on us, rise up and speak to thee as do th’ cats in the old tales? Wo’d this cat maybe bid thee good morning?”

He can’t see the kit,Dulcie thought.He means me. Why is he staring at me?

Lucinda looked to where Dulcie sat beneath the bushes, and came to kneel there, pulling away the heavy growth.

“What a sweet little cat, curled up in a bed of leaves.” She looked up at Pedric. “I believe this is Wilma’s cat-my good friend, Wilma. Same dark stripes and peach-colored ears and nose. Yes, the same green eyes. Oh, Wilma would not want her roaming way out here. What brought her out to this wild place? Do you suppose she has followed us?” She reached to pick Dulcie up.

When Dulcie moved away, Lucinda drew back.“This little cat,” she said diffidently, “comes to sit on the back fence behind my house. I think she hunts for birds among the maple branches. Sometimes she seems to be looking right into my parlor.” She laughed. “Maybe she watches reflections in the glass, the movement of clouds and birds.

“Won’t you come out, kitty?” Lucinda asked softly. “ItisWilma’s kitty. We won’t hurt you. Whatever are you doing up here? Come on out, puss. Puss? Puss?”

Dulcie came out reluctantly. She hated to be called puss. She leaped atop the boulder before Lucinda could pick her up. Stretching, she curled down on the smooth granite, out of Lucinda’s reach, and slitted her eyes as if to nap again.

“Come away, Lucinda. The little cat doesn’t want to be taken home. Well, there’s nothing here to hurt her. You can tell Wilma where you saw her.” And he began to ask Lucinda questions about Shamas and their years together.

Lucinda’s answers made Dulcie sad. Pedric asked about the sale of the house, but made no comment as to whether he thought Lucinda should sell the old family home. As the two sat talking, watching the sea brighten, the tortoiseshell kit drew closer again to Dulcie, listening to every word. What a nosy little creature she was. What did she make of this conversation? What a bold, inquisitive,interestingscrap of cat fur.

And as both cats eavesdropped on the two humans, up the hill where the trailers and RVs cast their shadows long beneath the rising sun, another watcher sat, looking down, observing Pedric and Lucinda, frowning and tapping his closed fist against his lean, tensed thigh.

13 [????????: pic_14.jpg]

“I DON’T want a dog,” Charlie told the pup. Hestig looked up at her sadly, pressing against her leg, as she stood at her apartment window sipping her first cup of coffee. Beyond the window, the village rooftops, the library and shops, and the eucalyptus trees that shaded Ocean’s wide median, all were muted by the fog, as indistinct as an oriental watercolor. Putting her cup on the table beside her sweet roll, she sat down to her quick breakfast, petting Hestig when he pushed close to her chair and laid his head on her shoulder.

“You know I can’t keep you,” she said softly. “Or do you just want my breakfast?” She laughed at his sad expression. “The housing arrangement’s temporary, my dear. Three or four days, maybe a week, and back you go to Clyde.” Already the apartment looked as though Hestig had moved infor good, his folded blanket in the far corner comfortably matted with dog hairs, his water and food bowls taking up most of the floor in the small kitchenette; a huge chewbone occupied the center of the rag rug beside Charlie’s cot, his leash and choker lay on the table beside her coffee cup.

She had to admit, his manners were improved without his brother to distract him; he minded her most of the time, was turning into a solemn and loving companion. He was beginning to put on weight, too, his ribs resembling far less an ancient washboard.

But when she imagined keeping him, she shook her head.“Look around you. I’m living in one room, here. No yard, no deck, not even a balcony.”

Hestig whined.

“And in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a working girl.” She scratched under his chin. “I can’t take you on the job. What, tie you to the bumper all day? I can’t take you into the houses that I clean and repair.” She looked deep into Hestig’s brown eyes. “Clyde will find a nice home for you, just you wait and see.”

The pup sighed, his eyes sad enough to melt concrete, his black ears drooping. Gently, she touched the thick black scar that ran jagged across the top of his head.“How did that happen? What-or who-struck you so hard as to leave a scar like that?” She stroked the ropy wound. “You must have been very small; you’re not very old now, and it takes a while for such a thing to heal.”

Hestig’s tail whipped so hard it nearly toppled a dinette chair.

“Who would hit a little puppy like that? I’m surprised the blow didn’t kill you.”

Hestig smiled and wagged and snuggled closer, leaning into her shoulder with all his fifty pounds. She tried to imagine taking him to work with her. Surely, when he grew older and had more training, he would behave with impeccable manners.

But common sense prevailed.“I really can’t. I can’t keep you.”

He nuzzled her hand, finding no joy in such solemn pronouncements.

She pushed back her kinking red hair. The fog made it curl so tight.“I have a business to tend to, it takes all my time. You’ve been around on the jobs with me.” She took his long canine face in her hands. “Did you like being shut in the van all day with the ladders and mops and tools?”

Hestig’s sigh said that he’d loved it because he was near her.

“I don’t have time for a big, active dog, not and clean for people, do their household repairs and their yard work, and build up a really nice service.” She stroked his long black ears. “You should be on a ranch somewhere, like up with Max’s horses.” She sipped her coffee. “Maybe I can talk Harper into giving you a try. How would you like that?”

Hestig gazed at her sadly.

“Look at it this way. Burying bones and digging them up is top priority for you. Charlie’s Fix-It, Clean-It is top priority for me.”

He laid his head on the table, sniffing at the last bite of sweet roll. She tapped his nose gently, and he drew back. The time was six A.M., time for their walk. In half a week, Hestig had the routine down to perfection.

Picking up his leash, she triggered an explosion of ungainly leaps and pirouettes. She stood waiting for him to calm so they could leash up, then made him stay by her heel going down the steps to the little front foyer, between the antique shop and the jewelry store, and on out to the sidewalk. Stepping out into the wet, chill fog and turning south toward the sea five blocks away, she expected Hestig to dance and try to pull ahead; usually he could hardly contain himself until he reached the sand, where he could run free.

This morning he didn’t dance.

He didn’t pull the lead but moved slowly and warily ahead, pressing against her thigh. She could see nothing in the fog. He lunged suddenly into the mist, his bark a bold challenge,wooo, wooo, wooo.She had to turn sideways and pull the leash taut across her upper legs to hold him; he was so strong and lunging so hard that if he’d jerked her straight on, he’d have pulled her over. She could see no one, no gray shadow waiting in the fog, nothing to alarm him, only a few parked cars along the curb, barely visible. But the pup saw something, and was barking and straining.

Again she pulled him back to her and ran her hand down his shoulder, trying to calm him-and trying to see through the mist, listening for any scrap of sound over his barking. He lunged again, and she heard a car start-saw a dark smear move away from the curb, its tires hushing on the wet pavement. At the same moment, she saw Lucinda Greenlaw just a few feet from her, walking along the median toward the shore, her tall thin figure wavery and insubstantial-a mysterious early-morning wanderer. Later in the day Lucinda would appear perfectly ordinary, doing her errands among the village shops as sedately as any elderly lady-but now she seemed ghostlike and exotic.

Hestig had quieted; Lucinda passed them, not glancing in their direction, seeming totally lost in her own thoughts, perhaps aware only of a dog walker out in the foggy morning. Charlie knelt and hugged the pup, feeling the tension of his thin body. He was still shivering.

Who had frightened him like that? Who had been there and driven away? Rising, she tightened his lead and hurried toward the shore. Already, Lucinda had disappeared.

Hestig was quiet and obedient again, until she passed the contemporary wooden building that held the public rest rooms, an attractive redwood-and-stone structure, appealing on the outside but dank and cold within, as were most such seaside facilities, its wet concrete floor strewn with wadded paper towels and damp sand. The building stood at the edge of a small seashore park of sand dunes and cypress trees and was flanked by a variety of handsome native bushes. Hestig shied at these and backed away, staring at a pair of legs stretched out behind a bush, a newspaper over them as if for warmth-one of Molena Point’s few homeless, she supposed, sheltered within the dense foliage. Or maybe some late-night drunk sleeping it off. Like Hestig, she quickly moved away. As she turned toward the rolling breakers, she saw that Lucinda had reached the other side of the park, a thin vague shadow walking swiftly.

Heading across the soft, dry sand to where the shore was wet and hard, and turning south, Charlie let Hestig off his leash. He looked behind them once, then trotted ahead, sniffing at the sand but not straying far from her. Even when they reached the southerly beach, where the waves crashed among dark, rising boulders, and half a dozen dogs were running the shore or playing ball with their owners, Hestig remained near her. She sat on a rock watching him. She was so happy to be living in that quiet village, away from the bustle and heavy traffic of San Francisco where she’d gone to art school.

She’d not have thought to come to Molena Point if her Aunt Wilma hadn’t retired there. She had to smile, when she remembered how she had come crawling, totally defeated after two years of failing at various commercial art jobs for which she wasn’t really prepared, or talented enough.

Well, she was glad she was there. She loved the smallness of the village, loved that she could walk from the sea up into the sun-baked hills in just minutes. And, she thought, watching Hestig, one of the hundred things she liked best was that people walking their dogs could stop at any sidewalk restaurant, have a light meal while their canine companions napped beneath the table. She would see leashed dogs in the bank, in the shops-places where, in any other town, dogs would not be allowed. And the little open-air restaurants, their courtyard tables surrounded by flowers and sheltered by the old, twisted oaks, never ceased to enchant her.“When I die,” she’d told Clyde once, “this is exactly how it will be. Charming villages all crowded among the flowers, all of them beside the sea, with the smell of the sea, the crash of breakers.”

She’d met Clyde soon after she arrived; he’d been Wilma’s friend since he was eight, when Wilma was his next-door neighbor: blond, twentysomething, and beautiful; Clyde said he’d had a terrible crush on her.

Charlie’s first date with Clyde was a trip to the wrecking yard to find parts for her old van, then to a small Mexican restaurant, where no one noticed their grease-stained clothes. They’d been dating ever since, their relationship swinging from casual and easy to sometimes very warm and loving. Once in a while she thought about marrying Clyde; more often she liked the arrangement just as it was.

Around her, the fog had thinned, the dawn brightening. She called Hestig, and as they started back she heard, over the thunder of the breakers, sirens begin to scream up in the village, their ululations growing louder as they headed for the shore. She thought of someone drowning, and her frightened gaze turned quickly toward the sea.

She saw no disturbance, no one in the water-not even one surfer, and it was far too cold for swimmers. Only when she neared the little park again did she see the ambulance and police cars, their red whirling lights staining the fog like smeared blood. She thought of Lucinda, wondered if the older woman might have fallen or maybe become ill. Hurrying up to the gathering crowd, she found Lieutenants Brennan and Wendell stringing yellow police tape around the restroom building and its adjacent bushes, out into the street and around a large portion of the sandy park.

The homeless man still lay beneath the bushes. His newspaper was gone, revealing shoes that were nearly new and looked expensive. Two paramedics knelt over him. She couldn’t see what they were doing. Three early walkers, two with dogs, stood to one side talking to an officer, answering his questions. She didn’t see Lucinda.

14 [????????: pic_15.jpg]

THEIR BELLIES full of rabbit, the cats were headed home through the mist, the village empty and quiet around them, its scents of flowers and bacon and coffee homey and comforting. Licking blood off their whiskers, ignoring the sting of various wounds inflicted by the enraged rabbit, a deep sense of well-being filled the cats. They had hunted, they had fed. All was proper and right with their world. Their territory-Molena Point village and far beyond-was suitably at peace. Except for various human affairs, which were not cat business, but which neither cat would leave alone.

“He’s cozying up to Lucinda for some reason,” Joe said of Pedric. “What’s he after?”

“He’s not cozying up at all; he’s the only one of that family who’s her friend-well, Newlon, of course.”

“And why Newlon? How does she know him so much better. I thought-”

“Wilma says he often came out to sail with Shamas; Lucinda’s known him a long time.”

“Well, I don’t trust him, or Pedric.”

She cut him an annoyed look.“I don’t know about Newlon. But Pedric’s good for her. She needs a friend just now.”

“He’s a Greenlaw.”

“You’re so suspicious.”

“Hasn’t it crossed your mind that Pedric is deliberately gaining her confidence? That while the rest of the family quarrels over her money and makes her mad, that old man with his sweetness and shared confidences is setting her up to rip her off big-time?”

Her ears flattened, her green eyes flashed.“Don’t be such a cynic. Can’t you see that he’s different from the others, that he truly likes Lucinda?” She looked at him narrow-eyed. “Don’t you believe in anything anymore?”

“Pedric is a Greenlaw. Don’t you know the police are watching the whole family? All week those Greenlaw women and kids have been a problem in the village shops-stealing, Dulcie. Shoplifting.”

He gave her a hard yellow stare.“They’re too quick for the store owners to catch. But after they leave, merchandise comes up missing-a lot of expensive merchandise. Such a shabby, greedy little crime.”

“Has anyone seenPedricstealing?” Her eyes had gone black with anger; her tail switched and lashed.

“Why would Pedric be any different? Face it, Dulcie. The Greenlaws are a family of thieves.”

“That doesn’t make sense. What kind of family-Not a whole family, stealing-”

“You think that doesn’t happen? Of course there are families of thieves-what about the Mafia. The Greenlaws are small pickings compared to that, but-”

Dulcie lowered her gaze, looked up at him quietly. Of course there were such families, she had read about them, the children were raised from babies to live outside the law.

“But,” she said softly, “even if it’s true, even if the rest of them steal, that doesn’t mean Pedric does. Hecouldbe different, Joe. If you’d watch him-in the evenings when he comes for supper, how polite he is, not just barging in like the rest, ignoring Lucinda. How pleased Lucinda isto get him settled in the softest chair, see that he’s comfortable.”

“So he’s a smooth operator. You know better than to trust how people act.”

“Lucinda wouldn’t take him walking with her if she didn’t trust him, and if they didn’t truly enjoy each other. She wouldn’t share Hellhag Hill with him, that’s her private place. They have exactly the same interests. I don’t see him using her.”

Joe laid back his ears, his yellow eyes narrow.“You’re seeing what you want to see. I’ve never known you to be so gullible. You follow them, listen to Pedric sympathizing with her, and you go all sentimental.”

She hissed, lowering her own ears, switched her tail in his face, and hurried on down the grassy median-then stopped, crouching, looking fearfully around her as sirens screamed from the direction of the fire and police stations.

A rescue unit thundered past, shaking the earth, prompting the cats to cower beneath the bushes. It was followed by three black-and-whites. Joe and Dulcie, their hearing numbed by the blast, watched the heavy vehicles heading fast for the shore.

Following, galloping down the median toward the crowd gathered beside the sandy park, their first thoughts were the same as Charlie’s had been, that someone had drowned, on this chill, foggy morning, some poor soul alone out in the dark sea. Then they saw a man lying on the ground, the paramedics bent over him-maybe a homeless man? They often slept in the park, near the rest rooms.

But as the medics lifted the victim up onto a stretcher, the cats recognized a Molena Point resident, a man they knew only by sight. White hair, baby-soft face that was usually very red, whether from sunburn, excessive scrubbing, or excessive booze, they had no idea. Now he was as pale as a bedsheet.

Trotting in among the crowd between jogging shoes, sweatpants, and bare, hairy legs, the cats stayed away from the uniforms-no need to upset Max Harper, no need to endure his puzzled glances. A confusion of comments assaulted them:

“? stabbed. He was stabbed. I saw?”

“? is he dead?”

“Still alive, can’t you see?”

“? was lying there when that lady found him, I’d have fainted? some transient?”

“No-he lives here, he comes in my shop.”

“? George Chambers. You know, the guy who?”

The cats did a double take. George Chambers? Swerving out of the crowd, they skinned up a cypress tree beside the rescue vehicle, for a better look.

George Chambers, a member of the sailing party when Shamas Greenlaw died. The man who, with his wife, had slept through the attempted rescue, had not awakened until the next morning, when theGreen Ladyput in at Seattle.

From among the thickly massed cypress trunks that rose around them like dark, reaching arms, the two cats got a good look at Chambers. He kept moving his hand, trying to press at the stab wound in his chest that the medics had bound with gauze and tape, the clean bandages already soaked with blood. One of the medics was covering him, with a pair of thick brown blankets.

So this was George Chambers. The passenger Harper had talked with twice about Shamas’s accident, the mild-mannered fellow who had given Harper no indication that either he or his wife had, that stormy night, been awake to observe anything questionable about Shamas’s death.

So why had he been stabbed?

They watched Captain Harper drop a rusty, blood-smeared butcher knife into an evidence bag. As the paramedics lifted Chambers’s stretcher into the rescue vehicle, the cats clawed higher among the arms of the cypress, up into its dark foliage, out of sight ofthepolice. Below them, Lucinda was talking with Officer Davis, a private conversation away from the crowd. The cats could catch no word; there were too many idle onlookers expressing their opinions.

The two cats remained within the branches through several hours of photographing and examination of the crime scene. Among the areas of interest to forensics was a patch of sand where someone had been digging. They watched a kneeling officer brush sand away with a little paintbrush and sift sand tediously through a strainer. Four officers went over the cordoned-off area thoroughly, inch by inch. They bagged some bits of paper, a few loose threads caught on bushes, items that might link to the attacker, or might have been exposed in the damp and rain for months or years. When the cats left the beach they dropped down to the roof of the public rest rooms and to the far side of the building, out of sight of Max Harper. They came away from the Chambers stabbing knowing very little about what had happened. It was not until that evening that they were able to fill in some blanks.

Joe woke from a nap in late afternoon hungry despite his feast of rabbit early that morning; somehow eating wild game always made him want human food to top it off. Half an hour before Clyde was due home, he called Jolly’s Deli and ordered takeout, telling them to charge it and leave the food at the door. He had told Clyde he wouldn’t do this anymore, but he hadn’t exactly promised.

Listening to the delivery truck pull away, he hauled the white paper bag in through his cat door and enjoyed, on the livingroom rug, a nice selection of smoked herring, sliced Tilsit, and cracked crab. It was these little added luxuries that made his peculiar talents well worth the trouble they caused him. When he had finished eating, he pawed the containers back into the bag, licked up all telltale crumbs from the carpet, and carried the bag through the kitchen, out the dog door, and over the back fence.

Glancing at the next-door neighbor’s windows and seeing no one looking out, he stuffed the evidence into their trash. Clyde wouldn’t know a thing until he got his deli bill-then he’d pitch a royal fit.

Clyde didn’t know a thing about the stabbing, either, when he got home from work. Only what he saw in the eveningGazette.After reading the front page he glanced at Joe, but made no offer to call Harper and glean a few additional facts. Joe wasn’t about to ask him for that kind of favor. He’d be back oncheap, cardboard-flavored kitty kibble that hadn’t passed his whiskers since his kitten days in San Francisco.

As it turned out, it was Wilma who got the particulars about the Chambers stabbing, and told Dulcie. Joe found Dulcie on the back fence in her usual perch.“You might as well move your bed and supper bowl up here,” he said, settling down beside her.

She hissed gently and lifted a soft paw as if to belt him.“Something’s going on. Dirken and Newlon are all worked up, really hassling Lucinda. You can’t hear a thing, even with the windows open, with all those women in the kitchen. Can’t they wash the dishes without so much jabber?”

Dirken and Newlon stood before the hearth looking down at Lucinda where she sat in her favorite chair, sipping her after-dinner coffee. She looked drawn into herself, tense, glaring up at them. Both men were talking at once. The cats couldn’t make out their words, but they were apparently interrogating her.

“Chambers is more or less out of danger,” Dulcie told Joe. “That rusty knife had sand from the park on it; forensics is pretty sure that’s what was buried-it might have lain there for years, maybe a dog dug it up, or a transient making his camp, and the attacker found it.”

“Harper’s not assuming that Chambers was stabbed by a transient?”

“Of course he isn’t. You know Harper better than that. Chambers was on the boat that night. Don’t you suppose Harper’s digging, don’t you suppose he’s got his teeth into this!”

“How did you??”

“Wilma happened to drop into the Iron Horse, earlier this evening. A special favor, for yours truly.” Harper often ate at the Iron Horse when he was working late.

“That’s all she found out,” Dulcie said. “It’s all the police know, so far. Wilma said Harper had that tight, preoccupied look he gets when he’s caught up in a tangle of evidence, when he’s digging for the missing pieces.”

She returned her attention to the parlor window.“Dirken and Newlon tried all through dinner to get Lucinda to talk about the stabbing, to tell them what she saw this morning.

“It was Lucinda who called 911. She told them she’d been out walking, saw the man lying there when she came across the park to use that awful rest room, that she thought he was asleep. Then she saw the blood. She ran to the phone, there between the men’s and women’s, but it was out of order. She hurried back to the village and called the station. She told Dirken that the rest is public knowledge-they could read it in theGazette.”

Joe grinned.“So why all the fuss? They think she saw something more?”

“Evidently. They’re pretty wrought up.”

“You thinktheystabbed Chambers? That they’re afraid Lucinda saw them?”

“Maybe. Or maybe they want the goods on whoever did. Well, they’ve finished with the dishes,” she said, glaring in at the Greenlaw women as they trooped toward the parlor.

Dirken and Newlon had pulled up chairs facing Lucinda; they sat forward, pressing their questions at her. The kitchen crew wandered in silently and found places to sit-an eager audience, all watching Lucinda.

“But you must have seen something else,” Dirken was saying. “And whywereyou in the park at that hour? Just to say you went walking, Aunt Lucinda, doesn’t make any sense. Who else was there?”

“Enough!” Lucinda snapped. She stood up, scowling down at them. “That is enough. Stop it, both of you. I have had quite my fill of this.”

The cats watched with amazement. All the family was quiet, shocked that Lucinda was no longer a bystander in her own home, that she had made herself the center. Standing so fiercely, glaring at them, her very frailty seemed to increase her sudden surprising power. The cats thought she was going to say something about the stabbing; but instead, folding her hands before her in the traditional stance, Lucinda prepared to tell a tale-as if putting the subject of the stabbing behind her, letting the Greenlaws know that the matter was closed.

Whether the old lady was becoming stronger in dealing with Shamas’s family, or whether this was a move of extreme desperation, to gain a little peace, was uncertain. Standing in the place of storyteller, so skillfully did Lucinda lay out her tale that soon she had drawn them all in. The stabbing seemed forgotten-and they were carried into a story that surprised Dulcie, that made her fur prickle with excitement, made the tip of her tail twitch, and made Joe Grey fidget uncomfortably.

“It is an American Indian tale,” Lucinda said, “one I have read in three sources, as told by three different tribes. I don’t believe the story springs from any Celtic telling; I don’t believe there is any connection. But yet it is the same tale that comes from the Celtic lands.

“It is peopled with the same enchanted beings, it tells of the same lost world. The Iroquois call it ‘The Tale of the First People.’

“In the beginning,” Lucinda said softly, “in the beginning of the world all living things, all beasts, all men, all reptiles and insects and birds dwelt in the netherworld that lies below our plains and mountains. All was darkness in that place save for a thin green light that glowed down from the granite sky.

“In those days the animals could speak, and many of them were shapeshifters. Human hunters would turn themselves into ponies. Great eagles flying beneath the granite skies could transmute into warriors. There were women and men who could slip from hearth to hearth in the form of cats but soon were gone again, unwilling to warm for long any hearth but their own.

“The cat folk had their own cities among the hidden mountains, their netherworld caves fashioned into soft-cushioned bowers rich with carven furnishings, their walls set with pictures made from turquoise and jade.

“One day when a princess of that people was digging at the roof of her cave, carving a new sleeping bower, she dug though into vast space. Her paw thrust out, into the upper world.

“Shining through the paw-sized hole was a blaze of light that made the cat maiden cry out in fear. All the clan came running. The bravest crouched, squinting through the hole up into a gleaming and endless sky.

“And the boldest among the cat folk dug the hole larger and slipped through, up onto the face of the earth, with only emptiness above them.

“Soon other netherworld folk gathered, creatures from the hell-pit, the bird folk and serpent folk and then the giants, all peeping out into the upper world.

“Many turned away again, too afraid to step out beneath that bright sky, but not the cat folk. They went up into that world digging and clawing their way, and not until evening came and the ball of fire rode through the sky toward the mountains, were the cats afraid.

“They watched the sun sink down behind the peaks. They saw the sky grow dark, and they thought that by entering this land they had made the gods angry. They slept close together that night, crowded beneath a rocky ledge, sure that their spirits were doomed.

“But the next morning, the sun returned. The cat people came out to preen in its warmth, and they knew that they were blessed, that this bright world welcomed them.

“They wandered away over the land in every direction, and soon made this world their own. So the folk-of-the-cat came to our world,” Lucinda told. “And so they have come and gone ever since, returning to the netherworld when they choose, living in both worlds and in both forms, sometimes cat,sometimes human.

“And if there are cat folk in the upper world who can no longer change their form, it is because they have strayed too far from their beginnings, because they have forgotten the ancient ways.”

Lucinda turned from the hearth. The Greenlaws nodded and sighed with satisfaction. As Lucinda moved away from the storyteller’s place, Pedric reached to take her hand, in a tender and personal gesture.

Dirken watched the two old people with a cold scowl. Newlon turned away, his look uncomfortable.

And on the fence beneath the maple branches, tears rolled down Dulcie’s whiskers, their wet streaks marking her dark fur. The tale filled her with excitement and it scared her; it made her feelmorethan herself. The emotions it stirred turned her giddy.

But Joe Grey leaped from the fence up into the maple’s highest branches, his ears back, his scowl deep.

He didn’t like tales of a netherworld. Didn’t like anything to do with his and Dulcie’s mysterious history. Being himself, being Joe Grey, was quite enough. He didn’t hold with some amazing and frightening past. He needed only himself and his loving lady.

Dulcie was still purring extravagantly when Dirken and Newlon came out the back door and sat down on the steps. Newlon produced a pack of Camels, and they lit up.

Newlon said,“You think she saw something more, on the beach this morning?”

Dirken shrugged.“More to the point, you think she heard anything?”

Newlon turned to look at him.“Did you do him, Dirken?”

Dirken stared at Newlon, drawing on his cigarette.“Hell, no. Didn’t you?”

“I swear.”

But Dirken kept looking.“You did him. Stands to reason.”

Newlon turned to glance behind them through the screen as two large, aproned women began moving about in the kitchen, filling the coffeepot and cutting pieces of pie. Scowling, Newlon and Dirken shuffled a little more, then tossed away their cigarettes and went back inside.

The cats, highly irritated at the vague and unfinished conversation, galloped away along the fence and headed up into the hills to hunt, Joe Grey so frustrated by the lack of solid facts that he felt like attacking the biggest granddaddy wharf rat he could find, launching into a raking, screaming battle.

15 [????????: pic_16.jpg]

WILMA LEFT her desk at the automotive agency just before noon, hurriedly smoothing her gray hair and snatching up her purse, frantic to get out of the tiny salesman’s cubicle before she started throwing heavy objects through its glass walls. Working in a transparent box made her feel like a lab specimen.

Well, the job was only temporary. She’d be glad to get back to work at the library. She hadn’t planned to use her month’s vacation working a second job, even if it was proving more interesting than she’d anticipated. She had spent the morning running a credit check on the out-of-town purchaser of a white-and-cream Jaguar XJR. What she’d found had her most interested. With her mind on the buyer’s skillfully forged IDs, she glanced across the automotive showroom, past the drive-through that separated it from Clyde’s repair shop, and she had to laugh.

Clyde had brought one of the pups to work, had left him tied just inside the glass door of the automotive-repair wing of the building, the pup all groomed and polished and sitting on a new plaid dog bed. All Clyde needed was a hand-lettered sign advertising the pup’s many virtues.

Who knew, maybe Clydewouldfind Selig a home among his customers; most of them were well-to-do; surely it would take someone with money to feed that big fellow and care for him.

Hurrying down Ocean, enjoying the sun and the cool breeze skimming in off the Pacific, Wilma puzzled over her last three loan applicants.

The first credit scams she’d investigated when she started work for Sheril Beckwhite, had occurred over a two-month period. From these, she had passed to Max Harper enough information to launch seven police investigations.

But then this past week the action had heated up. She’d had five new applicants with impeccable credit ratings; her phone calls to their home numbers had been answered by a wife or by household staff. Their social security numbers, driver’s licenses, all records corresponded to information filed in the issuing departments across the country. All were excellent credit risks. Each buyer had made a minimum down payment with a personal check, taking out the maximum loan; two had said they needed the tax write-off.

She’d turned them all down. It was after requesting hard-copy records from the archives of the various agencies, asking them not to use their computer information, but to go back to the originals, that she came up with the discrepancies. Every one was a scam.

Entering Birtd’s Grocery through the back door near the deli, she was mulling over the legality, under today’s criminal-friendly courts, of fingerprinting all loan applicants and running them through NCIC before approving their loans. The idea made her smile-too bad it would never fly.

She thought about her early days in Probation and Parole, when information was so much harder to gather-long before computers, before the statistics available through National Crime Information Center-back in the horse-and-buggy days, she thought, grinning.

Heading for the deli, she heard angry voices from the front of the store, and spotted gentle-natured Lewis Birtd near the bread display. He was arguing with an irate tourist, a darkhaired, meaty woman dressed in a sloppy Hawaiian shirt and baggy shorts, pushing a baby in its stroller and hauling a two-year-old by the arm.

Birtd’s Grocery, located among the village motels, catered heavily to the more affluent tourists. Mr. Birtd carried a fine selection of the nicer party and snack foods and good wines, specializing in the two local wineries, and a complete line of imported beers and ales. He stocked only carefully selected fruits and vegetables and the finest meats. His deli was not as extensive as George Jolly’s, but what he did provide was delicious and nicely presented. Local residents stopped by Birtd’s for dinnerparty items and for sudden whims. Though for everyday purchases-of hamburger, bulk rice, and canned tomatoes, for cat food and paper towels-village folk went up the valley to one of the three grocery chains, all of which offered discounts in a constant competition that kept prices down and the residents of Molena Point coming back

Waiting at the deli counter for her avocado-and-prosciutto-on-rye and a container of dilled coleslaw, Wilma listened with interest and then concern to the quickly accelerating argument at the front of the store; the woman seemed to be claiming that Mr. Birtd had sold her an open box of cookies and that the cookies had made her children sick The children didn’t look sick. Mr. Birtd didn’t seem to know quite what to do with the woman. Her tirade had grown so heated that Wilma wondered if diminutive Lewis Birtd was in physical danger. When a second altercation broke out near the checkout counters, a puzzled unease gripped her. She craned to see.

A woman in a bright dirndl skirt and loose black jacket had backed Frederick Birtd into a corner beside the shelves of pickles, upbraiding him so violently that poor Frederick shuffled with embarrassment.

The Birtds were never rude to customers; the Birtd family was patient, polite, gentle-mannered. The store was run by Mr. and Mrs. Birtd and their two grown sons and, like most Molena Point shopkeepers, they went out of their way to please their clientele. As the woman’s shouting increased, Frederick’s voice rose in unaccustomed rage. At the same moment, to Wilma’s right near the soft drinks, a tall, heavily pregnant woman began to yell and stamp, trying desperately to discipline three wildly screaming children. Business at the three checkout counters had ceased as checkers and customers watched the disruptions. When the three children began hitting their mother, pounding her with their fists, one of the checkers left his register to help her-at the same moment, Wilma realized what was happening.

Her first thought was,This can’tbe real! You read about this stuff in the police journals.Her next thought:It’s not only real, and they’re not only pulling it off, I know these people!

She flew for the front door, fighting her way past Frederick Birtd’s assailant and through the checkout fines. Glancing back, she saw the big woman swing her purse, hitting Frederick so hard he staggered backward against a Coke display, the cans and wire racks flying. Everything happened at once; the checkout lines were a battlefield as impatient customers tried to push on through. As she slid through between the registers, a large woman spun from the far register and ran for the street. At the next register, another big boned, darkhaired woman was scooping up handfuls of bills. Wilma tripped her and slammed the drawer on her hand, forcing a scream. The woman dropped a fistful of money and ran; hitting the street, she slid into a waiting car. When Wilma turned to snatch up the phone, she found that its line had been cut.

Hurrying to the motel next door, she stepped behind the empty counter, grabbed the phone, and dialed 911.

The black-and-whites must have been just around the corner. As she returned to the riot-filled store, two squad cars slid to the curb. At the same moment, four civilian cars pulled out of the parking lot fast, skidding to a pause by the front door. Half a dozen big, darkhaired women came boiling out, their loose coats and long skirts flapping. The cops grabbed three. Two jumped into the waiting cars. A third black-and-white coming around the corner gave chase.

Wilma returned to the checkout stands feeling as though she’d been caught in the middle of a movie shoot, a well-planned script. Except this drama had been real, and devastating. Lewis Birtd stood at the cash registers, pale with shock One of the three registers lay on the floor upside down, spilling loose change. The drawers of the other two hung open and empty. Lewis looked up helplessly.

“Cleaned out all three,” he said to Wilma, and turned to a pair of uniformed officers as his son Frederick approached, holding the arm of the woman who had hit him. Within minutes, seven arrests had been made, the women secured in three black-and-whites and driven away to the station. No man had been involved in the store riot; the only men Wilma had seen had been driving the getaway cars. All of the cars were new and expensive.

Wilma had, as the cars sped away, jotted down three license plate numbers. One of the cars was a blue Thunderbird, and as it wheeled a U-turn picking up its passenger, she got a close look at the driver.

She stared after the car trying to be sure, her anger rising-she hadn’t seen Sam Fulman since the day in San Francisco Federal Court, maybe ten years back, when she petitioned the court to revoke his probation.

She’d only had a glimpse of the driver, but she sure didn’t forget a man she’d twice tried to revoke before she was successful-a man she had hassled constantly about his lack of permanent residence, lack of a job, and the fact that he refused to pay his restitution. It seemed like only yesterdaythat she faced Fulman before the bench. She didn’t like seeing him in Molena Point. Fulman was totally bad news.

But of course he’d be in Molena Point just then.

What did she expect? With Shamas Greenlaw’s funeral pending, every shirttail Greenlaw relative in the country had made a beeline for Molena Point, looking for a share of the leavings.

She’d never told Lucinda that one of Shamas’s nephews had been her probationer; what good would it have done to tell her?

Working her way to the back of the market, stepping over fallen cans and paper goods, Wilma slipped and nearly fell on a slick spot left by spilled fruit cocktail. The floor was littered with broken glass, scattered candy and cookies. And now the aisles were crowded with uniforms talking with the remaining customers. All those present during the riot seemed eager to tell the officers their particular version.

Wilma gave Lieutenant Wendell the license plate numbers she’d noted down, then collected her lunch. Leaving Birtd’s, hurrying toward Ocean, she was just crossing the broad, tree-shaded median when she saw Clyde coming up the street, probably returning from his own lunch. He walked at an angle, leaning back, pulled along the sidewalk like an unwilling puppet by the young dog-and nearly fell over Selig when the pup stopped suddenly to sniff at the street.

Sniffing along pulling Clyde, the dog bolted away, suddenly jerking the lead from Clyde’s fist, charging along the median toward a blue Thunderbird parked at the curb.

Leaping at the car’s windows, barking and pawing, scratching the gleaming paint, he spun in circles, his wagging tail beating against the metal-then he cowered away, ducking as if with fear.

There was no one in the T-Bird. Wilma looked through the windows. In the front seat lay the same plaid jacket that one of the woman rioters had worn. Wilma glanced into the nearby shops and cafes. She didn’t see Fulman. She turned to look at Clyde.

“Tell Sheril I’ll be a bit late,” she said. “Tell her? tell her I’m chasing a loan applicant.” And she headed away, across Ocean, in the direction of the police station.

The station was mobbed with women, pale-haired women dressed in jeans or shorts, and Tshirts-not the heavily garbed brunettes she had seen in Birtd’s-all shouting. They were arguing and weeping, firing questions at the officers in some foreign language, screaming indecipherable accusations. A dozen officers were trying to sort them out. Entering, Wilma was nearly knocked flat by an energetic arrestee swinging her heavy arms and yelling.

Max Harper’s station was one large, open squad room. The counter at the front was big enough to accommodate the dispatcher and her radios, a clerk, and, behind her, a row of tall file cabinets set into the wall. Beyond the counter, a dozen officers’ desks filled the room, their surfaces invisible beneathstacks of papers and bound reports. Along the far, back wall, a credenza held a coffeemaker and assorted cups. Harper’s desk stood near it, with a clear view of the room, of the front door, and of the hall to the back door and alley. Harper, at the moment, was near the front counter in the midst of the melee, five women screaming and crowding at him, waving their arms, demanding answers to questions that seemed to have no meaning-though the women at Birtd’s a few minutes before had spoken in clear English. Wilma was backing away from a pair of enraged ladies when Harper saw her and motioned her on back to his desk.

At the credenza, Wilma busied herself making fresh coffee. Harper marched past her escorting two of the women toward the back door, taking them to the jail across the alley. He was followed by a line of officers, each with a female in tow. All blondes or sandy-haired, and one redhead, not a brunette among them.

Harper returned to his desk and poured himself a cup of coffee. Wilma sat down across from him.“How many black wigs did you collect?”

Harper smiled.“Eleven, most of them from the three cars we pulled over. Clothes, too. Big floppy coats and skirts. One of the women was in the midst of changing, Blake caught her with her skirt around her knees. Brennan and West are at Birtd’s talking to witnesses.” He settled back, sipping his coffee.

“Those are Greenlaw women.”

Harper nodded.“I’m afraid so.”

“My God, poor Lucinda. I wonder if she has any idea.”

“They were booked in with all kinds of aliases. These people have been working up and down the coast for nearly two weeks. Here in the village, they’ve kept it low-key, until today. In most instances, the store owners thought it was just a couple of annoying customers. They didn’t know what was coming down until the troublemakers left, and they found the cash drawer cleaned out.”

“One of the drivers,” Wilma said, “in the blue T-Bird, was a probationer of mine. Sam Fulman. Just a few minutes ago his car was parked over on Ocean.” She gave him the license plate number that, earlier, she had given to Brennan.

Harper motioned an officer back to the desk and sent him to impound the T-Bird and bring Fulman in for questioning.

“I haven’t seen Fulman in ten years.”

“And he’s a Greenlaw?”

“Shamas’s cousin. A real loser. There are a few darker-haired, lighter-boned members of the family.”

“We have two witnesses on store diversions up the coast that might be reliable. If we can ID the same women, here, and with your ID of Fulman, we might make something stick”

“Might?“She raised an eyebrow.

“Most of these cases walk, Wilma. You get them in court, no witness seems able to make a solid ID. Different hair color, different way of dressing, and the witness isn’t that sure. And these people turn the courtroom into the same kind of circus, shouting, mouthing off in a language you can’tunderstand.”

Harper shrugged.“A judge can charge them with contempt and lock them up, but besides disrupting the whole courtroom, they’ll trash the jail cells-those women can tear up a jail worse than a hundred male felons. And most times, the judge gets so tired of the noise and confusion in his courtroom and no solid witnesses, that he’ll do anything to be rid of them.

“I’ve never seen you so negative.”

“You’ve never seen me faced with one of these renegade families. You heard them up there at the desk, couldn’t get anything intelligible out of them. That’s the way they are in court. You can lock them up, but if your witnesses are uncertain, you’ve got nothing to hold them. Then usually,their hotshot attorney shows up and offers full restitution.” Harper shook his head.

“All the shopkeeper wants is his money and the value of the goods they stole. Lawyer puts a little pressure on him and offers plenty of cash, and he’ll drop charges.”

Harper shrugged, and lit a cigarette.“Without charges, they walk.”

He set down his coffee cup.“Your Sam Fulman-did he ever tell you anything about the Greenlaw family? Anything more than you know from Lucinda?”

“He said the clan is thick, that most of them come from one small town in North Carolina. Donegal, I think Three-story brick houses, long, curved drives, swimming pools and private woods, landscaped acreage. He claimed they practically own the town.”

Wilma watched the officers settling back to their desks, the room calm now, and quieter.“Fulman told me the families all work together, but he never would say just what kind of work-the construction trades, I remember him saying once, rather vaguely. He said they all intermarry, all adhere to the family rules. Much, I suppose, like a tightly controlled little Mafia.

“Fulman is something of a renegade among them. He didn’t knuckle under like the rest, didn’t behave as the elders dictated. He moved out when he was young, came out to the coast, set up his own operation. I had him on probation for a chop shop. Later, at the time I got him revoked, he’d gone into business with Shamas.”

“What kind of business?”

“Selling machine tools.”

“What about Shamas’s other business affairs?”

“When Lucinda and Shamas met, she told me, he was a rep for a roofing company in Seattle. Before they left Washington State, he had started the machine-tool company and entered into several related businesses-something about electroplating tools.”

Harper swiveled his chair around, reaching for the coffeepot.“When they moved down here, he kept those enterprises?”

“That’s what Lucinda told me, but she was pretty vague. Evidently Shamas didn’t like to talk to her about business, would never give her any details. Never told her anything about bank balances, just gave her an allowance.”

She looked at her watch.“Do you have anything on the Chambers stabbing? How is he?”

“He’s doing okay. Doctors got the lung reinflated and repaired-he was lucky. He should be home in a few days. He says he didn’t know his assailant, that he got only a glimpse. Said he’d stopped to use the phone, there by the rest rooms, that he was out walking and forgot he had an early appointment. The guy grabbed him from behind, a regular bear hug, and shoved the knife in his chest. Chambers fell and lay still, hoping the guy would think he was dead. His assailant heard someone coming and ran.”

“Wouldn’t that pretty well clear Lucinda? Grabbing him from behind hard enough to hold him and stab him?” Lucinda had been questioned as a matter of routine because she’d been in the area and had reported the body, but also because Chambers was on board theGreen Ladywhen Shamas drowned.

“I’d think it would clear her. Though she’s tall, almost as tall as Chambers; and the miles she walks every day, she has to be in good shape for?”

“For an old lady?” Wilma grinned. “But what would be her motive?” She glanced again at her watch. “Didn’t know it was so late-Sheril will pitch a fit, want to know if I’ve been shopping on her time.” She rose, picked up her sack lunch from his desk, looked hard at Harper. “She’ssuch a bitch to work for. You don’t know, Max, the bad luck I’ve wished on you.”

Harper smiled, and rose, and walked with her to the front. The squad room was silent now, and half deserted, only a few officers at their desks. Wilma wondered, as she pushed out the door, how long the Greenlaw women would stay in jail before someone approached the Birtds with enough cash so they would drop the charges and Harper would be forced to release them. She stopped in a little park to eat her lunch, enjoying ten minutes of solitude, then headed for work. And it was not until the next afternoon that she learned, with amazement, that Clyde, too, had been arrested, that same afternoon. That her good friend had, uncharacteristically, also run afoul of Molena Point law enforcement-that about the time the Greenlaw women were set free, and Sam Fulman was picked up for questioning then released, Clyde, too, was cooling his heels behind bars.

16 [????????: pic_17.jpg]

THE TIME was past midnight. Rain beat against Wilma’s shuttered bedroom windows; a fire burned in the red-enameled woodstove, its light flickering across the flowered quilt and the white-wicker furniture. Wilma sat in bed reading, Dulcie curled up beside her.

She had spent the evening at her desk, poring over a map of the U.S., tracking the locations of auto-loan scams across the country, using an NCIC list that Max Harper had printed out for her from the police computer. The report covered the last six months, but the operations that interested her specifically had occurred within the last few weeks.

Her map bristled with pins, but the work had gone slowly, as she had not only to locate the scams, but then to find routes according to dates, marking each route with different colored pins. Some of the trails were circuitous, moving back and forth among half a dozen cities or to several adjoining metropolitan areas.

But one, a line of red pins, delineated a well-defined series of auto-loan scams over the last three weeks-beginning in Greenville, North Carolina, half a day’s drive west of Donegal, the home of the Greenlaw clan, and leading directly across the U.S.-scams that would not have been reported so early on, if not for one fortuitous accident.

When one of the small car dealers, driving a newly purchased BMW home for the weekend, was hit by a delivery truck, the officer who answered the call ran a routine check and came up with the fake registration.

This dealer had bought four cars within a twenty-four hour period; the fake registration made him so uneasy that he asked the police to check on the other three vehicles.

All four cars had come to him with fake paper.

The subsequent investigation spread from one small town to the next; dozens of false registrations were uncovered and reported to NCIC, long before any of the dealers would have been alerted by overdue car payments.

The trail ended at Bakersfield. Police had no record of any suspicious car purchases beyond that point. The perpetrators could have traveled north up the coast or south, or turned back east again.

Wilma’s next step was to phone the car agencies that had been ripped off, compare the MOs with those she’d been dealing with at Beckwhite’s: all had very professional IDs, excellent credit records that checked out with the credit bureaus. These people had to have, within their sophisticated operation, at least one very skilled hacker.

“Presume,” she told Dulcie, laying down her book, “that the Greenlaws were notified of Shamas’s death the morning after the accident, that most of them started out within a few hours, driving across country for Shamas’s funeral. They make their first stop at Greenville, to pick up a little cash. They buy two new BMWs, two Cadillacs and a Buick convertible, all listed by NCIC as sold in Greenville within hours of one another, at three separate dealerships, and all purchased with the maximum loans.

“Half a day’s drive down the road, then, they sell the cars for cash to small, out-of-the-way dealers, or through quickly placed ads in the local paper, give the buyer a forged registration certificate that wouldn’t come to light until they were long gone.

“Maybe thirty thousand apiece,” she told Dulcie. “They pick up maybe a hundred and fifty thousand for walking-around money, for their little jaunt out here to the coast.”

“Not too bad for a few hours’ work,” Dulcie said. “Do you think NCIC could link pigeon drops the same way? Store diversions and shoplifting?”

“No,” Wilma said. “They couldn’t. Only the big stuff is reported, things that might be interstate. Like stolen cars moved from one state to another. The little crimes, if they were reported to anyone beyond a local PD, would go to that state’s crime bureau. You’d have to contact each state, see what might have been logged. The Greenlaws could have worked the local stores all across the country, picking up their groceries and a little loose change-now doing the same here while they wait for the last of the relatives to arrive for the funeral.”

“Very nice,” Dulcie said, “traveling along in their homes on wheels, stealing as they go. Just like Gypsies.”

Wilma sat looking at the little cat, taking that in.

“Have you ever heard of Travelers?” Dulcie said. “Irish Travelers?”

Wilma’s eyes widened.

“In the library books on Gypsies,” Dulcie said, “the Irish Travelers are almost exactly the same. The whole family steals; it’s how they make their living.”

“But all Gypsies aren’t?” Wilma began.

“Not all Gypsies steal, just some clans. I was reading about them late last night-the library is so peaceful at night,” Dulcie said. “Well, not all Irish are Travelers. But the Travelers’ ancestors centuries ago in Ireland-they were tinkers just like the Gypsies. Tinsmiths and peddlers traveling across Ireland in their pony carts, stopping at little farms, trading and doing repairs. According to the books, some of the Travelers would steal anything left lying loose.”

“You’re not turning into a racist?” Wilma said, raising an eyebrow.

“What? Against the Irish?” Dulcie laid her ears back. “Why would I do that? I’m telling you what I read. It’s supposed to be fact. Besides, you’re part Irish. So is Clyde.”

“And how come,” Wilma said, teasing her, “how come you, of all cats, are talking about other folks stealing?”

Dulcie ducked her head.“That was? mostly? before I knew any better.” She looked up at Wilma. “It was never for self-gain. It’s just that? Such lovely little sweaters and scarves and silky things, so pretty and soft?” She looked pleadingly at Wilma, deeply chastened. Wilma grinned at her and stroked her ears, and at last the little cat began to purr.

“But it is a touchy subject,” Wilma told her. “Many people in the East are still bitter about prejudice against the Irish. It started when Irish families came over here during the potato famine-the 1800s-They left Ireland to survive, to make a new start, their whole country was starving, people were starving by the thousands. But when they arrived in this country, there was so much bad feeling about them.”

“Maybe that’s because of the Travelers,” Dulcie said, “becausetheywere stealing.” She licked her paw and looked up at Wilma, filled with a quick, electric energy. “This Fulman that you had on probation, Shamas’s cousin. What were he and Shamas doing in Seattle?”

Wilma’s eyes widened. “For one thing, selling supposedly high-quality machine tools that were really junk. I don’t remember all the details, but it involved a switch-showing the buyer fine merchandise as a sample, then shipping him shoddy stuff. They were paid up front, of course.

“When I checked out his family, through the probation office in Greenville, the information they gave me was that the family was clean. Not a thing on the Fulmans or the Greenlaws.”

“Smooth,” Dulcie said. “And how would you know any different? Most people never think about whole families living that way, their entire lives dedicated to stealing and running scams.”

“My job was to look for these things. And Greenville had to know.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. The books say they’re very law-abiding in their own town.” Dulcie grinned. “Maybe the probation officer was a shirttail cousin.”

Wilma looked at her, torn between laughter and chagrin.“I should have thought about that kind of connection. I’ve always known there were families in San Francisco running roofing scams, asphalt-paving scams, home-repair swindles. It’s their way of life.” Wilma shook her head. “I never put that together with Fulman and Shamas-and it was my business to know.

“I hate to think how this would affect Lucinda if she should find out about Shamas. It would break her heart to know that her husband was a thief and a con artist.”

Dulcie licked her whiskers.“I think she knows. From the things I’ve heard her say to Pedric, and to Charlie, too, I think she knows very well what Shamas was.”

Wilma looked at her quietly.

Dulcie looked intently back at her.“How could Lucinda live with him all those years and not know there was something wrong?”

“You’d be surprised,” Wilma said, “how thoroughly humans can deceive themselves.” She settled deeper into the pillows, sipping her cocoa-and straightened up, nearly spilling it, when they heard above the pounding rain, a thud on the back porch, then the back door creak.

The noise brought Dulcie up rigid, too, her every hair standing straight.

Wilma slid out of bed, snatching up the fire tongs, and Dulcie dropped softly to the floor-then they heard Dulcie’s cat door slap, banging against its metal frame.

“Anyone home?”

Dulcie relaxed. Her fur went flat, her claws drew back into their sheaths. Wilma sighed, and laughed as Joe Grey came swaggering down the hall, his silver coat soaked dark, dripping on the Persian runner.“I was around back, came down the hill, saw the bedroom light. Are those cookies I smell?”

Wilma trailed to the bathroom, snatched up a towel, and tossed it to the bedroom floor. Joe, giving her a sour look, rolled on the terry cloth until he was relatively dry, then leaped to the bed.

“Why are you out in the rain?” Dulcie said. “You weren’t hunting, on a night like this.”

“I took a little jaunt by Cara Ray’s motel, after you said she wasn’t at Lucinda’s for supper.” He licked a few swipes across his shoulder.

Wilma shoved the cookie plate in his direction. He took one in his teeth, crunching it with pleasure, dropping crumbs. The quilt was due for a washing; this was why Wilma liked washable furnishings, so she and the cats could enjoy, and not fuss.

“So what did you see?” Dulcie said. “Was that Sam person there at her motel?”

“No. Nor Cara Ray, either. I nearly drowned climbing up to the roof, nearly broke my neck on those wet, slick shutters, slipping down to Cara Ray’s window. Lucky someone didn’t find me smashed on the pavement below, lying in the gutter broken and my poor cat lungs full of water. All I got formy trouble was a cold bath, and a view of Cara Ray’s messy motel room.

“I waited for maybe an hour, thinking she might bring him back with her, and the rain pounding against the windows like shotgun blasts. Where would they go on a night like this? So damned wet-couldn’t get a claw into anything.”

“You haven’t been home?” Dulcie said.

“I was home for dinner. Why?”

“Clyde didn’t say anything?”

“About what?”

“Clyde was arrested.”

Joe stared at her. Stared at Wilma.“You’re joking. There’s no way Max Harper? Arrested for what? Who would arrest him? In what town? For speeding? Oh, that would-”

“Not for speeding,” Wilma said. “For creating a public nuisance.”

Joe settled down on the quilt, his yellow eyes fixed on Wilma.“What stupid thing has he done now?”

“Selig broke his collar,” Wilma said.

“I told Clyde the pups had been chewing on each other’s collars,” Joe said, “the whole time they were together.”

“Clyde was walking the pups down Ocean,” Wilma said, “when a big Harley came roaring around the corner. The pups went crazy, hit the end of their leads bellowing, and Selig kept on going, chasing the Harley and baying like a bloodhound-and Clyde chasing him, dragging Hestig through traffic, yelling and swearing.”

Joe Grey smiled, his yellow eyes slitted with pleasure.

“A squad car came around the corner,” Wilma said, “following the roar of the Harley.” In Molena Point, motorcycles were just as strictly forbidden as were unleashed canines.

“Another black-and-white screamed down Ocean, and when they got the Harley cornered, Selig and Hestig and Clyde were right in the middle, Clyde trying to hold Hestig and slip the other leash around Selig’s neck.”

Wilma smiled.“All of this in front of the Patio Cafe, and half the village looking on.” She and Clyde had been close friends forever-if she had a little laugh at his expense, he’d had plenty of laughs at hers. “My friend Nora was waiting tables and had a ringside view. Those two rookies that Harper justhired-they don’t know Clyde.”

“They arrested him,” Joe Grey said, rumbling with purrs.

Wilma nodded.“Arrested him while the pups had him tangled in the leash.”

Dulcie looked from one to the other, half amused, half feeling sorry for Clyde.

“Clyde got himself untangled,” Wilma said, “but Selig wouldn’t let the rookies near the Harley. The puppy seemed to think thathehad caught the cycle, and they had no right to it. He stood guarding it, snarling like a timber wolf, and Clyde trying to pull him away.

“One of the rookies stepped into the cafe and bought a prewrapped beef sandwich. He distracted Selig with that until his partner could lock the Harley driver in a squad car. Ordinarily, a rookie wouldn’t be assigned alone to a unit, but there was some kind of changeover at the station.”

Wilma settled back against the cushions, and for a long, perfect moment, she and the cats envisioned Clyde Damen in the backseat of a black-and-white, confined behind the wire barrier.

“Nice,” Joe Grey said. “Wait until I lay this one on him.”

“He didn’t mention it?” Dulcie asked.

“Silent as a mummy in the tomb.” He looked at Wilma. “So what happened when they got to the station? Did you talk to Harper, get a blow-by-blow?”

“When rookie Jimmie McFarland tried to get the pups out of the unit, they set their feet and wouldn’t come.

“McFarland had saved back a little of the sandwich. He bribed them out with that. But when he got them into the station, Selig took a look at all those nice uniforms and began to bark and leap in the officers’ faces, kissing everyone. And Hestig grabbed McFarland’s field book, raced around the station with it, dodging anyone who got close.

Wilma smiled.“When the dispatcher called the dog catcher, that’s when Clyde began to shout.”

Joe Grey rolled on his back, laughing.

“At about that time,” Wilma said, “Harper came in the back door, saw McFarland tackle Selig, saw Officer Blake trying to corner Hestig. Harper grabbed Selig by the nape of the neck, shook him, and turned on Clyde as if he’d shake him, too.”

Dulcie’s purr bubbled into laughter. Joe lay grinning, thinking about what he’d have to say to Clyde.

“Before Harper could get them sorted out, Selig jerked loose from him, snatched a sheaf of reports from Officer Blake’s desk, and ran off chewing on them. Three officers caught him but, without a collar, he slipped free of them-snatched Lieutenant Brennan’s ham sandwich, then grabbed the photo officer’s reflex camera. The officer tackled him, rescued his camera, stood cradling it like a baby. Harper was so mad, he told me, and was laughing so hard, that he could feel tears.”

“And I missed it all,” Joe said. “The event of the-”

A tremor shook the bed. Joe leaped up. Dulcie rose into a wary crouch. Wilma’s cup rattled in its saucer.

But then the room was still again.

They waited, but no second jolt hit. The three friends looked at each other, and shrugged. A second later, the phone rang.

Wilma picked up, listened, then pressed the speaker button.

Lucinda’s voice was weak and unsteady. “? he’s? I’m at the hospital. He’s hurt, Wilma. Broken arm, some broken ribs. He was soaking wet and so cold, shivering. I only hope? I don’t know how long he lay there, in the cold and rain.”

Wilma leaned close to the phone’s speaker. “Start at the beginning, Lucinda. Tell me what happened. Take it slowly, please.”

“The police found him-not our police,” Lucinda said. “The highway patrol. They-in the dark. Pedric was lying halfway down Hellhag Hill. Someone?” Lucinda’s voice shook “Someone tried?”

“How would they find him in the dark and rain? What were they doing? Never mind. I’ll come. Who’s the doctor?”

“Dr. Harliss.”

“I’ll be there.” Wilma slipped out of bed. “I’ll be?”

“No. Don’t come here. I’m? I’ll stay with him. Go there. Go to Hellhag Hill. Find out? Talk to the police. Find out who-what happened.”

“But?”

“Hurry, while they’re still there. Please find out what happened.”

“But they won’t be?”

“They’ll still be there. I came away in the ambulance. They were still there, seeing to Newlon.”

“Newlon?”

“Newlon’s dead. They found him lying on the highway in the rain. Please find out, Wilma.” Her voice shook. “Find out who killed Newlon, and tried to kill Pedric.”

Wilma hung up the phone and sat looking at the cats.“First, Chambers is stabbed. Now, another man in the hospital, and a man dead. And all of them,” she said, “connected to Shamas Greenlaw.”

Swinging out of bed, she snatched up some clothes and slipped into the bathroom to wash and dress. Within minutes, she and the cats were headed for Hellhag Hill, Joe and Dulcie staring out through the rain-soaked windows, shivering in the cavernous, cold car.

17 [????????: pic_18.jpg]

TWO HIGHWAY patrol units were nosed in along the shoulder, their lights shining across the rain-matted grass at the base of Hellhag Hill. Passing them on the wet black two-lane, Wilma pulled up ahead, behind two Molena Point black-and-whites. Beyond these stood the coroner’s gray sedan, its headlights shining on a makeshift tent, a green police tarp erected to keep the rain off Newlon Greenlaw’s body. Other illumination was provided by three large butane lanterns. The coroner, John Bern, a thin, button-nosed man wearing a yellow raincoat, knelt beside the body. As Wilma stepped out of the car, she saw Max Harper leave the tent and start up the hill, his torchlight bouncing off curtains of blowing rain. She saw, up the hill just below the trailer park, in the beam of other torches, two more uniforms and a gathering of onlookers.

“Up there,” Officer Davis told her, coming up to Wilma, wringing water from her uniform skirt. “That’s where Pedric Greenlaw fell, just above those boulders. Ambulance left with him about half an hour ago.” Davis was a middle-aged woman, solidly built, short dark hair, dark and expressiveLatin eyes.

“What happened?” Wilma said. “I’ve only talked with Lucinda Greenlaw, and she was pretty upset.”

“You knew Newlon Greenlaw?” Davis said, gesturing toward the body.

“I’ve met him.”

“Head cracked open. We’ve found no weapon. Apparently the two men were fighting, up around the trailers. It’s dark as hell up there at night; they’ve never had good lighting.

“People in the trailers woke up, heard thumps and scuffling, then groans. Grabbed flashlights and ran out. Someone thought there were three men, but they couldn’t be sure. We’ve not found any traces of a third man. Pedric fell maybe twenty feet, into those rocks just above the cave.

“When the people up there called 911, California Highway Patrol was just up the road. They came on down to see if they could render assistance, spotted Newlon’s body in their headlights here beside the road.

“We won’t know much until it gets light,” Davis said. “And maybe not then, with this rain. Sure makes a mess.”

Moving to the tent, Wilma watched the coroner examine the dead man’s head wound and take the temperature of the liver, a procedure which never failed to make her queasy. She flinched as the needle went into the abdomen.

She had left Joe and Dulcie in the car. She hoped they’d stay there, hoped the heavy rain would keep them confined. Knowing those two, she doubted it. A promise from either of them was subject to all manner of feline guile.

As Harper’s light moved up the hill, someone started down toward him with another torch. The rain had slacked off, but the damage to the crime scene would be significant, blood washed away, evidence destroyed. When she glanced down the road toward her car, the torch of one of the CHP officers caught four bright flashes low to the ground racing across the highway, accompanied by a gleam of white.

“Damn cats,” she muttered; but already the cats had disappeared. Joe and Dulcie were doing as they pleased, and no one was going to stop them.

The turmoil on the hill, men shouting and striding through the dark grass with lights swinging, had terrified the clowder of wild cats. Already disoriented by the heavy rain, by the jolting of the earth, and by the earlier violence of the men fighting and then the crowd gathering and the scream of the ambulance and not knowing where to escape, they had withdrawn to cower among the rocks in a state of near shock Even the bellowing mewl of the ragged kit, which they had heard earlier, had seemed terrifying, coming alone out of the night.

Still cowering against the boulders as men moved all over the hillside, they refused to go into the cave; none of them would enter the cave when the earth shook.

Long after the police cars and most of the men had left and the world grew quiet once more, they crouched in the soaking grass, belly to ground, waiting for further disaster-perhaps for the earth to open entirely, for the hill beneath their paws to crumble away.

All but the tattered kit. The ninth and smallest, she was of another mind.

The cave did not frighten her. She sat in its mouth, where the others wouldn’t go, had sat there earlier, stoically enduring the earth’s trembling. If she died, she died. She wasn’t going to run away.

After the earth stopped shaking she had stood up on her hind paws like a little rabbit, looking all around her, delighted at the brilliance of the sky. When the quake ceased, the rain had ceased for the moment, too, and a strange, thin gleam lit the sky. Not the light of dawn, but a silver glow shimmering beneath the rain clouds. Ignoring her soaking fur and the icy chill that reached down into her thin little bones, she had looked around her, thrilled with the beauty of the world.

But at the same time, too, she tasted fear. She could still smell the blood from the man who had lain among the boulders. She had seen him fall. She had seen another man die. These matters deeply distressed her.

It had happened just at midnight. She had been hunting beneath the trailers, where field mice had burrowed away from the driving rain, mice displaced and disoriented and easier to catch than most. Despite her lack of skill she had trapped two and eaten them; and as she padded along beneath the wheeled houses, hoping to find more such foolish morsels, smelling from above her the sour scent of sleeping humans, hearing through the thin trailer floors the rumbling of their ragged, crude snores, she had heard something else. Footsteps thundered overhead, and she heard a door creak open.

She stopped suddenly, spun around, and drew back against a wheel.

A man left the trailer, heading across the sodden yard to a shed where firewood was stacked; she was afraid of him until she saw that it was only the old man who came here with the lady-the lady called him Pedric. The kit was crouched to leap past him when another man came out, shutting his door so softly that only a cat would hear it.

He walked soundlessly in the rain, following Pedric. The smell of him, in the wet air, made her fur bristle. A cruel smell, and when he drew close behind Pedric, she hissed with fear.

Suddenly in the darkness the silhouettes of the two men merged. She heard a loud crack, saw Pedric fall heavily into the splattering mud.

Immediately the man who had hit Pedric grabbed him and dragged him down the steep hill. He bent over him listening, studying him, then he half threw, half pushed him. Pedric fell, rolling limply down and down, until his body lay against the boulders that formed the mouth of the cave.

The thin man climbed again. Before he reached the trailers a third man came out of the shadows, crouching low, a big, heavy human, broad as a rutting bull. The two fought, pounding and grunting, hitting one another until the big one fell and lay still; that surprised her, that the smaller man had been so clever and quick. Then she saw the rock in his hand. He had hit with that. He dragged the big man down the hill past her. She smelled the death smell.

He dragged and threw him, just as he had thrown old Pedric; how strong he was, like a fighting weasel. The big man rolled farther than Pedric had. Rolled and fell. The dun man ran after him, kicked him, threw him again so he slid down and down onto the highway; the heavy soft thuds of his falling body made her think of the mice she had crushed between her young, sharp teeth.

The thin man went away, down below the road. She crept out to look at Pedric.

The old man was alive, twisted among the rocks. Nosing at him, she could feel his breath, faint and ragged. She knew nothing to do but yowl.

For such a little thing, she had a huge, demanding cry. Leaping to the top of a boulder, she faced the trailers and bawled.

She mewed and cried until a light went on, then another light, spilling into the night like a yellow river. A woman shouted at her to shut up. A door burst open, and a man ran out, hefting a shoe. Then another man, swinging a hunk of firewood; he heaved it at her, and she dodged. Yowling twice more, she fled down the hill behind the thin man who had hurt Pedric.

Down swiftly past the dead man. There, the thin man ran across the dark highway and down again, down the steeper cliff. She was close behind him; humans were so slow. At the edge of the cliff he lifted his hand, she saw the rock and smelled the blood, the rock that had killed the big man, watched him heave the rock away into the sea.

Rain came again, beating into her face. Above her, up the hill, car lights were racing among the trailers. A siren screamed, and men shouted.

She followed the thin man up again, across the road and up the hill, and watched him vanish among the trailers. But in a minute he was back, pushing in among the crowd, crying out with surprise, and then with pain and anger, a mourning cry that, to the little kit’s ears, was as fake as the kitten-mewl of a seagull.

Galloping up the hill through the dark, she drew as close as she could to the killer and tried to catch his scent, but she could not; too many humans were crowded all together. Before, when she had followed him downhill, she had smelled only the dead man’s blood.

Frightened and puzzled at humans, the little cat went down to the dark, empty cave and sat hunched in its yawning mouth, looking out, watching the moving reflections of lights from above, and on the road below. Despite the shouting, she dozed, mewling in her sleep. She woke fearful.

Alone on the hill, she waited. It was her nature to wait, to expect something better to happen. Ragged and starving, bone-thin, outcast by her own kind and without any reason to hope, the small kit was filled with hope.

She thought of the hills her clowder had come from, hills like this one, dripping wet in the rain but, in the sunshine, bright with yellow grass, sweet and rustling above endless, sunstruck sea, and she was filled with hope. She believed that no matter what trouble came, all would be well again if only one waited and watched-and moved swiftly with a fast paw at the right moment.

Closing her round yellow eyes, she dozed. When next she woke, two shadows approached her, padding up through the dark wet grass; two pairs of long, gleaming eyes silvered by the pale sky, two pairs of eyes, watching her.

Joe and Dulcie studied two round yellow eyes peering out at them from the black and dripping grass. They could see no more than the eyes, disembodied in the blackness-until the shadows reformed themselves, turning into mottled black-and-brown fur.

The waif stepped delicately forward through the sodden grass. She was so thin that the sea wind should have blown her tumbling across the hill. Her narrow little face was all black-and-brown smudges. Her expression was not the innocent look of a normal kitten, but brighter and more intelligent, more lively and knowing than any ordinary cat. Dulcie lifted her paw, enchanted; this kit was like them. Not for an instant did she doubt the wonder she sensed in this small kitten.

But the kit made Joe uneasy.

The two experiences he’d had with cats of their own kind had badly shaken him. First, Kate Osborne, whose skill at shapeshifting had left him nervous and unsettled: to know a human woman who could become a cat, deeply disturbed him. And then Azrael, that other like themselves, black, lecherous, lording it over them, coming onto Dulcie all testosterone and gleaming claws.

Now here was this ragged kitten. Like them. And frightening in her wide-eyed yearning-but before Joe Grey knew what had happened, he had reached a protecting paw to scoop the little kit close to him. Before he knew what he was doing, he was washing her smudgy face.

She had a little, tilted nose, a dish face. How boldly she rubbed against his leg, purring so hard that the ragged rhythm shook her thin body, and shook him, too.

Dulcie came close and licked her face, purring.

But around them, hidden in the night, Joe could sense the clowder of wild cats creeping close, could sense their anger as stealthily they moved closer through the dark wet grass, the wild beasts watching them-as if they did not want the kitten to be with outsiders. The darkness around them felt brittle with feline rage.

Joe stood up tall in the night, glaring into the darkness, daring the beasts to so much as hiss at them.

He caught a startled gleam, but it was quickly gone. He scowled and leered, then licked the kitten’s face.

Dulcie said to the kit,“A man was killed tonight.”

The kit’s eyes widened, she looked up at Dulcie and twitched her long, wet tail. “How did you know to speak to me?”

Dulcie smiled.“I knew. A man was killed tonight, kit, and another man was hurt. Did you see? Can you show us who did this?”

The kit’s yellow eyes grew wide. “I saw,” she said softly. “I was hunting mice, and I saw.”

“Was it someone from the trailers?” Dulcie glanced up the dark hill. “Someone who came from there?” She looked deeply at the kit, her green eyes kind and without guile. “Can you take us to that man? Can you show us his smell?”

The kit looked at Dulcie a long time. Twice she cut her eyes around at their unseen observers. She hissed at them and glowered as Joe had done.

At last she led Joe and Dulcie uphill, passing through the invisible cats. Passing a low growl, and snarls. Beside her, Joe Grey thundered and rumbled. No cat moved to strike them.

Up through the matted wet grass, their paws sodden, then splashing through the mud under the trailers. All the trailers were dark above them; no human was abroad now. Only the scents lingered, human stinks riding on the damp air. The kit sniffed and prowled, trying to sort them out. But no cat on earth could have sorted those smells.

“Do youknowhis smell?” asked Dulcie. “If one could sort anything, would you know it?”

“No,” the kit said. “When I followed him, I could only smell blood.”

They stood in the sopping mud between the grease-coated wheels, their wet fur clinging to their shivering bodies.“Which trailer?” Dulcie said. “Where did he come from?”

“He came out from between them. There.” She cocked her ears toward the trailers. “I didn’t see where exactly. I heard a door shut, then there he was.” Again the kit moved away. They followed her.

“Somewhere here,” she said, scenting at the wheels and at shoe prints all filled with water. But she could find no certain trail.

“We’ll come back,” Dulcie told her, “when this tangle of stinks blows away and when the rain is gone. Maybe then??”

“Maybe,” said the kit. “Maybe I will see him again, and I can learn his smell. I will watch. I will follow him, and I will find his scent. If the others? if they don’t chase me away for being with you, for talking to you.”

Joe Grey leaped down to the boulders and looked around him. He could feel the clowder watching.

“If any cat,” he growled, “any ragged mangy vermin among you touches this kit, if any moldy creature among you does this kit harm, you willallof you wish you had never come to this hill. You willalldie, slowly and painfully, by the force of my claws.”

His eyes blazed into night.“I have your scents. I will track you wherever you go, and I will leave you bleeding and immobile. I will watch the gulls swoop down, to pick meat from your living bones.”

The kit pressed close to Dulcie.“If they try to hurt me, I will go deep in the cave. They won’t come there; they fear the cave. They long for it, they want to go where it leads, but they fear it.” She looked brightly at Dulcie. “I will find the man who hurt Pedric. I will find him, and I will lead you to him.”

18 [????????: pic_19.jpg]

MAN KILLED, ONE INJURED, IN FALL DOWN HELLHAG HILL

Newlon Greenlaw, nephew of the late Molena Point resident Shamas Greenlaw, was found dead shortly after midnight, his body lying in the rain on Highway One at the base of Hellhag Hill. A California Highway Patrol unit spotted the body as they answered a 911 call to an accident victim higher up the hill, where just below the Moonwatch Trailer Park elderly Pedric Greenlaw lay injured in a fall. The two men may possibly have been victims in a bizarre double accident.

Relatives had no explanation as to why the men were out on the hill during the midnight storm. Newlon and his uncle were staying in their campers at the trailer park with other members of the extended Greenlaw family, gathered here for Shamas Greenlaw’s funeral. Shamas died earlier this month in a drowning accident during a cruise off Seattle. His rosary and funeral will not be scheduled until additional family members arrive.

Pedric Greenlaw is under observation at Molena Point Hospital. His condition, doctors told reporters, is stable. He will be hospitalized for several days.

Pawing open the morning paper and glimpsing the headline, Joe saw that theGazettehad been swift and efficient. Last night’s death and injury filled the front page above the fold, displacing whatever local news the paper must have already set up. He imagined the last-minute bustle, late into the night, as editors worked to change the front page.

If the paper were printed out of town, as some small papers were, they’d never have made it. Probably the ink was still wet when the truck delivered its stacks ofGazettesto the pickup stations.

As for theGazette’stake that Newlon’s death had been an accident, Joe didn’t believe it for a minute.

He had arrived home in darkness, long before the newspaper hit the porch. Soaking and cold, he had gone directly through the kitchen to the laundry and snuggled down on the lower bunk against old Rube’s stomach, absorbing the doggy warmth.

Rube slept alone or with the cats. Selig slept on the back porch in a huge TV shipping carton that Clyde had lined with old flannel shirts and a blanket-a far cry from the cold wind on Hellhag Hill. There was barely enough room for two, though, when Hestig was there and not with Charlie.

Snuggled against Rube, Joe had dozed until just before seven, when he heard the morning paper hit the front porch. Galloping through the living room and out his cat door, he had dragged theGazettethrough the house and onto the breakfast table; ripping off the plastic, rainproof cover, he’d heard Selig pad across the back porch, whining, to paw at the plywood barrier of the dog door. Of course that woke Clyde. Joe heard him stamp across the bedroom, then heard the shower running. He had barely finished reading the article when Clyde schlepped into the kitchen and began to fill the coffeepot in a sleep-drugged morning ritual. A shower alone was not enough to transform Clyde Damen from sleeping zombie to reallive person.

Soon bacon was sizzling in the pan, and the animals were lined up, eating. Clyde had spoken no word. His one glance at Joe was a deep scowl. Before he broke the eggs into the skillet he moved to the table. Standing behind Joe, loudly sipping his coffee, he read the front page. For some time, he said nothing.

Then he breathed a sigh and turned away. Joe glanced up to see a relieved, and puzzling, smile.

So what’s with you?Joe wanted to say; but some errant wisdom kept him silent.

Possibly Clyde, knowing nothing about last night’s excitement on Hellhag Hill, had been prepared for a humorous front-page story at his expense, a comic piece about the arrest of the village’s best-known auto mechanic and his two pups. Not encountering such an expose, he seemed far more pleased with the morning. It was not until Clyde noticed the muddy pawprints leading across the kitchen from the living room that he sat down at the table, giving Joe a long, direct look

“So where were you last night?”

“I was hunting.” Joe considered that his trek up Hellhag Hill and the information he had painstakingly gathered was the most difficult kind of hunt. “Why do you always ask me where I was at night? I don’t ask where you’ve been. I’m not some teenage kid you have to keep track of, afraid I’ll wreck your car or get arrested. You have absolutely no cause to-”

“You were on Hellhag Hill last night.”

“If you don’t turn the bacon, it’s going to be charcoal.”

Clyde rose and flipped the bacon, then picked up the paper, reading the lead article with more care. Joe waited patiently for Clyde’s inevitable and long-winded lecture.

“Do you want to tell me why, Joe, that the minute the paper hit the porch, you were into it?”

Joe looked at him blankly.

“You knew about this accident, that’s why. And the only way you could have known, is if you were up there yourself last night. Certainly you were not hunting rabbits in the rain.”

“Actually, rain makes for good rabbit hunting. If it floods their holes, the rabbits come right on out. Disorients them. I enjoyed, some time before midnight, an unusually fat young rabbit. If you ever-”

“Can it, Joe. You want to tell me how you just happened to be on Hellhag Hill when Pedric Greenlaw fell and Newlon Greenlaw died? I presume Dulcie was with you. Dare I ask if you were there before the cops arrived?”

“How could we have been?” Joe fixed a shocked yellow gaze on Clyde. “You can’t think we had anything to do with the accident? Why in the world would we, two little cats?”

“Give it a rest, Joe. What were you doing on Hellhag Hill in the middle of the night, in the pouring rain? How did you know about the accident?” Clyde was pale with anger. Joe didn’t want to be the cause of a coronary. With the way Clyde ate, his arteries were probably lined with gunk thickerthan transmission oil.

“If you must know,” he said softly, “if it’s really any of your concern, Lucinda called Wilma from the hospital. I just happened to be there at Wilma’s house, eating cookies, so of course she took Dulcie and me with her. Lucinda asked her to go out to Hellhag Hill and meet with the police, to find out what had happened.”

“And Wilma took you with her? Why would? Why would she??”

“She made us promise to stay in her car, out of the way.”

“And of course you did that. Stayed in her car, warm and dry and minding your own business. Never touched a paw outside the car, never went near the body and the police.”

“You really don’t think we would get in the way of the police. The fact that?”

“Please, Joe. It’s too early.”

“Bacon’s burning,” Joe said helpfully.

Clyde leaped to rescue the charred slices. As he tried to scrape the black off-which worked better with toast than with bacon-Joe pawed through the paper, wondering if theGazettehad had a front-page piece on Clyde and the pups, before the accident replaced it. Such a humorous story was exactly the land of local interest that theGazetteloved for page one.

Clawing out Section B, Joe began to smile.

There it was, right on the front, where no one in Molena Point would miss it.

He read the article with quiet satisfaction. Reporter Danny McCoy had been able to get a photograph, too. The shot showed the two rookies impounding the Harley as Clyde tried to coral the pups. The picture was taken at some distance, so it was a bit blurred-but still effective. Joe wanted to roll over laughing.“First-class circus,” he said, addressing Clyde’s back.

Clyde turned to stare at him.“The death of a man and the injury of a second man is a circus?”

“Not what I meant. That was certainly a tragedy. But this-” He stared pointedly at the page with Clyde’s picture. “Tell me, how did they treat you in jail? I expect everyone in town got to enjoy the event-except yours truly. I hate when I miss your really illustrious moments.”

“You want eggs and bacon and toast this morning? Or do you want that cut-rate brand of cat food that you said tastes like secondhand snuff mixed with floor wax?”

Joe subsided. He said nothing more until he had finished his burnt bacon and scrambled eggs. Completing his meal, he sat comfortably on the table, washing his paws and whiskers, cutting only an occasional glance in Clyde’s direction. Clyde had not offered any gourmet embellishments this morning, no smoked kippers or a little dab of Beluga caviar or even a slice of Tilsit, to create a memorable dining experience.

Clyde finished his eggs without speaking. You wouldn’t think that a little friendly ribbing would make him this mad. But maybe he wasn’t feeling well. Joe studied him, looking for some sign of illness.

He saw only a deep, dark fury.

Finished eating, Clyde laid down his fork and gave Joe his full attention.“I really appreciate your alerting Danny McCoy to this choice bit of news.” He looked Joe over coldly. “With your thoughtfulness, you have treated the entire population of Molena Point to a long and sadistic laugh at my expense.”

“I didn’t call Danny McCoy! Hey, I might enjoy the joke, but I wouldn’t have given it to a reporter. Don’t lay this on me, Clyde. Everyone saw you-and heard you, shouting at those rookies on the street. Shouting at the pups. McCoy heard the story the way he gets all of his information, probably two dozen shopkeepers called theGazette.Why do you always think I have something to do with your self-inflicted misfortunes! That is so tacky. If you-”

“Of course you had something to do with it. Look at the smart-assed grin on your face. You hardly took time to feel sympathy for those poor Greenlaw men. Talk about cold-hearted. You couldn’t wait to paw through the rest of the paper, find McCoy’s story. You were grinning wide enough to make the Cheshire cat look like a death-row inmate.”

“How could you see if I was grinning. You had your back to me. And wouldn’t you smile, ifI got arrested accosting a police officer?”

“I was not accosting Officer McFarland. I was rescuing the pups-your pups, if I might remind you-from a cruel incarceration at the dog pound.”

“My pups?I was the one who wanted to take those two to the pound.I wanted to let the pound feed them and find homes for them. But not you. Mr. DoGooder. No, you couldn’t bear the thought. ‘Look at the poor babies, Joe. Look how they’re starving. How could you lock them in cages? Oh, just wook at the oootsy wootsy doggies.’ And now look at them; you’ve already spoiled Selig rotten.”

“Well, at leastI? ” Clyde stopped, looked again at the paper. Picked it up, jerking it from under Joe’s paws. “What’s this?”

“What’s what?”

“The Letters-to-the-Editor column. You didn’t read it?”

“How could I read it? You’ve been picking at me all morning. When did I have time to read it?” Leaping to Clyde’s shoulder, he balanced heavily, scanning the three columns of letters.

SHOPLIFTING LOSSES TRIPLE IN RECENT WEEKS

What is Captain Harper doing to prevent the sudden increase in crime in our village? Molena Point relies heavily on the tourist trade, on its reputation for a slow, people-friendly, low-crime environment. We don’t need shoplifters and petty thieves. The sudden outbreak of such crimes seems to have received no response from Police Captain Harper. Local businesses are losing money, our visitors have been approached by confidence artists, and the police are doing nothing to arrest and detain the lawbreakers.

Joe snorted.“Who wrote this? Some guy who doesn’t like Harper. Probably some clown who lives on the wrong side of the law himself. Some cop-hater with an ax to grind.” He dropped from Clyde’s shoulder to the table and ripped his claws down the letters column. “TheGazettehas no right to print such trash. If I paid for this paper, I’d cancel the damn subscription.”

And he left the house, stopping to rake the livingroom rug, then shouldering out through his cat door.

But, trotting quickly up the sunny street, he forgot the petty letter-writer, and fixed again on the tragedy of last night, on the dark, rainswept hill, on the swinging lights of the police torches.

Whoelsehad been on Hellhag Hill last night, before the cops arrived? Who would want to kill Newlon Greenlaw and hurt Pedric? And Joe Grey wondered, would the little, wild tortoiseshell kit succeed in picking out the attacker?

But even if she did identify the man, still they needed proof. They couldn’t drop a killer in Harper’s lap without some hard facts, without enough solid physical evidence for Harper to take to the grand jury and for a prosecutor to take to court.

And Joe Grey moved on into the village, turning over in his sly feline mind every possible method he could think of for snaring the murderer.

19 [????????: pic_20.jpg]

THE TORTOISESHELL kit stood high up Hellhag Hill, above the cave, atop the pale rocks that flanked it. Joe and Dulcie saw her at once as they came up from the village onto the grassy verge along Highway One. The moment she spied them she lashed her bushy tail as if she had been impatiently waiting. The two cats, watching her, hurried across the empty two-lane highway and started up the hill. After the rain, the tall grass through which they padded was fresh and sweet-scented, alive with insects buzzing and rustling. Over their heads, sparrows and finches zoomed, diving low in the watery sunshine.

“Do you suppose,” Dulcie said, slitting her eyes, “do you suppose it was Dirken on the hill last night?”

“Why Dirken?”

“He’s the one doing all the digging and tearing the house apart. Whatever he’s looking for, did Newlon and Pedric find it? And Dirken went after them? And did he think he’d killed Pedric, did he leave Pedric for dead?”

Pedric was still in the hospital, while Newlon waited in the morgue, duly tagged and examined by forensics. The official word was that he had died from a blow to the head, not from an accidental fall. Fragments of Molena Point’s soft, creamy stone, which was used all over the village for fireplaces and garden walls, had been found in Newlon’s abraded scalp, deep in the wound. The specific piece of stone that killed him had not been retrieved. The natural outcroppings on Hellhag Hill were granite.

“Interesting, too,” Dulcie said, “that Cara Ray buttered up Newlon, then dumped him, and now he’s dead.”

She paused, glancing at Joe.“Maybe Dirken’s looking for a will, to override Shamas’s trust and leave the house to him? If he is, he wouldn’t want Newlon and Pedric snooping around.”

“Not likely there’s a will,” Joe said, “with the trust. Not in California, not according to Clyde. He says it isn’t needed-unless you’re disgustingly rich, as Clyde puts it.”

“Well, but Shamas could have written one?”

“I suppose. What are you thinking?”

Dulcie flicked her ears.“Could Shamas have been fool enough to write Cara Ray into a will-and stupid enough to tell her?”

Joe smiled.“And to hurry the process along, she slips out on the deck of theGreen Ladythat night and pushes him in the drink.”

“Possible,” she said. “Would Cara Ray be strong enough to push a man overboard?”

“So someone helps her; she say’s she’ll cut him in.”

“Newlon,” Dulcie said. “Or Sam. Take your pick.”

She glanced up to where the kit waited.“Sheisimpatient.” The dark kit was fidgeting from paw to paw, her ears back, her yellow eyes gleaming. The cats broke into a gallop, leaping through the grass; they were nearly to the cave when they crouched suddenly, low to the earth.

They felt the vibration first through their paws, like an electrical charge. At the same instant the insects vanished, and all around them flocks of birds exploded straight up into the sky.

The jolt hit. Shook them hard. As if the world said,Iam the power.They saw the kit sprawl, clinging to the boulder.

Then the earth was still.

The three cats waited.

Nothing more happened. The insects crept out and began to chirp again. The birds spiraled down and dived into the grass, snatching up bugs. An emboldened house finch sang his off-key cacophony as if he owned earth and sky.

And the cats saw that someone was on the road below them. Down on the black ribbon of asphalt, two small figures were rising-Wilma helping Lucinda up, dusting themselves off.

The two women stood talking, then climbed quickly toward the outcropping where they liked to sit-where the kit had been poised. Where, now, the rocks were empty.

The two cats moved away, intent on finding the kit-they hadn’t gone far when the little mite was right before them, stepping out of the grass.

“I found him,” she said softly. “A white trailer with a brown door.”

“How do you know it’s the killer’s?” Joe said.

“He left his shoes on the stoop. I can smell the blood. He wiped them with something wet, but I can still smell it. He washed his shirt and hung it on a chair, where the sun shines in through the screen.Itstill smells of blood.”

They rose and followed her up the hill, across the trailer park’s brick walks, across a narrow, scruffy bed of poppies and beneath half a dozen trailers, trotting between their greasy wheels.

“This one,” the kit said, slipping underneath, losing herself among the shadows.

Joe sniffed at the wheels and then at the little set of steps, flehming at the man’s scent. “It might be Fulman; I never got a good smell of him. He’s always with other people.”

“He was alone with Cara Ray,” Dulcie said.

“In the middle of a geranium bush, Dulcie, everything smells like geraniums.”

“Well, if-” she began, then hushed as footsteps drummed overhead. They heard water running, heard a man cough.

Padding up the narrow steps, Joe peered in through the screen men backed away.

“It’s Fulman,” he said. “In his undershirt and shorts, eating a salami sandwich.” He turned to look at the kit. “You sure it was that man?”

“That man. He hit the old man. He makes my fur bristle.”

“Well, we can’t toss the trailer with him in it. Have to hope he goes out.”

Moving back down the hill, the three cats settled in the grass some way above Wilma and Lucinda. The two women had brought a picnic lunch; the cats could smell crab salad. Licking whiskers, they watched Wilma unwrap a small loaf of French bread and take a bottle of wine from her worn picnic basket.

Softly, Dulcie said,“Tell us why the other cats are so shy-and so angry.”

“Angry because they can’t go home,” the kit said. “Because the shaking earth drove them out. Afraid to go down again.”

Joe frowned.“Down again, where?” He looked toward the cave. “You didn’t come from-in there?”

“From a place like it. I was little, I hardly remember. The earth shook. The clowder ran and ran-through the dark-up onto hills like these. That way,” she said, gazing away south where the coastline led wild and endless along the ragged edge of the continent.

“We were in a city when I was little. Somewhere down the coast. We ran from packs of dogs at the edge of a city. I remember garbage in alleys. I could never keep up. My mother was dead. The big cats didn’t care about me, but I didn’t want to be alone. I knew we were different from other cats,and I didn’t want to be in those alleys alone.

“We went away from the garbage place and through the city to the hills. The others would never wait for me. I ran and ran. I ate grasshoppers and lizards and bugs, and sometimes a butterfly. I never learned to hunt right; no one wanted to show me.

“Then the world shook again, and we ran again. We came here. I was bigger then, I could keep up. Or I’d find them the next morning when they stopped to sleep.

“Hungry,” she said. “Always hungry.” She glanced down the hill at the picnickers, sniffing the sweet scent of their luxurious meal.

Dulcie licked the kit’s ear.

“Well, that was how we came here. Along that cliff and these hills. They told me, home is here, too. They mean the cave. They mean it will lead to the same place the other cave did. They said we could go home again into this hill if the earth would stop shaking. They want to go in, and down to that place, but they are afraid.” She placed her black-mottled paw softly over Dulcie’s bigger paw. “I do not want to go there; it is all elder there.”

“Elder,” Dulcie said. “Elder and evil, as in the old stories.”

And at that instant, as if the small cat had summoned demons, another quake hit.

First the quick tingling through their paws as the world gathered itself. Then the jolt. It threw Dulcie and the kit against a boulder, knocked Joe sideways. Dulcie kicked at the air and flipped over. The kit crept to her, and she gathered the little one close, licking her.

Below them, Lucinda was sprawled, and Wilma crawling on hands and knees to reach her-and still the earth shook and rocked them, the hardest, longest surge the cats had ever known. Clinging tight to the traitorous earth, they refused to be dislodged; fear held them, as fear freezes a hunted rabbit, turning it mindless and numb.

Then all was still.

The earth was still.

They stood up, watched Wilma rise and lift Lucinda to sit against a boulder. The only movement in all the world, then, seemed the pounding of the sea beating through their paws.

And the tortoiseshell kit, who, before this day, had hidden each rime Lucinda brought food, who had never shown herself to any human, padded down the hill.

She stood looking at Lucinda, her round yellow eyes fixed fiercely on Lucinda’s frightened face.

Lucinda’s eyes widened.

Wilma remained very still. Joe and Dulcie were still.

Lucinda asked,“Are you all right, kitten?”

The waif purred, her thin sides vibrating. She stepped closer.

Lucinda put out her hand.“The quake didn’t hurt you? Poor, poor kitten.”

The kit tilted her little face in a question. She moved closer still, her long bushy tail and thick pantaloons comical on that thin little body. Lucinda said later that her black-and-brown-mottled coat was as beautiful as hand-dyed silk. The kit went to Lucinda and rubbed against her hand.

And Dulcie, watching, felt a sharp jealousy stab through her.Oh,she thought,Idon’t want you to go to Lucinda. I want you to come to me.

But what a selfish thought. What’s the matter with me?

The kitten had turned, was staring at Dulcie. The expression on her little streaked face changed suddenly, from joy to alarm. And she fled. She was gone, flying down the hill, vanishing in the long grass.

“Oh,” Lucinda said. “Why did she run? What did I do to frighten her?”

But behind Lucinda, Wilma looked accusingly at Dulcie. And Dulcie hung her head: something in her expression or in her body language had told the kit her thoughts, as surely as if she had spoken.

Lucinda looked after the kit with longing.“Such a tiny little mite. And all alone. So thin and frail.”

Wilma helped Lucinda to stand up and brush off, and supported her until she was steady on her feet. She picked up the picnic things, and as they started down the hill again, Wilma looked up sternly at Joe and Dulcie.

“Come on, you two.”

Chastened, Dulcie followed her. Joe, watching them, fell into line. Lucinda seemed too shaken by the quake and by her encounter with the little wild cat to wonder at Joe and Dulcie’s willingness to trot obediently home beside Wilma.

Reaching the village, they found shopkeepers and customers standing in the streets among broken glass, broken shingles, shattered roof tiles. The cats could see no fallen walls, no buildings that looked badly damaged-only one small section of broken wall where a bay window jutted over the street. Bricks had fallen out, but the window glass itself was still in place.

Everyone on the street was talking at once, giving each other advice, recounting what life-threatening objects had fallen narrowly missing them. Wilma, glancing down at the cats, led her little entourage quickly across Ocean’s grassy median, away from the crowd and debris. Lucinda remained quiet. Not until they were half a block from her house did she make any sound.

Stopping suddenly and staring ahead, she let out a startled gasp.

Lucinda’s Victorian home stood solidly enough. But her entire parlor seemed to have been removed, by the quake, onto the front lawn. Delicate settees and little tables stood about in little groups. A circle of needlepoint dining chairs accommodated eight Greenlaw women chatting and taking their ease.

As they approached, Dirken and his cousin Joey emerged from the house carrying the dining table. Behind them, three of the bigger Greenlaw children appeared, hauling out cans of food, stacks of plates, and a potful of silverware-whether to prepare an emergency meal or to cart away Lucinda’s possessions wasn’t clear. Beside the drive, a mattress lay tilted against a tree, and at the edge of the lawn, a pile of bedding and pillows beckoned to the tired and weary.

Lucinda approached stiffly-and suddenly she flew at Dirken. He dropped the table as her fists pounded his chest.

“What have you done, Dirken? What is this about! What are you doing!”

“There was an earthquake, Aunt Lucinda.” Dirken put his arm around her. “A terrible jolt. I’m so glad you’re all right.”

Lucinda slapped his arm away.“All of this, because of anearthquake?”

“Yes, Aunt Lucinda. One has to?”

“Take it back. All of it. Every piece. Do it now, Dirken.Take it back inside.”

“But you can’t stay in the house when there’s been?”

Her faded eyes flashed.“Wipe the grass off the feet of the furniture before you put it on the carpet. And place it properly, just as I had it. What on earth did you think you were doing?”

Dirken didn’t move. “You don’t understand about these things, Aunt Lucinda. It’s dangerous to stay inside during a quake. You have to move outdoors. The house could fall on you.”

She fixed Dirken with a gaze that would petrify jungle beasts.“Youare outside, Dirken. I am outside. My furniture does not need to be outside. If my possessions are crushed by a quake, that is none of your concern. Take it back. You are not camping on my lawn like a pack of ragtag?” She paused for a long, awkward moment. “Like ragtag hoboes,” she shouted, her eyes blazing at him.

Dulcie twitched her whiskers, her ears up, her eyes bright. She liked Lucinda better when she took command, when she wasn’t playing doormat. “But what is that?” she whispered to Joe, looking past the furniture to where Clyde’s two pups lay, behind the Victorian settee, chewing on something white and limp.

The cats trotted over.

The pups smiled, delighted to see them, then growled to warn them off their treasure. It was strange, Dulcie thought, that the only cat they feared was that tiny waif up on Hellhag Hill.

Dodging Selig, she swiped out with a swift paw and hauled the rectangular piece of canvas away from them. It was as heavy as a buck rabbit, and wet from their chewing: a big canvas bag with a drawstring top.

It smelled most interesting. The cats sniffed at it, and smiled.

They could see, behind the pups, broken concrete scattered from a wide crack in the foundation, where the bag must have lain, just beneath the fireplace.

Driving the pups out of the way with hisses and slaps, Joe pawed the canvas bag open. Dulcie stuck her head in.

The bag was empty, but the cloth smelled of old, musty money.

So the Greenlaw menhadbeen searching for money. How very prosaic. No one buried money anymore.

Except, perhaps, someone who didn’t like the IRS,she thought, smiling. The cats were still sniffing the bag when Joe nudged Dulcie, and she looked up at a crowd of trousered legs surrounding them, and a ring of broad Irish faces, all intent on the empty bag.

All seven Greenlaw men swung down, snatching at the bag. Dirken was quickest, jerking it away.

He pulled open the bag and peered in, then looked around the lawn as if expecting to see scattered greenbacks blowing across the grass like summer leaves.

The men were all staring at the empty bag and shuffling their feet when Lucinda pushed between them, put out her hand, and took it from Dirken.

“Were you expecting something more, Dirken? Were you expecting the bag to contain something you’ve been looking for?”

She didn’t wait for his answer. She turned and walked away, folding the bag neatly into a square, as if she were folding freshly washed linen. A huge silence lay behind her.

Only slowly did the Greenlaw men disperse, moving away, bewildered. Even the pups were subdued, trotting from one solemn figure to another, then away again when no one paid attention to them.

But when Sam Fulman appeared, coming out of the house, Selig raced to him leaping and whining-then backed away snarling, as if uncertain whether to kiss Fulman or bite him.

Hestig dropped to his belly and ran-straight to Clyde, who came hurrying around the corner toward the crowd, evidently summoned by the loud barking. Grabbing Hestig’s collar, Clyde knelt to put a leash on.

Selig was still leaping at Fulman, alternately growling and licking. Fulman, tired of the furor, gave the puppy a hard whack across the face. When Selig yelped, Fulman hit him again on his soft ear. Selig screamed and spun around, plowing into Clyde, pressing against Clyde. The cats, close to Fulman, got a good whiff of him, over the scent of dog.

They would not forget that sour smell. Glancing at each other, they ran for Joe’s place. They’d had enough-too many people, too many dogs, too much to sort out. They needed space, time to think. They needed a square meal.

Pushing in through the dog door, they pawed open the refrigerator.

Wilma’s larder boasted far superior offerings. She kept a shelf for Dulcie stocked with Brie, imported kippers, rare steak, and custards. In Joe’s house, they simply had to make do; there was no time to call Jolly’s Deli, with Clyde sure to barge in. The half-empty box offered cold spaghetti and aslice of overripe ham. This, with a bag of kitty kibble hastily clawed from the cupboard, completed their meal. Crouched on the kitchen floor lapping up spaghetti, they wondered how long Lucinda had had the money, how she came to find the bag, and where the money was now.

“Maybe in a safe-deposit box?” Dulcie said, pawing at an escaped strand of spaghetti. “One thing’s sure, that poor old house might survive, now, with Dirken done tearing it up.”

Finishing their dull repast, they left the spaghetti-stained dish in the middle of the kitchen floor, like the receptacle of some bloody sacrifice, and curled up on Clyde’s bed for a nap. They slept long and deeply. But as dusk fell, dimming the bedroom, they trotted out to sit on the back fence.

They wanted to be sure Fulman was there for dinner, to be sure the coast was clear.

They had no idea what they would find in Fulman’s trailer, what additional piece of the puzzle. Hopefully, something that would tie Fulman to Raul Torres and maybe to Chambers’s stabbing. As for last night’s double “accident,” they already had a witness. Though she could never testify. What they wanted now was hard evidence.

They waited until the clan had gathered at the table for a heavy meal of roast beef and potatoes, but Fulman didn’t show. Nor was Lucinda present. Though often, when there was a heavy meal, Lucinda would appear toward the end, for a salad and dessert.

“Surprised Cara Ray isn’t there,” Joe said. “She’s there often enough.”

Dulcie narrowed her eyes.“Maybe she and Fulman are at the motel having a little party.”

“You have a low mind. But I hope you’re right. I don’t relish being trapped in a trailer with Sam Fulman; he looks as if he’d as soon squash a cat as swat a fly.” Joe thought for an instant about waiting to toss Fulman’s trailer until they knew he was absent. But what the heck. They were only cats. Who would suspect them? He dropped down from the fence, beside Dulcie, and they headed for Hellhag Hill.

20 [????????: pic_21.jpg]

THE EVENING was dark in human terms. But to Joe and Dulcie the cliffs and the sea and the house trailers that rose above them were as indistinct and faded as an old, worn movie projected with a failing bulb.

Beneath the looming trailers, wind soughed between the greasy wheels.

They saw no light in any trailer except far down at the end, where a lone square of yellow spilled onto the asphalt; thin voices came from that direction.

They had not found the tortoiseshell kit.

Approaching Sam Fulman’s trailer, they studied its black panes and tightly closed door. The wind shook and rocked the big, wheeled home, snapping its white metal sides. Above the sporadic rattling, they listened for some sound from within.

Only the wind.

Leaping at the doorknob, grabbing it between raking claws, Joe swung, twisting it. Kicking the door open, he dropped inside.

Crouched on the dirty linoleum, they listened again. The dark, chill interior had a hollow, empty feel. Joe sniffed at a shirt that hung over a chair, its wide, red and green stripes resembling a circus tent-a shirt they had seen Fulman wear. And now they knew his smell, from their encounter in Lucinda’s yard.

“Ease the door closed,” Dulcie whispered. “Someone’s out there; I can hear him walking.”

Joe pushed the door-he didn’t mean to latch it. But the wind took it, and the sudden slam sounded like thunder. Leaping away, the cats looked for a place to hide.

There was no space under the couch or under the bed, both were built atop drawers. Every inch of the trailer was filled with cupboards and drawers made of dark, wood-grained plywood, with here and there a dead panel. The footsteps approached, stopped just outside.

No use trying to conceal themselves in the shower; the curtain was transparent. They fought the closet door, but couldn’t open it. As the visitor came up the steps, they dived behind the bed’s bolsters. Crouched among the dusty upholstery, they were gently rocked as the trailer, itself, was rocked precariously in the twisting wind-they felt as if they were adrift at sea.

They heard the door open and peered out from behind the bolster as Dirken stuck his head in.

“Sam? Sam, you there?”

When no one answered, Dirken entered.“Fulman? You here?”

Receiving no reply, Dirken walked the length of the trailer, looking into the bathroom, the bedroom, and the closet; he moved warily, as if he had heard the front door close.

At last, deciding he was alone, he began to snoop. There was no other word for his stealthy prodding, as he opened the closet and rummaged among Fulman’s clothes; turning away, he left the door ajar. Returning to the kitchen, he pulled out drawers and opened the cupboards, examining the contents of each; every few minutes he stepped to the window to look out. He seemed to find nothing of interest in the kitchen except some small cellophane packets. Tearing off the wrapping, he stood munching; the cats could smell peanut butter. He picked up a magazine from the table and leafed through it, grinning-then from somewhere down the row of trailers, a door slammed.

Dirken left the trailer quickly, shutting the door without a sound.

“What was he looking for?” Dulcie said. “Not the money; he knows Lucinda has that.” She sneezed from the dust in the bolster.

Joe turned to look at her.“What if Fulman and Lucinda made off with the money together-to keep it from the rest of the family? Or to hide it from the IRS? Maybe Dirken thinks they stashed the money here?”

Dulcie looked back at him, her eyes gleaming like black moons.“But what about Cara Ray? Did they cut her out?”

“Why not?” Joe shrugged. “What if Cara Ray’s not what we think? What if she came here to get the goods on Fulman? Maybe from the start was working with Torres on his investigation?”

“But the way she talked-as if she-” Dulcie sighed.

“This stuff makes my head ache. Come on, Joe, let’s toss this place and see what we can find.”

Fighting the ornate latches that had been designed to keep the cupboards and drawers closed when the vehicle was in motion-and apparently designed to keep out nosy cats-they pawed into every inch of the trailer, looking for money, for bloodstained clothes, possibly for the crude weapon that had killed Newlon. The gold-and-black linoleum beneath their paws, the gold alligator couch and thick maroon carpet and cloth-of-gold drapes amused Dulcie.“I wonder-did he plan the decor himself?”

Springing to the kitchen counter, she pawed through the dish cupboard, through canned goods and a small stack of clean shirts and underwear. She found nothing to interest the police.

Joe, investigating the clothes hanging in Fulman’s closet, leaped to the high shelf, where the laundry was wadded. Flehming at the sour, musty stink, he gave a raggedmrrrowrof discovery.

Dulcie sprang up beside him. Pawing through Fulman’s dirty clothes, they smelled human blood.

“Here,” Joe said, fishing out a plaid flannel shirt.

The front and sleeve smelled of blood and, hardly visible in the red-and-brown squares, were tiny splashes of dried blood.

With a clever paw, Dulcie began to fold the shirt into a packet small enough to carry in her mouth.“Better leave it,” Joe said. “For Harper to find, where the killer left it.” He leaped down, among a tangle of shoes.

“What if Fulman comes back? What if he has second thoughts, decides to get rid of it?”

“Leave it for the moment, Dulcie. Look at this.”

She dropped down beside him.

At the side of the closet, a bottom panel was loose, the screw holes in the plywood enlarged so they were bigger than the screws; the panel appeared secure until you looked closely.

Sliding and lifting the plywood between them, the cats pulled it off, easing it down onto the carpet.

Its dusty surface recorded pawprints as Joe slipped into the dark recess.

There was a long silence. Soon he peered out at Dulcie, flicking his whiskers in a broad grin.

He backed out dragging a cardboard folder, one of those rust-colored accordion numbers meant for the organization, by the neatniks of the world, of their paid bills and canceled checks. Behind Joe, in the gloom, loomed four white shoe boxes.

The cats dragged the boxes out into the little hall where faint starglow seeped down through the trailer windows. They opened the folder to find bank receipts that were, at the moment, of little interest to them. The first box they clawed open held letters that did not seem pertinent. But under these lay a small black ledger, each page headed by a proper name, above columns of dates and numbers-Fulman had kept careful financial records. But of what?

“Records of his scams?” Dulcie said. Pawing through the box, they were aware of increasing sounds beyond the trailer, of women’s voices. Clawing open the last bundle of letters, their eyes widened.

The return addresses were all the same: Shamas Greenlaw, at a Seattle Post Office box. The letters were addressed to Sam Fulman, and had been written over a period of approximately ten years.

Sharing out the envelopes between them, they read each letter, looking for clandestine financial deals or for any hint of a scam-leaving, unavoidably, a few innocent tooth and claw marks.

The missives contained nothing more exciting than discussions of family affairs-though it did seem out of character for Shamas to be so concerned about the health and welfare of his great-aunt Sarah. In each communication to Fulman he had apparently enclosed a sizable check, each letter mentioning the amount of the check that was to be deposited to his aunt’s account at her nursing home. At the bottom of each letter Fulman had noted the amount received and the date deposited.

All very efficient.

All displaying a degree of unselfishness that did not seem natural to Shamas Greenlaw.

“And,” Dulcie said, “if he was supporting his aunt, why didn’t he send the money directly to the nursing home?”

The cats looked at each other, and smiled.

“Nice,” Joe said. “Very nice.”

“It’s only conjecture,” she said.

“Yes,” he said, pawing through another box. “And here are the receipts. Valencia Home for the Elderly. Greenville, North Carolina.” He compared the first few receipts with the letters, and with the ledger. The dates and amounts matched. He looked at Dulcie, his yellow eyes as keenly predatory as if the two cats had a giant rat cornered. “Any bets that no such home exists?”

Dulcie grinned; then stiffened as they heard a car pull away and a trailer door slam.

Then silence.

In the next box was a stack of purchase orders from Bernside Tool and Die Works in Spokane, Washington, to a variety of customers. Payments to this company had been made directly by the purchasers. No name appeared more than once. These payments, too, were entered in Fulman’s ledger. Each date coincided, within a few days, with the gifts to Aunt Sarah.

“So,” Joe said, “it was Shamas’s company, and he was donating his income to Aunt Sarah.”

“Sure. Right.” Dulcie fished a letter from the stack, a statement and the matching purchase order. Setting these aside, they pawed the rest of the papers back into their boxes. The cats were inside the closet, maneuvering a shoe box back into the cubbyhole, when the trailer was jolted as if someone had burst through the front door. Glancing around the door as a second jolt hit, they saw the dining chairs flying on their casters, banging into the walls. The closet door slammed closed. Something crashed against it. They heard dishes fall and breaking glass.

When the earth was still again, they felt as if all air had been expelled from the trailer, leaving a gigantic vacuum. As Joe fought the doorknob, they heard, from the far end of the park, scattered cries of distress and amazement.

They worked at the door until they were hissing at each other, but couldn’t open it. When they heard the front door bang open, they thought it was another quake-then wished it had been a quake.

“Fine,” Fulman snarled, stomping in. “Go on back to your suppers. A little jolt never hurt nothing.” The door slammed and a light flared through the crack beneath the closet door-and Fulman’s papers lay scattered, in plain view, up and down the hall.

21 [????????: pic_22.jpg]

“WHAT THE hell!” Fulman shouted. The cats heard him heaving broken glass or china, as if into a metal container. “Damned quake! Damn California quakes. I’ll take a North Carolina tornado any day.”

Cara Ray giggled, a high, brittle laugh.

Crouched on the closet shelf beneath Fulman’s dirty clothes, Joe and Dulcie listened to his heavy step coming down the hall.

“And what the hell’s that!”

He stood just outside; they imagined him looking down at the scattered letters and invoices, then they heard him snatching up papers. He stopped once, perhaps reading some particular letter.“Damn it to hell. The quake didn’t do this. Someone’s been in here.”

“Who, lover? What is it? What’s happened?”

He was quiet again, shuffling papers. Outside among the trailers the excited voices had quieted, as if those residents alarmed at the quake had taken Fulman’s advice and returned to their suppers.

“Don’t look like they took nothing,” Fulman said. “Maybe the quake scared ‘em off. Check the windows, Cara Ray. See if one’s open or unlocked. Get a move on.” He jerked the closet door open; light from the kitchen blazed in through the rumpled shirts and shorts, beneath which the two cats crouched, as still as two frozen cadavers.

From beneath a fold of laundry, they could see Fulman kneeling below them, pushing papers and boxes back into the hole, his brown hair rumpled, his thin shoulders stringy beneath a thin white T-shirt. Sliding the plywood panel onto its screws, he turned away from the closet but did not close the door. They heard, from the kitchen, a drawer open, and in a moment he returned, carrying a hammer, his thin lips pursed around a mouthful of nails.

Kneeling again, he nailed the panel in place tighter than the surrounding wallboard had ever been secured.

When he had gone, the cats burst forth, panting for fresh air, and peered out where he’d left the door cracked open.

A sickly yellow light burned over the kitchen sink. They could see one of the shoe boxes and the small black ledger on the kitchen table; they watched as he fished a white-plastic grocery bag from a kitchen drawer and shoved the ledger and papers inside.

Dropping the bag on the table beside the empty box, Fulman fetched a bottle of vodka from the cupboard, with two glasses and a can of orange juice.

The cats remained in the closet for the better part of an hour. If the great cat god had been smiling down on them tonight, he’d have provided them with a tape recorder-or an electronic bug hooked directly into Molena Point PD. If ever a murder confession was thrown in their furry faces, this was the moment.

As Fulman mixed the drinks, Cara Ray prowled the trailer. Instead of her little pink skirt, she was wearing form-fitting tights printed with Mickey Mouse, an item she had apparently picked up in some children’s department, maybe as a lark, little-girl clothes that looked far more fetching on Cara Ray than on any child they were made for. Above Mickey Mouse, she was snuggled in a huge chenille sweater the color of raspberry ice cream. Her long blond hair hung loose. Her face was scrubbed clean of makeup, making the tiny blonde look vulnerable and innocent. If she were to appear in court like that, she’d snow any jury.

Sipping her drink, wandering down the narrow hall, she moved into the bedroom, trailing her fingers along the walls and molding, prompting Dulcie to wonder if she had already tossed the cupboards and drawers at some earlier time, and was now pressing for less obvious hiding places. She opened the closet door, her head inches below the cats, stood looking down at the wall where Fulman had nailed up the plywood.

But what was she looking for? Certainly she’d heard from Fulman about the empty canvas bag. But maybe she didn’t believe that Lucinda had the money.

Sitting down at the table, Cara Ray’s glance scanned the ceiling, as if imagining the dead spaces above the thin plywood.

Fulman’s expression was dryly amused. “You won’t find any money in here, Cara Ray.”

She did not look embarrassed, only startled. She looked back at him evenly.

“What I want to know, Cara Ray, is how did she get into that concrete wall? When that wall cracked, in the quake, well, hell, you saw it. That whole wall-as thick as the wall of a federal pen.”

“So how come it cracked?”

“Someone cracked it before the quake.” He looked at her intently. “That old woman had to have help.”

“Whatever. She has the money now.” She paused. “Doesn’t she, Sam?” Beneath the table, Cara Ray’s fist tightened. “Or maybe it was Torres; maybe he got here before he said.”

Fulman shook his head.“I searched his car that morning. He didn’t have nothing. And why would the old woman act like she had the money if she didn’t?”

“I don’t know, Sam. Could Torres’ve come up from L.A. earlier than I thought? Used a second fake name-been in another motel? Could’ve been here all along while I was down seeing my ‘sister’ like I told him? Snooped around that old house, found the money-maybe knew right where to look? Could’ve gone up into that wall from under the house?”

Cara Ray pushed back her long, pale hair.“So when I called him that morning, said that I had car trouble coming back from my sister’s, he’d already got the cash?

“He could have hid it right there in his motel room, the one at the Oak Breeze, even, and I never thought to look. Damn it to hell. I should have tossed his room, before? Before, you know. So where is it now? You think maybe the maid got it, some little bitch sneaking into the dresser drawers and feeling under the mattress? Or maybe,” she said hopefully, “maybe Torres put it in a safe-deposit box.”

Fulman snorted.“Torres wasn’t that fond of banks. And you can’t get a safe-deposit box, Cara Ray, without having a bank account, not in California.”

“So he had a bank account. Hetraveledup and down this coast! If you’d done some phoning to the banks, you could’ve found out. You had plenty of time, Sam.”

“Don’t snap atme,Cara Ray. I didn’t know the old woman had gotten the money. You’re the one who didn’t toss his room. You’re the one who said the money was in the house wall. Said it was the last thing Shamas told you. If you’d found out exactlywherein the damn wall?”

He gulped down a shot of vodka.“Dirken thought it was there. All those repairs. Who knew that old woman could be so sneaky? And then those two damn dogs find the empty bag!”

She held out her glass.“You never even suspected the old woman.”

He slopped vodka into her glass.“Why would I? Her acting like she was about out of it, like she didn’t know nothing about what Shamas did.”

He sat down at the table.“Maybe she didn’t know-until that old fool Pedric told her.”

“That why you tried to do him, Sam?”

“I never thought he’d tell her about the money.”

“So why did you-”

“The Seattle stuff, Cara Ray. He knows about that, from Shamas. I don’t need her prying into that.”

“And now, the old man can still tell her. Thanks to your messing up.” She sucked at her drink. “And probably he will.”

“Well, he doesn’t know about the other.”

“Unless Newlon told-”

“Newlon can’t testify now. And what did he know? Newlon was the one who searched for Shamas, who went down in the sea for him. Newlon was the one who found him, hanging there with his foot tangled in the line-Newlon didn’t have a clue.”

Cara Ray’s face colored with a blush of guilt.

“What the hell? What did you tell him, Cara Ray?”

“I didn’t tell him. He knew there was something, all that scuffling before you shouted that Shamas was overboard. Newlon looked right at me, said, ‘No one would trip over them dogs, Cara Ray. Not Shamas. Shamas was sure on his feet.’”

Fulman shrugged.“Well, he can’t say nothing now.”

Cara Ray’s heart-shaped face fell into a pouting scowl. “I still don’t see why you made all that fuss, hustling those dogs off the boat before you called Harbor Patrol. Seems to me-”

“Because, Cara Ray, they were driving me crazy. I didn’t think I could stand the damn dogs another minute, jumping all over me-cops all over the place, and them dogs underfoot every time you turned around.”

“All the more reason for the cops to believe Shamas fell over them. I still don’t see why you changed your story at the last minute, why you were in such a hurry suddenly to get the dogs out of there.”

“Because, Cara Ray, the cops might think we were all drunk or crazy on drugs, letting those dogs run on deck at a time like that. Who knows, cops might try to slap a manslaughter charge or something on us, for carelessness.”

“That’s a crock, Sam. You don’t believe that.”

But then her eyes widened. She fixed a cold look on him.“Did Shamas have a stash with him? Big money, hidden on the boat somewhere? Is that why you left before the cops got aboard? Is that why you took the dogs off-used them for an excuse? So you could get into Seattle and hide the money before we called the cops?”

She stared hard at him.“Is that it, Sam? The dogs covered for you, while you took the money off?”

Dulcie cut a look at Joe, mirroring his disgust. These people were beyond sick. No matter how big a womanizer Shamas Greenlaw had been, he hadn’t deserved being pushed overboard by these scum.

“Here it is,” Joe whispered, “the whole scene laid out for us, and what are we going to do with it?” He sat up tall on the closet shelf, his yellow eyes burning with frustration.

“Shamas was stupid anyway,” Cara Ray said. “Dogs don’t belong on shipboard. I told him?”

“Well, Cara Ray, they-”

“Filthy beasts, doing their mess all over. I told Shamas I wasn’t cleaning it up.” She widened her eyes at Fulman. “You cleaned up plenty of dog crap. Cleaned it up all the way from Seattle back to San Francisco.”

She looked puzzled.“You get all the way back here with those mutts, then you turn ‘em loose. Why did you do that, Sam?”

“Getting too big to handle. Got loose the morning I-the morning Torres wrecked his car. They were wild, jumped out of my car, ran down the road. I figured to hell with ‘em, let ‘em go. They’d make their way, someone down in the village ‘ud feed ‘em-and someone did,” he said. “Anyway, I decided I didn’t want to be hauling them around, right in Newlon’s face. Keep reminding him, keep him all shook up. Not too swift, was Newlon.”

“And that old couple, Sam. That George Chambers. You botched that one, too. Don’t you think the cops-”

“Someone was coming, Cara Ray. Right up the street headed right for me. I thought-Chambers didn’t move. Went limp as a rag. Ithoughthe was dead, Cara Ray.”

“Trouble with you, you try to do someone, and you panic. Decide they’re dead when they’re not. Why do you do that, Sam? We could’ve just skipped. Now you’ve got two men dead and two wounded, and don’t you think the cops-?”

“You do one man, Cara Ray, you might as well go for it. The ones after that don’t count. Besides, the Fulmans and Greenlaws never get caught. Well, caught maybe once in a while, but we always walk. Worst that can happen, the family goes bail and we skip, lose the bail money.”

Fulman smiled.“It’s in the family, Cara Ray. Luck. Plain Irish luck”

Cara Ray watched him nervously. Her scrubbed face was not glowing now; she looked pale, as if she was having doubts about Fulman, as if she was losing her nerve.

But then her eyes narrowed.“I want my share of the money, Sam. I don’t need all this grief for nothing.” Her gaze widened. “Are you sure there ever was any money in that bag? Or was the old woman making an ass of you?”

“Shamas always buried money, Cara Ray. Everywhere he lived. The other women never knew-you’re the first he told.”

“Maybe he was getting senile,” she said, laughing. “I would have sworn Lucinda never knew.”

Cara Ray rose, poured herself another drink, found a box of sugar, and stirred two heaping teaspoons into the vodka-laced orange juice.“You never make it sweet enough.”

She turned on him suddenly.“Maybe Shamas took itallwith him on shipboard. Maybe you have it all, Sam.” Leaning over the table, she pushed her face close to his. “How much money did you get, Sam? How much of Shamas’s tax-free stash, as he called it?”

“Don’t be stupid, Cara Ray, you know I wouldn’t cut you out.”

She sat down again, ran her hand down her leg, smoothing her Mickey Mouse tights.“Far as that goes, maybe Pedric and the old woman and their sweet little early-morning walks, maybe they carried the money away then, a little at a time.”

“And hid it where, Cara Ray? In Pedric’s trailer? He’s not that stupid.”

She shrugged.“Maybe buried it, maybe down the hill somewhere, under those rocks.”

She lifted an eyebrow.“And why not his trailer? Brought it right on up here and hid it somewhere in there that even you wouldn’t think to look-maybe inside a wheel? In the water tank or something.”

“I don’t know, Cara Ray, that’s-”

“And now with the old man in the hospital, and his trailer empty, I’d think you’d-”

Fulman rose.“He wouldn’t hide it there, Cara Ray. He’d know we’d all look there. Me, Dirken, Newlon?”

He stood watching her.“But I guess it wouldn’t hurt to smoke it over-now, while he’s out of the way.”

Snatching his jacket from the chair, he headed out the door. Cara Ray gulped her drink and followed him.

And Joe and Dulcie abandoned the closet, intent on their own hurried agenda.

22 [????????: pic_23.jpg]

FULMAN HAD left the kitchen light burning; it cast a greasy yellow glow across the gold-and-black decor and the fake mahogany paneling. The plastic bag was no longer on the table; only wet rings remained where Fulman and Cara Ray had set their glasses. Sniffing at the glasses, Dulcie lifted her lip in disgust.“Take the paint off a fire truck.”

“It’s here,” Joe said from beneath the table. He backed out, pulling the bag. Peering inside to be sure the papers were still there, he left it in the middle of the floor and galloped to the bedroom, where he had seen a cell phone on a shelf beside the bed.

“Joe, Cara Ray left her purse, they’ll be coming back.”

Joe paid no attention. Pawing open the phone, listening for the dial tone, he punched in the number. The phone’s small buttons made it hard for a cat to hit the right digit. These manufacturers that called their products user-friendly didn’t have a clue.

Lieutenant Brennan answered, evidently relieving the dispatcher. Brennan didn’t want to put the call through; he said Harper could not be reached.

“This is really urgent. There’s no time-”

“He’s on a missing person call-possibly a drowning. That is extremely urgent,” Brennan said coldly, and he again refused to contact Harper.

Well, he needn’t be so surly. But maybe he’d had a bad night. Maybe he had stomach gas, with all the fried food he ate. Hanging up, Joe dialed Harper’s cell phone. He hadn’t memorized Harper’s several phone numbers for nothing; though sometimes the connection on the cell phone wasn’t too good.

Harper answered; he sounded gruffer than usual, short-tempered and preoccupied. Joe described the papers and ledger they had found that linked Fulman to Shamas Greenlaw’s scams and maybe to his death. “Most of the papers are in a hole behind his closet, you have to pull the wallboard off. But the ledger and the most important letters, Fulman put in a plastic bag-meaning to take them with him. He’ll be back here any minute, to get them.”

“What do you mean, linked to Shamas Greenlaw’s death?”

“Fulman and Cara Ray Crisp pushed Shamas overboard; I heard them talking about it. And with Cara Ray’s help, Fulman killed Raul Torres-caused the accident that killed him.”

“You’ll have to give me some facts,” Harper snapped. Joe could picture the captain in his squad car, scowling at the phone as he drove. Joe would not, at one time, have made so bold as to expect the police captain to act on his word alone, without proof. But since the first murder that the cats had been involved with, all the information they had passed to Harper had resulted in arrests and convictions. Every phone call Joe had made had helped the department; he and Dulcie had furnished Harper with information from conversations that thepolice would not be in a position to hear, discussions the police had no reason to listen to, and for which they would have had no legal right to employ sophisticated electronic equipment-yet conversations that held the key to solving the crimes in question.

“I can’t give you any proof, Captain. From what I overheard tonight, Shamas Greenlaw didn’t pitch over the boat’s rail unassisted. Fulman and Cara Ray did the job; then, because Raul Torres grew suspicious, Fulman set Torres up to die. Fulman stabbed George Chambers and left him for dead. He killed Newlon Greenlaw-hit Newlon with a rock, and he injured Pedric Greenlaw, went away thinking he’d killed Pedric.”

“That’s a long list. Who is this? I can’t run an investigation on anonymous tips like this,” Harper said irritably.

“My tips have been useful in the past, Captain.”

“Will you give me your name, give me a number where I can reach you?”

“You know I can’t do that. Never have, never will. But I just witnessed, in Sam Fulman’s trailer, a direct confession that incriminates both Fulman and Cara Ray Crisp. You’ll have to take my word.

“However,” Joe said, loving to play Harper along slowly, “there is a bit of proof. Fulman’s shirt, a red-and-brown plaid flannel, that is wadded up in his laundry on the closet shelf, is spotted with tiny flecks of dried blood. I’m willing to bet it’ll turn out to be Newlon Greenlaw’sblood.

“Right now, Fulman and Cara Ray are searching Pedric’s trailer, looking for hidden money that they think was lifted from under the Greenlaw house. Two dogs-those dogs that Clyde Damen keeps-dug out an empty bag this afternoon, evidently found it just after the quake, in the cracked foundation.

“Fulman is convinced that it had contained money buried by Shamas. He told Cara Ray that Shamas always buried money, that Shamas called it his tax-free account.”

Harper was silent for so long that Joe thought he’d lost the connection. But then, in a dry, tight voice, “I’m on my way up there. Why don’t you hang around?”

“I’m taking the grocery bag with me, Captain, before Fulman comes back. But the laundry is in the closet, the plaid shirt and, under it, one sample letter and one receipt.

“The bag I’m taking contains ten year’s worth just like them. I’ll leave it in the cave, say, twenty feet back from the entrance, in whatever crevice is handy. White-plastic grocery bag. Should be easy to spot.”

Joe hung up before Harper could accuse him of tampering with the evidence. He stiffened as a ripping noise exploded in the bathroom.

“They’re coming,” Dulcie hissed. “We can’t use the front door. Come on-I ripped the screen off.”

He started to drag the bag toward the bathroom, then leaped back to the bed, took the phone clumsily in his mouth, nearly unhinging his jaws, and shoved it in with the letters. Hauling the heavy bag toward the bathroom, he left it in the hall long enough to slip into the closet and rub his shoulder back and forth across the dusty plywood panel where their pawprints were incised. It was possible Harper would send forensics up here to get fingerprints, depending on what came down. If the officers picked up pawprints, so be it-but he hoped they didn’t. That had been a professional hazard as long as he and Dulcie had been at this clandestine business.

Dragging the bag into the bathroom, he saw that Dulcie had gotten the glass open. It was a tiny little window. Pulling the plastic bag between them, up onto the sink, they barely got it through. As they squeezed through after it, Dulcie caught her breath.

“Look,” she breathed, staring away down the hill.

Down on the highway, two black-and-whites were parked along the shoulder. The cats could see officers moving along the lower cliff.“What are they doing?” Dulcie said softly. “They can’t be here already to answer your call. What’s happening?”

But Joe’s mind was on the package. On the ground below them, its stark white plastic reflected light where there was no light. If Fulman came around behind the trailer, he couldn’t help but see it.

They heard, behind them, the trailer door open. They flew out the window as Cara Ray’s soft tread came down the hall. Landing hard in the darkness, grabbing the bag, they hauled it underneath the trailer, against a rear wheel.

They were crouched beside the wheel, trying to punch in the number for North Carolina information, when Joe saw, standing between two trailers, a dark figure nearly hidden: a tall, slim man, his dark jacket and pants fitting neat and trim-a uniform. A cop. And the man’s lean, easy stance was unmistakable.

Every hair down Joe’s spine stood at attention. Harper couldn’t be here so soon-he had barely hung up the phone from talking to Harper. “Dulcie, Harper’s out there-”

But Dulcie was busy speaking to an operator three thousand miles away. He listened to her make several calls, then she looked up at him, her green eyes wide and dark.“I got a disconnect for Bernside Tool and Die. No such number.”

“Shh. Keep your voice down. Dulcie?”

“The special operator couldn’t tell me how long it might have been since that was a good number, if ever.” She licked her paw. “Those Bernside Tool and Die invoices were dated just a few months ago.”

“Dulcie, Harper’s here.” Joe crouched, watching Harper’s feet coming toward them, up the brick walk, the police captain moving swiftly and silently in the shadows. But Dulcie was dialing again, speaking in a whisper, asking information for the number of Valencia Home for the Elderly.

“I can’t speak any louder. Please listen.” She asked the operator several questions, then looked up at Joe.

“No listing. Not in Greenville, North Carolina.”

Before he could stop her, she had dialed again, and asked for a special operator, and was laying out a long list of questions. She hung up at last, dropped the phone into the plastic bag.“There is no Valencia Home for the Elderly,” she whispered. “Not in Greenville, South Carolina, either. Not in any nearby city.”

“Dulcie, Harper’s standing just on the other side of this wheel, at the bottom of the steps.”

She paid attention at last, creeping out to look. Above them, they could hear Fulman and Cara Ray arguing-the floor must be thin as paper.

“Harper’s going to knock on that door,” Joe said, “and we-”

“We, what?” she hissed. “No one knows we’re under here. And if they did?? We’re cats, Joe.Cats.“She dialed again, and asked for the number of the Greenville, North Carolina, PD.

She asked several questions, and hung up, grinning.

“They never heard of Valencia Home for the Elderly. They suggested I try Greenville, South Carolina. I told them I’d already done that, that it was the same story.” She began to purr. “Fake nursing home, fake machine-tool business. I can’t wait for Harper to find these letters.”

“He isn’t going to find them if we don’t hike them out of here and stash them. I don’t?”

There was a knock at Fulman’s door, then soft, sliding footsteps above their heads, as if Fulman had slipped off his shoes, approaching the door quietly. They heard Cara Ray mumble.

“Don’t be stupid,” Fulman hissed. “Why would a cop-?”

“They know something, Sam. Oh my God-”

They heard rummaging from the area of the dinette.“Where is it? Where the hell is it, Cara Ray? What’d you do with the papers?”

“Forget the papers. I don’t have them. I want out of here.”

“Where did you put them? What the hell-?”

“I didn’t touch the damned papers!”

“Keep your voice down. What the hell! Has that damn cop been inside? He can’t do that. What about my rights!”

“I want out, Sam. I don’t-”

“And how would you suggest we do that without walking right into him? Go out through the roof?”

“A window-the bathroom window’s open.”

“It’s the only window on that side, Cara Ray. Except the kitchen window. They’re both dinky. You might squeeze through, but I can’t. Go on if that’s what you want.”

From between the wheels, the cats could see, on the little porch, Max Harper’s size eleven police-issue black oxfords. They heard Cara Ray in the bathroom, fiddling with the window. But suddenly right above them came a sharp, metallic click. The kind of businesslike double click of heavy metal, as when someone slips a loaded clip into an automatic.Thunk, click.

Joe leaped at the phone and slapped in Harper’s number, praying he’d answer.

He got the little recording that informed him the phone was not in use at this time. Harper had turned it off, to avoid it ringing as he stood watching outside Fulman’s door.

But maybe Harper had heard the click, too. He had moved off the porch fast, backing against the wall. The door was flung open.

Stepping out onto the porch, Fulman looked down at Harper. The cats didn’t see a gun. Fulman’s hands hung loose.

“You remember me, Fulman. Captain Harper, Molena Point Police. I’d like to talk with you.”

Fulman stepped back into the trailer. Harper moved in behind him. The door closed.

No sound came from within. The cats strained to hear. Joe made one more hasty call, whispering, then they fled down the hill, dragging the grocery bag, the plastic shining stark white in the darkness-it would look, to a casual observer, as if it was hurrying down under its own power; the cats would be only shadows. Backing down the hill, hauling it along together like a pair of bulldogs, their teeth piercing the plastic, the thin plastic tearing on rocks and bushes, they got it down at last between the boulders and into the mouth of the cave.

In the wind they heard no sound from up the hill, not Harper’s voice or Fulman’s. Whether the silence portended good, or signaled that Harper was in trouble, they had no way to know. Hauling the bag into the cave, they tried to gauge twenty feet, then to find, in the blackness, a crevice or niche in which to stash the evidence. Joe didn’t like being so far beneath the earth. As they moved deeper still, all sounds from without faded to silence.

23 [????????: pic_24.jpg]

JOE GREY’S paws began to sweat. He’d rather fight a dozen hounds than creep down into the earth’s dark belly. He might be a civilized tomcat, might be well informed on many matters, but he was not without his superstitions, not without some deep feline fears. And he did not like anything about Hellhag Cave.

Behind the cats, wind swirled into the cave, snatching at their backsides like a predatory beast, making the fur along Joe’s back stand straight up; his every muscle felt as taut as wire cable.

“This deep enough?” he growled around a mouthful of plastic.

“Not yet,” Dulcie said, dragging at the bag, and she pushed deeper, into darkness so profound that even their night vision couldn’t penetrate; they had only their whiskers to guide them, and their sensitive pads to feel the way, to keep them from pitching over a ledge into empty space. He said not another word until at last she stopped, dropping her corner of the bag.

“Here. In this crevice. Help me lift the bag. Push it here.”

“You seem to know the cave very well.”

“I’ve been down here once or twice,” she said casually. “There’s a narrow slit here. I’m going to crawl in, push it farther back.

“Wait, Dulcie.”

“I’ll only be a minute. I know this little niche. When the sun’s out, in the afternoons, you can see it well enough.”

“You don’t know what it’s like since the last earthquake.”

She paused, was so still he could hear her breathing.

“Oh my God,” she said softly. “I could have lost the whole package in there.”

“I could have lost you in there. Did you think of that?”

She backed out, pushed close to him, and licked his nose. Turning back, they found a ledge partly concealed behind a rough outcropping, and dragged the package up onto it among scattered rocky debris. Harper should find it there, should see its curve of white between the stones.

Their errand completed, Joe raced for the cave’s mouth, unashamed, leaving Dulcie to take her time. His paws were sweating; his fur felt prickly all over. He was soon sucking fresh air again beneath the open sky, reveling in the sky’s vast and endless space. Dulcie came out laughing at him and gave him a whisker kiss.

Above them, up the hill, there was no sound from Fulman’s trailer. They could see no movement, no shadow within the yellow square of the kitchen window. Had Harper arrested Fulman? Arrested him without any sound of battle reaching them in the night?

“Look,” Joe said, rearing up. Beyond Fulman’s trailer, a large, dark shape was slipping along between the wheeled houses; soon the cats could make out the pale markings of a squad car: the backup that Joe had called. It stopped behind Fulman’s trailer. Two officers emerged, silent and quick.

Down the hill, the first two police units were still parked at the edge of the cliff.

“Brennan mentioned a missing person,” Joe said. “Maybe those units are part of the search.”

“Wonder who’s missing,” Dulcie said softly. “I hope not a little child.” Beyond the patrol cars, to the south, they could see two officers searching below the road along the lower cliff, appearing and disappearing, their flashlight beams swinging through the shrubs; and where a tiny steeproad led down toward the sea, the cats caught the gleam of another car, parked among the scrub oak, and saw a flash of light and hints of other dark figures moving. Dulcie started down the hill, wanting to see more-then she stopped suddenly, staring away where the grass whipped tall and concealing.

Something small and dark lay among the blowing stems. It lay very still, no sign of movement, something blackish brown and limp. Dulcie plunged to reach the still little form, letting out a frightened mewl.

She reached in a tender paw to touch the unmoving lump.

She went limp, too, as if all the starch had gone out of her. Joe sped toward her.

Moving to press against her, he saw that it was not a cat at all, not the little stray that Dulcie had surely imagined; it was only a purse, a woman’s purse. An ordinary leather purse with an open top, lying in the tall grass.

“Cara Ray’s purse?” Joe said, wondering how it had gotten down here.

“No, not Cara Ray’s. It’s Lucinda’s. I thought-”

“I know what you thought,” he said, rubbing his cheek against hers. “It’s not the little waif. But, Lucinda’s purse?” He stood up on his hind paws, looking around them, searching the windy, empty night for a sign of the thin old lady. “She doesn’t come up here at night, Dulcie.”

Dulcie stretched tall, scanning the grassy verge.“Well, she wasn’t at dinner. But even if she was here somewhere, why would she leave her purse?”

“Are you sure it’s hers?”

“Oh yes, it’s hers. I recognize it, and that’s Lucinda’s scent-but there’s another smell, too.” Puzzled, she pushed deep into the handbag, her rear sticking out, her tail lashing, her voice muffled.

“Musty smell. Like mildew.” She nosed around, pawed at something-and backed out with a thin packet of hundred-dollar bills clutched in her teeth. Dropping the musty bundle, she held it down with her paw.

“It was tucked into the side pocket. Smells just like the canvas bag.” A reflection of starlight gleamed in her dark eyes. “Is this part of the buried money? Is it Lucinda who’s missing? Has she run away, taking the money? Or did someone-?”

“Dulcie, Lucinda’s not some baby to run away or be lost.”

“Then what is her purse doing here?” She looked at him intently-then glanced up toward the cave, her eyes widening, searching the shadows at the cave’s mouth.

“There was no one in there, Dulcie. We’d have caught her scent.”

“Would we? Over the reek of damp earth?” She looked down the hill at the searching officers, their fights sweeping and flashing, and at the car parked below the road. “Is that Lucinda’s car?” She leaped away, was yards down the hill, making for the half-hidden vehicle, when shouting erupted from the trailer above them; she stopped to look back They heard thudding, as if men were fighting-and the crack of a shot. Dulcie dropped, belly to ground.

“Come on,” Joe hissed. She crept to him. They slid behind a boulder as, above them, Fulman burst around the end of the trailer, running, swerving downhill straight at them, dodging between the dark bushes.

They didn’t see Harper or the other officers. Fulman fled for the rocks where they were crouched and on past them. He careened into the cave as if he knew exactly where to run. Joe sprang to follow him-if Fulman went deep enough, and if he had a light, even if he only lit a cigarette lighter to find his way, he was sure to see the gleam of white plastic.

But Fulman stopped just inside the cave. Hunkered down, he watched the road below, watching the four officers race up the hill, heading for their cars, summoned by that single shot.

As the two black-and-whites spun U-turns and headed around the hill for the road that led up to the trailer park, Fulman slipped an automatic from his hip pocket.

The cats, crouched six feet from him, had turned to creep away, when Dulcie whispered,“Look”

Down on the road, another car came around the bend from the village, Clyde’s yellow convertible, the top up but the rumble seat open, where the pups rode wagging and panting. Before Clyde had stopped, Selig leaped out, tumbled tail over nose, then danced around the car, barking. Clyde parked on the narrow verge above the sea; immediately Hestig jumped out, sniffing at the air, his tail whipping.

“What the hell is Clyde doing?” Joe hissed. “Why would he bring the pups, with all this confusion?”

The passenger door opened, and Wilma stepped out.

“They’re looking for Lucinda,” Dulcie whispered. “When she wasn’t at dinner, I thought she just? Oh my. What’s happened to her?”

Clyde was trying uselessly to corral the two dogs, as they ran circles around him. He gave up at last and moved along the verge, looking down the cliff, dangling the empty leashes. But Wilma headed straight up Hellhag Hill, hurrying for the cave where Lucinda liked to sit-straight toward Sam Fulman, crouched in the blackness, cradling his automatic. The cats flew to meet her.

Dulcie leaped into Wilma’s arms, nearly choking as she tried to get out the words. “Go back. Fulman’s in there. He has a pistol. He shot-he shot at Harper.”

Wilma dropped behind the nearest bush and slid downhill, rolled twice, and fetched up behind a boulder out of the line of fire-her reactions as sharp as when she had worked parole cases; Dulcie supposed the body didn’t forget; like snatching a fast mouse, the habit was with you forever.

The cats crowded close to Wilma. Shielded by the rocks, they could barely see the cave; but they could see, high above it, Fulman’s trailer, where Harper and an officer were easing Cara Ray into the backseat of a squad car, Cara Ray fighting and swearing.

“What happened?” Dulcie whispered to Wilma. “Where’s Lucinda?”

“She hasn’t been home since just after the quake, when the Greenlaws hauled her furniture out of the house.”

“Mightn’t she have gone out to eat by herself, because she was angry? Why did they call the police?”

“She and I had an appointment with the priest-she was upset about Dirken’s plans for the funeral. When she was an hour late, I went by the house.”

Above them, Harper and two officers moved down the hill on foot, keeping low, were soon lost among the dark bushes.

“With all that’s happened,” Wilma whispered, “with the Greenlaws knowing that Lucinda had found the money, Harper thought it best to look for her. Probably she just got in her car and left for a while, left them to their haggling.”

The three officers crouched above the cave among the granite boulders; they would not be able to see into the cave, as Wilma and the cats could. Fulman had moved deeper in, hidden among the inky shadows.

“Fulman,” Harper said, “you’re trapped. You’d do best to come on out.”

Fulman appeared suddenly at the mouth of the cave, his pistol drawn, facing uphill in a shooter’s stance.

“Look out,” Wilma yelled.

The officers dropped. Fulman fired. Three shots flashed in the darkness. The officers rose and circled fast, down either side of the cave, returning fire. Fulman had disappeared. Wilma and the cats lay flattened, Joe wondering if this was the last night in his and Dulcie’s lives-and if they had any lives left, for future use. Watching Lieutenant Wendell slip down beside the cave, Joe’s eyes widened at the metal canister in Wendell’s hand.

“Come out, Fulman,” Harper shouted. “Hands on your head. You have ten seconds, or that cave’s so full of tear gas, you’ll sell your soul for air.”

“My god,” Dulcie said, staring at the canister.

“It could save a life,” Wilma snapped at her. “Run-get down the hill. If the wind picks up a whiff of that stuff?”

But before Wendell could throw the canister they heard a scuffle in the cave, heard a woman scream and Fulman swearing. Another scream, and Fulman loomed in the entrance, pushing Lucinda before him.

“See what I have, Harper. Go on, throw your little bomb.”

The officers drew back. Fulman dragged Lucinda out of the cave, staying behind the thin old woman, moving down the hill using her as a shield. Lucinda was limp and obedient.

“She was in the cave all along,” Dulcie whispered. “She was there when we went in. Why did she let him see her?”

Fulman had backed a third of the way down toward the highway, dragging Lucinda, when the pups raced up at them, barking, half in play, half with confused anger. Fulman spun, kicking at them, the old lady stumbling. Selig and Hestig leaped and snapped at him. He kicked them again, and forced Lucinda across the road to the edge of the cliff, where it sheared away to the breakers. Lucinda made no effort to fight him; caught between the sea crashing below and the gun he held against her, she was very still.

Clutching her arm, he faced the ring of officers that had followed them.“Get the hell away, Harper. Get your men away-the whole mess of you. Or you’ll be picking her out of the ocean.”

The officers drew back But at the rage in Fulman’s voice, the pups went wild. They charged him, Hestig low and snarling, grabbing his ankle as Selig leaped at his chest, hitting him hard; at the same instant Lucinda came alive. Clutched against Fulman, she twisted violently, biting his arm. He hit her in the face. She kneed him where it had tohurt, and when Fulman doubled over, she clawed his face and jerked free. Maybe all the anger she had stored, unspent for so many years, went into that desperate bid for freedom. Certainly the violence enraged the pups. They tore at Fulman. Fighting the dogs and fighting Lucinda, Fulman lost his balance. He fell, dragging Lucinda. They were over the cliff, the pups falling with them clawing at Fulman-humans and pups falling?

Officers surged to the edge, and began to ease themselves down. Fulman was sprawled on a ledge some ten feet below, lying across Lucinda, tangled with the pups. Lucinda had his gun. As Fulman lunged for it, she twisted away. He hit Lucinda hard, snatched the gun, took aim at the officers crowding down the cliff.“I told-”

Joe Grey leaped.

He didn’t think about getting shot or about falling a hundred feet into the sea or about how Max Harper would view his unnatural response or about Dulcie following him, he was just claw-raking, snarling mad: he didn’t like Fulman harming Lucinda; he didn’t like Fulman’s gun pointed up at all of them. Only as he clung to Fulman’s face, digging in, did he realize that Dulcie was beside him, raking Fulman’s throat.

Their weight and the shock of their attack sent Fulman sprawling on the crumbling edge. They felt Lucinda struggle free, saw her grab a rock. Crouching, she swung, her face filled with rage. She hit Fulman in the stomach, pounding him, pounding.

Only then did Joe Grey face the fact that he and Dulcie might have been blown to shreds by one shot from Fulman, exploded into little bits of cat meat. He watched Officer Wendell swing down onto the ledge, his weapon drawn, covering Fulman-the sight of Wendell’s automatic was mighty welcome.

Fulman drew back against the cliff. Lucinda huddled at the edge, staring down at the heaving sea.

As Wendell cuffed Fulman, the cats scrambled up the cliff, past him. From above, they watched Wendell put a leg chain on Fulman, then tie a rope around Lucinda, making a harness, preparing for the officers above to hoist her to the road.

Clyde and two officers lifted her to safety. Her face was very white, her pale hair clinging in damp curls. She said no word. She kept her eyes closed until she was again on solid ground.

The next moments, as the paramedics took over, examining Lucinda and Fulman, Joe and Dulcie fled into the tall, concealing grass.

Pity,Joe thought,that Fulman didn’t crash on the rocks and die. Pity Lucinda didn’t shoot him, be deserved shooting;she would have saved the state of California a good deal of trouble, to say nothing of the money they’d spend prosecuting this scum.

“What is it with humans?” he asked Dulcie, watching Clyde clip leashes on the chastened pups-chastened not from any scolding Clyde had given them. How could he scold them for their wild behavior, when they had helped to capture Fulman? But chastened from the fall; the two dogs were very quiet, the whites around their eyes showing. It was an amazement to Joe that no one, in that ten-foot slide and fall down the cliff, had any broken bones.

What Max Harper would have to say about his and Dulcie’s part in Fulman’s capture did not bear considering. Joe guessed he’d better come up with a good story-coach Clyde on it, and fill Wilma in. Set up a scenario about how these two cats got along so well with the pups, that when the pups got excited, the silly cats got excited, too, went kind of crazy-feline hysteria.

Sitting hidden in the grass, out of the way of the police, Joe and Dulcie watched the first rescue unit pull away, transporting Sam Fulman to the hospital. Two police guards rode with him.

“Look at the damage Fulman’s done,” Joe said. “Shot Harper in the arm, and Lucinda’s lucky she isn’t dead. Three menaredead at Fulman’s hands-and for what? To line his greedy pockets. But the paramedics took care of him just like he was worth saving.”

“Civilized,” Dulcie said. “The result of thousands of years of civilization.”

“I don’t call that civilized, I call it silly. And if humans are so civilized, how come all the crime-the rise in murder statistics? Rape statistics, robbery, you name it.” He looked at Dulcie intently. “If you think there’s been progress, then how come the jails are so full?”

But Dulcie only shrugged; she was too tired to express an opinion on matters as complicated and diverse as human ambiguities.

Sitting close together, the cats watched Wilma hurry to retrieve Lucinda’s car, preparing to follow the second ambulance, which was taking Lucinda to Emergency. Suddenly Dulcie crouched to race down the hill, to go with her.

But she stopped, turned to look at Joe.“Come on-don’t you want to be with Lucinda?”

Joe licked her ear.“You go. I want to be sure Harper finds the bag-see you in Jolly’s alley.” And he was away after Harper, racing up through the grass as Harper climbed toward Hellhag Cave. Joe paused only once to look back, as Wilma pulled away behind the rescue unit; when he and Dulcie had faced danger together, he never liked to be parted from her.

But what could happen? He watched Clyde’s yellow roadster spin a U-turn, following Wilma. The pups rode as sedately, now, as a pair of middle-aged sightseers; he wondered how long that subdued frame of mind would last. Only Harper’s squad car remained, beside the highway, where one of the officers had put it after retrieving it fromthe trailer park. It looked lonely there, strangely vulnerable. Quickly, Joe followed Harper on up the hill.

As the captain stepped into the darkness of Hellhag Cave, Joe glimpsed a movement among the rocks.

Maybe it was only a shadow cast by the light from Harper’s swinging torch, as the captain disappeared inside. Joe didn’t wait to see. Swallowing back his fear of the place, he followed Harper.

24 [????????: pic_25.jpg]

JOE WATCHED the light of Max Harper’s torch move quickly into Hellhag Cave, its bright arc slicing through the darkness. Joe took a step in, and another. Swallowing his distaste, he followed Harper, slipping along close to the wall, his whiskers brushing cold stone.

Harper moved slowly, studying each crevice until, ahead, a flash shone out between the stones as icy white as snow gleaming in the torchlight.

Before Harper touched the bag, he slipped on a pair of thin gloves. Carefully lifting out a letter, he held it by a corner, bright in the beam.

In a moment, as he read, that lopsided grin lit Harper’s dour face, that smug, predatory smile that made Joe Grey smile, too.

Glancing around the cave, Harper bundled the bag inside his jacket. Instead of leaving, he moved deeper in, swinging his torch so the cave floor was washed in moving rivers of light. Joe could hear loose stones crunching under the captain’s shoes. He remained still until Harper turned back, his beam seeking the mouth of the cave again.

Harper stopped before a narrow shelf. Joe heard him suck in his breath.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Harper said softly.

Sliding closer, Joe reared up to look, cursing the great cat god who had given him white markings. If Harper flashed the torch in his direction, his white parts would shine like neon.

And even when he stood on his hind paws, he couldn’t see what Harper had found; Harper’s broad-shouldered, uniformed back blocked Joe’s view. Slipping close behind Harper’s heels, he peered around the captain’s trouser legs.

Harper, bending over the stone shelf, was studying two small, dark objects. Barely touching them, he lifted one, placing it in a paper evidence bag. The billfold was thick and bulging, made of dark, greasy leather.

The black plastic tubing smelled like ether-laced pancake syrup. As Harper bagged it, and his light swung around, Joe slid into blackness, lowering his face over his paws and chest.

He didn’t move until the light swung away, leaving a pool of night behind it. He looked out covertly at Harper.

Harper was grinning as if he’d just won the lottery. Folding the tops of the evidence bags and tucking them into his jacket beside the bulge of Fulman’s letters, he was still smiling as he headed back for the entrance. Joe hurried out behind him, as pleased as Harper-but deeply puzzled.

There had been nothing on that shelf when he and Dulcie dragged the plastic bag into the cave. He remembered pausing there. The shelf had been empty. And certainly they couldn’t have passed the stink of brake fluid without smelling it.

Stopping in the shadows of the cave’s entrance, Joe watched Harper descend Hellhag Hill to his police unit.

Had Fulman hidden those objects in the cave, maybe been afraid to throw them in the ocean, afraid they’d wash up on the shore again, or someone would fish them out? Maybe Fulman didn’t want to take time to bury them, and was wary of dumping them in some trash can-you read about that stuff, some homeless guy finding the evidence in a trash can.

So Fulman had stashed the brake line and the billfold in the cave?

But not in plain sight, not on that shelf.

Frowning, Joe stood up on his hind paws studying the dark, grassy hillside around him. Turning, he stared back at the mouth of the cave.

He trotted in again, listening and scenting out, studying the velvet dark. When nothing stirred, he hurried deeper in, forgetting his fear, sniffing along the cave walls, sniffing at the ledge where Harper had found the evidence.

Nosing at the stone shelf, he smelled not only Harper’s familiar tobacco and gun-oil scent, and the sharp whiff of brake fluid, but, besides these, a yeasty, sweet kitten smell.

Looking deep into the cave, Joe Grey called to her.

There was no answering mew, no small voice coming out of the dark.

He was greatly amused and impressed that the kit had found those items. But where did she find them? And how did she know they were important?

What fascinating worlds of thought, Joe wondered, ran in that small, wild mind?

Again he called to her. Why was she so shy? When a third time he called and nothing stirred, when the blackness of the cave lay around him empty and still, he pressed back toward the cave’s mouth, hungering for open space.

And there she was.

A small silhouette, black as soot, against the starry sky. A tiny being stretching as tall as she could against the sky’s jeweled glow.

“Hello, Kit.”

The kit purred.

He sat down beside her, at the cave’s mouth. “What did you do back there, Kit?”

The kit’s eyes widened, she cringed away from him.

“It’s all right,” Joe said. “You did just fine. Are you hungry?”

“Always hungry,” said the kit.

He wanted to know where she had found the evidence and why she had put it on the ledge. He guessed his questions would wait.“Come on, I’ll show you something to please you.”

The kit followed him slowly at first, slinking along behind. Joe felt protective of her; he wanted to pat and wash her-and was deeply embarrassed at such maternal thoughts. Joe Grey, macho tomcat, wanting to mother some scruffy little hank of cat fur.

“Comeon,Kit. Don’t dawdle.” He turned to wait for her. The kit was so small and thin, but so bright-eyed and alive. Her gaze at him was as brilliant as stars exploding. She galloped up and trotted happily beside him, her head high, her long, bushy tail waving.

Down into the village they wandered. Joe Grey couldn’t hurry her. She had to stop at every new scent, had to look into every shop window, examine every tiny patch of garden.

“I was here before,” she said. “When I rode that dog. I jumped off and ran. This is not like big-city streets. Not like the alleys where I was before.”

She stood up to peer in through the glass at a display of brightly painted pottery, yearning toward it, lifting a paw as if to touch it, much as Dulcie would do. She stopped to sniff a hundred smells, and to pat a hundred shadows.

Down the oak-shaded, flower-decked streets she and Joe Grey walked, dawdling, creating endless delays, until they arrived at last at the small, brick-paved alley behind George Jolly’s Deli.

Despite the late hour, a light burned in the deli kitchen, and Joe could hear cooking sounds, a spoon scraping a bowl; George Jolly was working late preparing his delicious salads and marinades and sandwich spreads.

Jolly must have just set out fresh plates for the village cats; the nicely presented feast had not yet been sampled. No other cat was present.

The kit said,“This is not for cats to eat.”

“Thisisfor cats to eat.”

The kit smelled each individual serving-salmon, caviar, an assortment of cheeses.

“Go on, Kit. You’re not hungry?”

The kit gave him a questioning look, then set to gulping and smacking, sucking up the feast with a fine, robust greed.

She came up for air with cheese on her nose and chopped egg in her whiskers.

And now, her first hunger sated, she looked around her at the little shops that faced the alley, admiring their mullioned doors and stained-glass windows. Her round eyes widened at a bright red-and-blue rocking horse, at the little potted trees beside the shop doors, at the decorative wrought-iron lamps that lit either end of the cozy alley, at the tall jasmine vine heavy with yellow blossoms. She smiled. Then she ate again, rumbling and shaking with purrs.

Dulcie found them there, Joe Grey washing his whiskers and guarding the sleeping kit. The kit lay sprawled on the bricks, softly snoring, her little stomach distended, her face smeared with chopped egg, one paw twitching now and then as if, in dream, she still pawed at the delectable morsels of salmon and sliced Brie.

“Guess what she did,” Joe said, as proud as a parent.

“Made a pig of herself.”

“Besides that. Something-incredible. She found the brake line and the billfold. Harper has them.”

“She didn’t!” Dulcie began to wash the kit’s face. “Oh, she is clever.”

The kit woke, yawning.

“Did you really find those things, Kit? How did you know??”

“In a crevice,” the kit said. “They smelled of that man that came running, the man that hurt Pedric. He was there before. A long time ago he hid those things. Then he hurt the old man, and I didn’t like him.

“Then today you hid that white bag. It smelled of him.” The kit looked up at them with round yellow eyes. “When he came running into the cave, I thought he would see the bag. But the woman was there. He saw her instead. He hurt her; he hurt that kind woman.”

“She’s all right,” Dulcie told her. “She’ll be all right.”

“I saw her go in that big car.”

“Ambulance. That’s an ambulance. The paramedics took good care of her. But why??”

“After the loud noises and blood and he dragged her over the cliff and everyone was shouting and those dogs barking, I went to the cave. Then the man came and”- she looked at Joe-“you were behind him. He was happy to find the bag. And you looked happy. So I quick brought those things out of the crevice and put them for him to find.”

“You were in the cave the whole time,” Joe said.

The kit purred.

“You have done more than you can guess,” Joe told her. “But what was Lucinda doing in there?”

“She likes the cave. She is peaceful there. She likes to be quiet there.”

The kit swished her long, bushy tail.“I never knew a human. The others say humans are bad. Out on the hill, where the others could see, I stayed away from her. But in the cave, when she came today, I went close to look at her. She petted me.”

“Did you-talk to her?” Dulcie asked.

“Ohno.“The kit looked shocked, her yellow eyes widening. Neither Dulcie nor Joe had ever seen a cat with eyes so round; the kit’s little thin face was vibrant with life, with the deep, shifting lights of amusement and intelligence.

“Why do the others haze you?” Dulcie said.

“I don’t know. I don’t care; they will go away soon. They don’t like the quakes. They will go where the earth doesn’t shake.”

“And where would that be?” Joe said.

“They don’t know. They mean to search until they find such a place.”

“And will you go with them?” Dulcie asked softly.

The kit was silent.

“Will you stay here alone, then? On Hellhag Hill?”

She didn’t speak.

Dulcie was very still. A terrible longing filled her.“Would you go home with me?” she whispered.

But still the little, mottled kit did not reply.

“Oh,” Dulcie said. “You will go to Lucinda?”

“I will go-with the one who needs me,” said the kit. “With the lonely one who needs me.”

Dulcie turned away and began to wash, trying not to show her disappointment.

The kit patted at Dulcie’s paw. “I can’t be with humans the whole time. Humans can’t climb and hunt.” She snuggled close to Dulcie. “I have no one to teach me to hunt.”

Dulcie brightened. She sat up straighter, lashing her tail with pleasure.

Joe Grey was embarrassed to hear himself rumbling with purrs.

“And when will you go there, to Lucinda?” Dulcie said.

“When the other humans are gone. Those people that, she says, fill up her house. And when that old man comes back from the hos-hospital, and they are together.”

“Together? What do you mean, together?”

“Of course, together.” The kit glanced up the hill to the Moonwatch Trailer Park. “Maybe together there in that little house with wheels.”

Dulcie stared at her, puzzled.

“They are friends,” said the kit. “They need one another. The time is now for them to be together. To start new,” she said, “just like me.

“The time is now for me to go away from the clowder. I have been with them long enough. The time is now for me to start another new way to live.”

“Then you had best come home with me,” Dulcie said in a businesslike manner, “until it’s time for you to go to Lucinda.”

The kit rubbed against Dulcie’s shoulder, extravagantly purring.

And so the nameless kit joined the great and diverse community of Molena Point cats who had fallen, in this one of their nine lives, into an earthly heaven; so the tattered kit was brought home to Molena Point’s bright and nurturing village; now she had only to find herself a name, and find her true calling in the world.

25 [????????: pic_26.jpg]

THE FUNERAL was finished. Shamas Greenlaw lay, at last, in his grave. Whether he rested at peace, no one on this earth could say. His cousin Newlon lay next to him, and the family had made a great event of the double funeral. They had ordered matching headstones carved with angels strumming harps, their wings lifted, their eyes cast toward heaven-whether smiling up at the two departing souls, or conveying their regrets as the deceased were cast out in the opposite direction, was equally uncertain.

The funeral had not, as Lucinda feared, been an embarrassing display of bad taste.

She had told Wilma she was afraid Dirken would take over the rosary arrangements, would create a loud, drunken Irish dirge, with loud weeping and louder music, to bid farewell to Shamas. That was why she had planned to meet with Wilma and Father Radcliff the night that she disappeared.

On her way out of the house that evening, to keep the appointment, she heard Dirken calling to her to get a move-on, that it was time for the two of them to leave.

She’d had no intention of taking Dirken. Quickly, she’d slipped out the kitchen door, got in her car, and took off in the opposite direction from the church. She didn’t have time to call Wilma or call the rectory. “I just wanted to be away-from Dirken, from the whole family.”

After Lucinda was released from the emergency room of Molena Point Hospital, the two women had sat at Wilma’s kitchen table late that night. Dulcie, curled up on the rug, had tried to imagine the kind of colorful Irish wake that worried Lucinda, and that the Greenlaws seemed to want, tried to envision the long-winded and drunken eulogies, as Lucinda described to Wilma.

“All I want is to get the funeral over,” Lucinda said. “A traditional, solemn rosary and mass and burial, and then to be done with it. As cold as it sounds, Wilma, all I want is to be done with Shamas.

“Funerals aren’t for the dead anyway,” Lucinda said. “They’re for those left behind. And I don’t need it.

“For that matter, what good will a mass and a rosary do Shamas? Shamas made his bed with the Lord. Nothing in Heaven or earth is going to change that.”

Dulcie had been both shocked and amused.

“The empty money bag,” Wilma had said, gently changing the subject, “the bag the pups dug out. I’m surely curious about that.”

Lucinda laughed.“Oh, I knew about that money, long before Dirken came snooping.

“It started several years ago, when Shamas repaired the foundation. Shamas never did a lick of work around the house. His sudden, unexpected project so puzzled me that I snooped into the garden shed.

“I found the sledge he used to break the concrete, the bucket and trowel with which he’d repaired it; and after that day I watched him more closely, paid attention to the musty-smelling money that Shamas brought back from the bank a time or two. To the way, when he returned from Seattle after abusiness trip, he always had some excuse, early in the morning, to putter in the yard. And I’d get home from my walk, find he had done a load of laundry. Washed the clothes that, I suppose, he’d worn to crawl under the house. He’d say he had brought so much laundry home from his trip, he didn’t like to burden me with such a lot of work.”

Lucinda smiled.“He must have thought little of my reasoning skills. Must have thought I would never crawl under the house myself, but I did. The next time he left for Seattle I put on some old clothes and took a flashlight and went under there.

“I found a patched place about two feet wide, and a little square in the middle of it, maybe six inches across, where fresher concrete had been troweled in. He must have made the big hole the first time, and then just the smaller one, after that-enough to stick his hand in. I got the sledge from the garage and gave it a whack.

“I was surprised it took so little effort, five or six blows, and the smaller patch of concrete fell right out. When I shined my light in, there was a big canvas bag.

“I didn’t understand why he hadn’t put some kind of screw-plug in the foundation, maybe that looked like a cleanout for ashes, something he didn’t need to cement over each time. I suppose he thought a workman might believe it was a cleanout and try to use it, or that someone else might findit and be curious.

“Well, I didn’t like reaching into that dark place, but I could feel the drawstring. I got it open, and I could feel money, that greasy feel of money and the right size. The bag was filled with packets of money. My heart was pounding, I didn’t know if it was from excitement or if I was scaredstiff.

“When I pulled out a packet, I had a whole fistful of hundred-dollar bills! Counting those bills made me feel a little faint. I kept twenty of them and stuffed the packet back into the bag. I was afraid to take more.

“He’d left the box of patching cement in the garage.” Lucinda laughed. “It had directions printed on it just like a box of biscuit mix.

“Well, from that time on, when I wanted extra money, that’s where I got it. When Shamas never caught on, I grew bolder, took enough to set up a new bank account in my name, in a bank Shamas didn’t use, as far as I knew. I had the statements sent to a post office box-I guess I did learn something from Shamas.

“I always knew when he put cash in the bag. I could hear him down there tapping-he would leave the radio or TV on in the living room to mask the sound. And he would either have just arrived home from a trip, or have come directly from the post office or from UPS.

“Well, then Shamas died and Dirken was here poking around. I took all the money out of the bag, put some in my account, but most of it in a pillow slip. Left the empty bag in there for Dirken to find-my little private joke.”

Lucinda smiled.“With Dirken sneaking around telling me those silly stories about how the house had dry rot, I found his backbreaking work with the pick and hammer most entertaining.”

Dulcie, too, was highly entertained. She wanted to cheer for Lucinda. Well, she thought, the funeral had come off all right. The Greenlaw clan hadn’t turned the mass into a loud and abandoned display, or turned the rosary into a dirge of unseemly weeping. Nor was there any unchurchly music at the gravesite, such as the marching band Dirken had favored tramping through the cemetery tootling on horns and beating drums; the mass and burial ceremonies had been restrained and tasteful.

If a number of ushers of severe countenance stood in strategic locations about the church and cemetery, scowling at any show of wildly unleashed emotions, that fact may or may not have contributed to the solemnity that prevailed among the worshipers. If those ushers looked like cops in civilian attire, that, too, may have added to the sober atmosphere, as did Captain Max Harper’s presence, where he sat at the back of the church. The Greenlaws, every one, moved through the ceremony as quietly as a gathering of nuns, their bowed heads and clasped hands a solemn credit to Shamas and Newlon Greenlaw.

The Church of the Mission of Exaltation of Molena Pinos, with its lovely eighteenth-century Spanish architecture-its heavy beams and antique stained-glass windows, its hand-decorated adobe walls and whitewashed plank ceilings painted with garlands of age-faded red roses, its thick clay floors-and its ancient traditions, embraced the Greenlaws in their parting ceremony as generously as it had embraced, over the centuries, any number of murderers, confidence men, and horse thieves, whenever such deaths occurred among the general populace.

Cara Ray Crisp did not attend Shamas’s funeral; nor did Sam Fulman. One could only imagine Cara Ray there among the mourners, dressed in the form-fitting little black dress that she had bought for the occasion, her eyes cast down with maidenly grief.

In point of fact, Cara Ray, like Sam himself, spent the hours of Shamas’s leave-taking sitting on a hard steel bench behind the bars of Molena Point City Jail, Cara Ray attired in a gray wraparound dress two sizes too big for her, and prison-made tennis shoes without stockings, and Sam sporting a regulation prison jumpsuit dyed bright orange.

And while the funeral and wake might have been circumspect, the party that followed was another matter. Held in the dining room of the Seaside Hotel, just up the coast, flowing with rich food, Irish whiskey, and loud with Irish music, and paid for with moneys contributed unknowingly by shopkeepers and car dealers across the U.S., the party would have made Shamas proud.

Though Shamas’s ghost, if he had attended this parting event, would have been chagrined at the triumph apparent in the eyes of his grieving widow, would have been shocked at Lucinda’s high color and contented smile. Shamas’s ghost would have boiled like swirling smoke at the sight of Lucinda and Pedric Greenlaw standing close together, their eyes meeting warmly, their hands lightly touching.

Nor would Shamas have liked the ceremony that occurred three weeks later, on the crest of Hellhag Hill.

Not that Lucinda cared what Shamas would think, any more than she cared if the whole village gossiped about her for making such a commitment so soon after her husband’s death, and so very late in her life.

This was her and Pedric’s private moment. People could say what they liked. This was a union that carried no load of past expectations, and none of the face-saving that she had tried to maintain while Shamas was alive. The slate, in short, was wiped clean. Lucinda didn’t give a damn.

Max Harper, avoiding the wake, did attend with pleasure the gathering atop Hellhag Hill-as did Wilma Getz, Clyde Damen, Charlie Getz, and the three cats.

Only the pups were not invited. They had been confined in a box stall in Max Harper’s stable, where they couldn’t tear up anything but the stable walls.

The wedding was held on a bright Saturday afternoon three weeks after Shamas’s funeral. Now was the time for the Dixieland band and champagne and laughter. The party delectables were catered by George Jolly. The ceremony was performed by a local justice of the peace, a jovial man fond of unorthodox weddings, Dixieland music, and cats; the site of the ceremony was the small, grassy plateau just below Hellhag Cave. The nuptials were simple, and brief. The moment Pedric kissed the bride, the band burst out with a marching number that accompanied the guests as they climbed the steep hill to the reception, held on what had been the site of the Moonwatch Trailer Park.

The trailers were gone; the ledge was empty save for one green vehicle of some age, standing at the edge, with a view down Hellhag Hill to the sea.

On the abandoned concrete trailer pads between the brick walkways, small tables and umbrellas had been set up, surrounding George Jolly’s sumptuous buffet table and the bar. The bride and groom sat at a table with Wilma and Clyde, and Charlie and Max Harper. On the table next to them, the three cats took their ease, Joe and Dulcie nibbling from their own party plates, the darkly mottled kit sitting up straight and wide-eyed, watching every amazing activity, hearing every astounding word, looking this way and that, her ears flicking in a dozen directions, trying to take it all in.

From George Jolly’s alley, the kit had gone home with Dulcie. She liked living in a house. She liked life within warm rooms where one was allowed to sleep on soft furniture. She liked the wonderful smells and the surprising, whisker-licking food. She liked this new, loving relationship with humans.

Everything was new and wonderful and amazing to the small, ragged kit. There were no cold winds to bite her. No snarling, cold-hearted cats to haze and snipe at her, to slap her and drive her away from some small nest she had tried to make her own.

She had new friends. She would soon have a new home. Far more adaptable than a human, perhaps, she had launched herself into this new life with all claws grabbing.

But now suddenly she was all tired out. Too much ceremony. Too much talk. Too many new things happening. Surfeited with amazements, the kit curled up on the table and fell immediately and deeply asleep. She slept stretched out with great and trusting abandon, her long bushy tail hanging down over the side of the table, her whole being relaxed into a mass of ragged fur. She looked, with her black-and-brown fur sticking out every which way, more like a moth-eaten fur scarf lying across the table than anything alive.

Lucinda reached quietly to pet her. To Lucinda, the kit was a wonder, a sweet charmer who soon would be their own, hers and Pedric’s. Stroking the kit, and looking around her at the shelf of land that would hold their new home, Lucinda felt deeply content.

The hillside setting would accommodate very nicely a small, rambling structure designed to fit their needs, just herself and Pedric and the kit and the feral cats they hoped they might care for.

Lucinda did not know that the tattered kit’s clowder had moved on; it didn’t matter, there would be other cats.

The house would be designed so the kit would have her own aeries and tall perches among the rough-hewn beams, and of course she would have soft couches to nap on.

Lucinda had not needed the cash soon to come from the sale of her house to Brock, Lavell& Hicks to buy this land; she had used other money for that. Money, she told most people, that she had saved, over many years, from her household allowance. And who was there to say different?

Max Harper listened with some interest to the couple’s plans for their new home; but he was quiet. He seemed, to Joe Grey, particularly withdrawn. Ever since the capture of Sam Fulman-except for that grin of discovery and triumph that Joe had seen when Harper found the evidence in Hellhag Cave-Harper had seemed unusually edgy and stern.

Is that my fault?Joe wondered.Mine and Dulcies? Have we pushed Harper too far? Did we come close to the limit with Harper, leaping in Fulman’s face the way we did? Have we gone beyond what Harper can accept?

Harper had once told Clyde that when a cop stumbled across facts that added up to the impossible, such a thing might put him right around the bend. That if a cop started believing some of this far-out stuff, he could be headed for the funny farm.

Harper’s late wife, Millie, a detective on the force when she was alive, had handled the nutcases, the saucer sightings and souls returned from the dead. Harper said that when Millie got a case that she couldn’t explain away rationally, it gave them both the creeps.

Clyde and Wilma had passed off the cats’ attacking Sam Fulman as animal hysteria, triggered by the wild leaping and barking of the two pups: the frantic pups had gotten the cats so keyed up that their adrenaline went right through the roof. The two cats went kind of crazy.

Harper might believe them. And he might not. Harper knew animals, he knew that the overexcitement of one creature could infect the animals around him.

He had appeared to buy the story.

But with Harper, one never knew.

The cats watched the bride and groom depart in a flurry of confetti and rice, with tin cans tied to the bumper of Lucinda’s New Yorker, setting out for a few weeks traveling up the California and Oregon coasts.

George Jolly served another round of champagne to a handful of lingering guests. Max Harper settled back, watching Clyde and Wilma and Charlie. The three were filled with questions.

“Long before Shamas drowned,” Harper said, “Torres had gotten friendly with Cara Ray, as a source of information in his investigation of Shamas’s swindling operations. Of course he was investigating Fulman, too, on the same cases.

“Somewhere along the line Torres, checking on Shamas’s bank accounts in half a dozen names, must have realized that Shamas was taking in far more money than he was depositing or laundering, stashing it somewhere. Very likely he knew about Shamas’s reputation among the Greenlaw family for burying money.

“Torres got pretty tight with Cara Ray, picking up bits of information from her. When he heard, from Seattle PD, that Shamas had drowned, he called her.

“Maybe he thought she knew about the money, knew where it was, maybe thought they could join up. That’s the way we read it. If so, that was the moment he stepped over the line from investigation to the other side, thinking how to get his hands on Shamas’s stash. What Torres didn’t know was that Cara Ray was also seeing Sam Fulman.”

Harper paused to light a cigarette.“Assume Cara Ray knew about the money and played Torres along. There’s some indication that she thought Torres was tight with Seattle police, that he might suspect she and Fulman killed Shamas. Say she gets scared. Couple that with the fact that Fulman knew Torres was investigating him along with Shamas, and you have two people wanting Torres out of the way.

“When Torres takes off for L.A., on an investigation and to pick up the antique Corvette he’d bought from a dealer down there, they figure he’ll make a little detour into Molena Point to look for the money. They decide to do him.

“Cara Ray honeys Torres up and makes plans to meet him in Molena Point on his way back from his LA. investigation, have a few romantic days together.

“That early morning, the motel took a phone call to Cara Ray’s room. Operator heard a man answer. The call was from a woman, at about four A.M. There’s no record of the caller’s number; it was local. We have a witness who saw Torres leave the motel at four-thirty, in the Corvette.

“None of the maids had seen Cara Ray for maybe twenty-four hours. We found a note in her room: ‘Honey, my sister’s sick. Going to run down to Half Moon Bay. Back late tomorrow night.’

“She has a sister there, but she hadn’t been sick, hadn’t seen Cara Ray for several months. She lied at first to cover for Cara Ray, but then decided she didn’t want her own neck in a noose.”

Harper smiled.“So much for family loyalty.

“Very likely Cara Ray went up to Fulman’s trailer, called Torres from there, said she had car trouble, wanted him to come get her.

“Say Fulman is down on the highway in the fog, waiting for Torres’s Corvette. He’s sitting there ready to hit a blast on the horn, or maybe parks his car across the road-something to make Torres put on the brakes hard at that curve, squeezing out the brake fluid.

“There were skid marks on the road, but not enough other markings to make much of a picture. However,” Harper said, “we have the cut brake line, with Fulman’s prints on it. We have Torres’s billfold, which was removed from the Corvette along with the brake line, before my men got there that morning.

“The lab found, along the broken edge of glass from the car window, particles of leather from the wallet. Besides Torres’s own prints on the leather and plastic, we have a good partial print for Fulman.”

Joe and Dulcie couldn’t help smiling-and could hardly help laughing at the expression on Clyde’s face. They didn’t have to whisper,We told you so.Clyde looked suitably ashamed.

“We have a pair of Fulman’s shoes from the trailer,” Harper said, “and casts of the same shoes at the scene. Enough,” the captain said, easing back in his folding chair, “to prosecute Fulman for Torres’s murder. And maybe enough to prosecute for Newlon Greenlaw’s death. And enough hard evidence, as well, to take Fulman to court on several counts of fraud. Both Washington State and the Feds want him for the machine-tool scams he and Shamas were working.”

“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 thecats 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.

6. CAT SPITTING MAD

1

IT WASthe tortoiseshell kit who found the bodies, blundering onto the murder scene as she barged into every disaster, all four paws reaching for trouble. She was prowling high up the hills in the pine forest when she heard the screams and came running, frightened and curious-and was nearly trampled by the killer’s horse as the rider raced away. Churning hooves sent rocks flying. The kit ran from him, tumbling and dodging.

But when the rider had vanished into the gray foggy woods, the curious kit returned to the path, grimacing at the smell of blood.

Two women lay sprawled across the bridle trail. Both were blond, both wore pants and boots. Neither moved. Their throats had been slashed; their blood was soaking into the earth. Backing away, the kit looked and looked, her terror cold and complete, her heart pounding.

She spun and ran again, a small black-and-brown streak bursting away alone through the darkening evening, scared nearly out of her fur.

This was late Saturday afternoon. The kit had vanished from Dulcie’s house on the previous Wednesday, her fluffy tortoiseshell pantaloons waggling as she slid under the plastic flap of Dulcie’s cat door and trotted away through the garden beneath a light rain, escaping for what the two older cats thought would be a little ramble of a few hours before supper. Dulcie and Joe, curled up by the fire, hadn’t bothered to follow her-they were tired of chasing after the kit.

“She’ll have to take care of herself,” Dulcie said, rolling over to gaze into the fire. But as the sky darkened not only with evening but with rain, Dulcie glanced worriedly toward the kitchen and her cat door.

Wilma, Dulcie’s human housemate, passing through the room, looked down at the cats, frowning, her silver hair bright in the lamplight. “She’ll be all right. It isn’t raining hard.”

“Not yet, it isn’t,” Dulcie said dourly. “It’s going to pour. I can smell it.” A human could never sort out such subleties as a change in the scent of the rain. She loved Wilma, but one had to make allowances.

“She won’t go up into the hills tonight,” Wilma said. “Not with a roast in the oven. Not that little glutton.”

“Growing kitten,” Joe Grey said, rolling onto his back. “Torn between insatiable wanderlust and insatiable appetite.” But he, too, glanced toward the cat door.

In the firelight, Joe’s sleek gray coat gleamed like polished pewter. His white nose and chest and paws shone brighter than the porcelain coffee cup Wilma was carrying to the kitchen. His yellow eyes remained fixed on the cat door.

Wilma sat down on the couch beside them, stroking Dulcie.“You two never want to admit that you worry about her. I could go look for her-circle a few blocks before dinner.”

Dulcie shrugged.“You want to crawl under bushes and run the rooftops?”

“Not really.” Wilma tucked a strand of her long white hair into her coral barrette. “She’ll be back any minute,” she said doubtfully.

“Too bad if she misses supper,” Dulcie said crossly. “The roast lamb smells lovely.”

Wilma stroked Dulcie’s tabby ears, the two exchanging a look of perfect understanding.

Ever since Joe and Dulcie discovered they could speak the human language, read the morning paper, and converse with their respective housemates, Dulcie and Wilma had had a far easier relationship than did Joe Grey and his bachelor human. Joe and Clyde were always at odds. Two stubborn males in one household. All that testosterone, Dulcie thought, translated into hardheaded opinions and hot tempers.

The advent of the two cats’ sudden metamorphosis from ordinary cats (well, almost-they had after all always been unusually good-looking and bright, she thought smugly) into speaking, sentient felines had disrupted all their lives, cats and humans. Joe’s relationship with Clyde, which had already been filled with good-humored conflict, had become maddening and stressful for Clyde. Their arguments were so fierce they made her laugh-a rolling-over, helpless cat laugh. Were all bachelors so stubborn?

And speak of the devil, here came Clyde barging in through the back door dripping wet, no umbrella, wiping his feet on the throw rug, then pulling off his shoes. His dark, cropped hair was dripping, his windbreaker soaking. Dropping his jacket in the laundry, he came on through to the fire, turning to warm his backside. He had a hole in his left sock. Violent red socks, Dulcie saw, smiling. Clyde was never one for subleties. As Wilma went to get him a drink, Clyde sprawled in the easy chair, scowling.

“What’s with you?” Joe gave him a penetrating, yellow-eyed gaze. “You look like you could chew fenders.”

Clyde snorted.“The rumormongers. Having a field day.”

“About Max Harper?”

Clyde nodded. The gossip about his good friend, Molena Point’s chief of police, had left Clyde decidedly bad-tempered. The talk, in fact seemed to affect Clyde more than it did Harper. To imply, as some villagers were doing, that Harper was having an affair with one of the three women he rode with-or maybe with all three-was beyond ridiculous. Twenty-two-year-old Ruthie Marner was a looker, all right, as was Ruthie’s mother. And Crystal Ryder was not only a looker but definitely on the make.

But Harper rode with them for reasons that had nothing to do with lust or romance. The cats couldn’t remember the villagers-most of whom loved and respected Harper-ever before spreading or even tolerating such gossip.

Clyde accepted his glass from Wilma, swallowing half the whiskey-and-water in an angry gulp.“A bunch of damned troublemakers.”

“Agreed,” Wilma said, sitting down on the end of the velvet couch nearest the fire. “But the gossip has to die. Nothing to keep it going.”

Clyde glanced around the room.“Where’s the kit?”

“Out,” Dulcie said, worrying.

“That little stray’s twenty times worse than you two.”

“She’s not a stray anymore,” Dulcie said. “She’s just young.”

“And wild,” Clyde said.

Dulcie leaped off the couch to roam the house, staring up at the dark windows. Rain pounded against the glass. The kit was off on another scatterbrained adventure, was likely up in the hills despite the fact that now, more than ever before, the hills were not safe for the little tortoiseshell.

Returning unhappily to the living room, she got no sympathy.“Cool it,” Clyde said. “That kit’s been on her own nearly since she was weaned. She’ll take care of herself. If Wilma and I fussed about you and Joe every timeyouwent off…”

“You do fuss every time we go off,” Dulcie snapped, her green eyes filled with distress. “You fuss all the time. You and Wilma both. Particularly now, since…”

“Since the cougar,” Clyde said.

“Since the cougar,” Dulcie muttered.

Wilma grabbed her raincoat from the hall closet.“Dinner won’t be ready for a while. I’ll just take a look.”

But as she knelt to pull on rubber boots, Dulcie reared up to pat her cheek.“In the dark and rain, you won’t find her.” And she headed for her cat door, pushing out into the wet, cold night-and Joe Grey was out the plastic door behind her.

He stood a moment on the covered back porch, his sleek gray coat blending with the night, his white paws and the white strip down his face bright, his yellow eyes gleaming. Then down the steps, the rain so heavy he could see little more than the dark mass of Dulcie just ahead, and an occasional oak tree or smeared cottage light. Already his ears and back were soaked. His empty stomach rumbled. The scent of roast lamb followed the cats through the rain like a long arm reaching out from the house, seeking to pull them back inside.

Along the village streets, the cottages and shops were disembodied pools of light. They hurried uphill, their ears flat, their tails low, straight for the wild land where the cottages and shops ended, where the night was black indeed. Sloughing up through tall, wet grass, along the trail they and the kit usually followed, they could catch no scent of her, could smell only rain. They moved warily, watching, listening.

It was hard to imagine that a mountain lion roamed their hills, that a cougar would abandon the wild, rugged mountains of the coastal range to venture anywhere near the village, but this young male cougar had been prowling close, around the outlying houses. Nor was this the first big cat to be so bold. Wilma had, on slow days as reference librarian, gone through back issues of the Molena PointGazette,finding several such cases, one where a cougar came directly into the village at four in the morning, leaving a lasting impression with the officer on foot patrol. Wilma worried about the cats, and cautioned them, but she couldn’t lock them up, not Joe Grey and Dulcie, nor the wild-spirited kit.

“Those big cats see every flick of movement,” Dulcie said, pushing on through the wet grass.

“That kit’s as dark as a piece of night, that mottled black and brown coat vanishes in the shadows. Anyway she’d hardly be worth the trouble, to a cougar-not even a mouthful.”

Dulcie hissed at him and raced away through the rain.

The cougar had been on the Molena Point hills since Thanksgiving, prowling among the scattered small ranches, a big male with pawprints the size of Joe’s head. He’d been spotted on Christmas Day, high up at the edge of the forest. Since Christmas two village dogs had disappeared, and four cats that Joe and Dulcie knew of; and huge pawprints had been found in village gardens.

Mountain lion. Cougar. Puma. Painter. The beast had half a dozen names. Late at night in the library, Dulcie had learned about him on the computer, indulging in a little clandestine research after the doors were locked and she had the reference room to herself.

She was, after all, the library cat. She might as well make use of her domain. Wilma had taught her the rudiments of the computer, and her paws were quick and clever. And of course no one among the staff would dream that, beyond her daytime PR activities of purring and head rubbing for the pleasure of the patrons, their little library cat followed her own agenda.

But what Dulcie had read about cougars hadn’t thrilled her.

California had always had mountain lions. They’d been hunted nearly to extinction, then put on the protected list. Now, as their numbers increased, their range was growing smaller-more houses being built, more people moving into their territory. It took a lot of land to support a 120-pound carnivore.

The residents of Molena Point expected an occasional coyote to venture down from the coastal range; Joe and Dulcie were ever on the alert for the beast called God’s dog. And there were sometimes bobcats and always bands of big, vicious racoons hunting in packs. But a mountain lion was quite another matter. When the two cats had first found the cougar’s prints high up among the hills, a thrill of terror and of awe had filled them.

This was the wild king roaming their hunting grounds. His magnificent presence made them prowl belly to the earth, ears and tail lowered, their senses all at alarm, their little cat egos painfully chastened.

But it had been a strange year all around. Not only the appearance of the cougar, but the odd weather. Usually, fall in Molena Point was sun-drenched, the cerulean sky graced by puffy clouds, the night sky clear and starry or scarved by fog creeping in off the sea to burn away again in early dawn. But this fall had been wet and cold, a cruel wind knifing off the Pacific beneath thick gray clouds, pushing before it sheets of icy rain. Then people’s pets began disappearing, and lion tracks appeared in the gardens.

A horrified householder had called police to report that the lion had entered his carport and had, in trying to corner his cat, slashed the tires of his black Lincoln Town Car, beneath which the cat had taken refuge: four flat tires, two badly scratched bumpers, a ruined paint job, lots of blood, and one dead Siamese.

And now the kit was headed alone into the black hills. And as the two cats moved higher, searching, they had only the brush of their whiskers against sodden grass and wet stone to lead them, and their own voices calling the kit, muffled in the downpour.

The kit had been staying in Dulcie and Wilma’s house since her adopted human family, elderly newlyweds Pedric and Lucinda Greenlaw, left Molena Point for a jaunt in Pedric’s travel trailer. The kit had refused to accompany the pair again. She loved Pedric and Lucinda and was thrilled to have a home with them, after being on her own tagging after a clowder of vagrant cats that didn’t want her. But she couldn’t bear any more travel. The old couple’s drive up the coast to Half Moon Bay had made her painfully carsick, and on their weekend to Sacramento she threw up all the way.

The kit was special to Lucinda and Pedric, more special than any ordinary cat. Steeped so deeply in Irish folklore and Celtic history, they had quickly guessed her carefully guarded secrets, and they treasured her.

Brought to Wilma’s house, the small furry houseguest had chosen for her daytime naps a hand-knitted sweater atop Wilma’s cherry desk, beside the front window where she could watch the village street beyond the twisted oaks of Wilma’s garden. The kit loved Wilma; she loved to pat her paw down Wilma’s long hair and remove the clip that held her ponytail in place, to race away with it so the thin older woman would laughingly give chase. At Wilma’s house, the kit dined on steak and chicken and on a lovely pumpkin custard that Wilma made fresh each day. Wilma said pumpkin was good for hairballs. The kithad nosed into every cupboard and drawer, investigated beneath every chair and chest and beneath the clawed bathtub, and then, having ransacked the house and found nothing more to discover, she had turned once more to the wider world beyond the cottage garden. The kit had grown up wild-who could stop her now?

Around midnight, on that Wednesday, the rain ceased. Joe and Dulcie found a nearly dry niche among some boulders, and napped lightly. It was perhaps an hour later that they heard a scream, a chilling cry that brought them straight up out of sleep, icing their little cat souls.

A woman’s scream?

Or the cougar?

The two sounded very alike.

Another scream broke the night, from farther down the hills. One cry from high to the north, the other from the south, bloodcurdling wails answering each other.

“Bobcats,” Joe Grey said.

“Are you sure?”

“Bobcats.”

She looked at him doubtfully. The screams came again, closer this time, answering each other. Dulcie pushed close to Joe, and they spun away into the forest and up a tall pine among branches too thin to hold a larger predator.

There they waited until dawn, soaking wet and hungry. They did not hear the cries again, but Dulcie, shivering and miserable, spent the night agonizing over the little tattercoat, the curious little scamp whose impetuous headlong rushes led her into everything dangerous. By dawn, Dulcie was frazzled with worry.

The rainclouds were gone; a silver smear of light gleamed behind the eastern hills as the hidden sun began to creep up. The cats heard no sound beneath the dim, pearly sky, only the drip, dripping from the pine boughs. Backing down the forty-foot pine, the two cats went to hunt.

A wood rat and a pair of fat field mice filled them nicely, the warm meal lifting their spirits. With new strength and hope, they hurried north toward the old Pamillon estate, where the kit liked to ramble.

Entering among the crumbled walls and fallen, rotting trees and dark cellars, they prowled the portion of the mansion that still stood upright, but they found no sign of the kit.

The Pamillon estate had been, in the 1930s, an elegant Mediterranean mansion standing on twenty acres high above Molena Point, surrounded by fruit trees, grape arbors, and a fine stable. Now most of the buildings were rubble. Gigantic old oak trees crowded the fallen walls, their roots creeping into the exposed cellars. The flower gardens were gone to broom bushes and pampas grass and weeds, tangled between fallen timbers.

And the estate was just as enmeshed in tangles of a legal nature, in family battles so complicated that it had never been sold.

Some people said the last great-great-grandchildren were hanging on as the land increased in value. Some said the maze of gifts and trusts, of sales and trades among family members was so convoluted that no one could figure out clear title to the valuable acreage.

The kit had discovered the mansion weeks earlier. Newly come to that part of the hills, she had been as thrilled by the Pamillon estate as Magellan must have been setting anchor on the shore of the new land, as new wonders and new dangers shimmered before her.

Joe and Dulcie searched the hills for three days, taking occasional shelter in a tiny cave or high in the branches of an oak or pine, where they could leap from tree to tree if something larger wanted them for supper. They had never before given such serious thought to being eaten. Among the dense pine foliage they blended well enough, but on the hills, on the rain-matted grass, they were moving targets. And all the while they searched for the kit, running hungry and lean, the village was there far below them, snug and warm and beckoning, filled with the delicacies provided not only at home but in any number of outdoor restaurants.

It was late Thursday afternoon, as the two cats pushed on into new canyons and among ragged ridges, that they saw Clyde’s yellow antique roadster climbing the winding roads, going slowly, the top down, Clyde peering up the hills, looking for them. Dutifully Joe raced down to where the road ended, causing Clyde to slam on the brakes.

Leaping onto the warm hood, he scowled through the windshield at Clyde.“The kit come home?” A delicious smell filled the car.

“Not a sign. I could help you look.”

Joe lifted a paw.“We’ll find her.”

“I brought you some supper.” Clyde handed over a small bag that smelled unmistakably of Jolly’s fried chicken.

“Very nice. Where’s the coleslaw and fries?”

“Ingrate.”

Taking the white sack in his teeth, Joe had leaped away to join Dulcie. He hadn’t told Clyde how despondent he and Dulcie were growing. And there was really nothing Clyde could do to help.

By Saturday evening the sky was heavy again, and the wind chill. If the kit was already home, slurping up supper and dozing warm and dry before the fire, Clyde would have come back; they’d see his car winding up the hills or hear the horn honking. One more day, they thought, and they’d give up and go home. And on sodden paws they moved higher into the lonely pine woods. They were well up the forested ridges, far beyond their usual hunting grounds, and the afternoon was grayinginto evening when they heard horses far below, maybe a mile to the north, and the faint voices of women.

Five minutes later, they heard screams. Terrified, angry, blood-chilling.

Joe was rigid, listening, his yellow eyes slitted and intent. He turned to look at Dulcie.“Human screams.”

But the screams had stopped, and faintly they heard horses bolting away crashing into branches and sliding on the rocks.

Hurrying down out of the mountain, and racing north, it was maybe half an hour later when on the rising wind they caught a whiff of blood.

“Maybe the cougar made a kill,” Dulcie whispered, “and frightened the horses, and the women screamed.”

“If the cougar made a kill, we’d hear him crunching bone. It’s too quiet.” And Joe shouldered her aside.

But she slipped down the hill beside him, silent in the deepening evening, ready to run. They were just above a narrow bridle trail when a slithery sound stopped them, a swift, slurring rush behind them that made them dive for cover.

Crouched beneath a stone overhang, they were poised to run again, to make for the nearest tree.

A rustle among the dry bracken. They imagined the cougar slipping through the dead ferns and pines as intently as they would stalk a mouse-and something exploded out of the woods straight at them, bawling and mewling.

The kit thudded into Dulcie so hard that Dulcie sprawled. She pressed against Dulcie, meowing loud enough to alert every predator for twenty miles-“Yow! Yow! Yow!”-her ears flat, her tail down. She couldn’t stop shivering.

Dulcie licked her face.“What is it? What happened to you? Shh! Be still!” Staring into the woods, she tried to see what had chased the kit. Above them, Joe moved up into the forest, stalking stiff-legged, every hair on end.

“No! Down there,” the kit said. “We have to go down there. It was terrible. I heard them scream and I smelled the blood and…”

Dulcie nudged her.“Slow down, Kit. Tell it slowly.”

The kit couldn’t be still. “The horses bolted nearly on top of me. I ran. I don’t want to go back, but…”

“Start at the beginning,” Dulcie said softly.

“I went back afterward, after that man was gone. I went back there just now and they’re dead.” The kit stared round-eyed at Dulcie. “Two women, one young and pretty. So much blood. They’re all over blood.”

“Show us,” Joe said, slipping down beside them.

“I don’t want…”

“Show us, Kit,” Joe Grey said, towering over her.

The kit dropped her head obediently, this kit who was never obedient, and padded slowly down the hills where the black pines reached in a long and darkly forested peninsula. Slipping along through the edge of the forest, the two cats stayed close beside her. Down three steep, slick shelves of stone, dropping down among the dry ferns and loose shale, then onto the bridle trail and that was walled, all along, by the forest. The night was filled with the smell of blood and with the stink of death, mixed with the scent of the kit’s fear.

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THE NIGHT was alive with the tiny noises of other creatures, with little rustlings and scurryings and alarm-cries where small nocturnal browsers fed on the forest’s vegetation, prey to nocturnal hunters and to each other. The kit led Joe and Dulcie down through the forest over the jagged ridges toward the sharp, metallic smell of blood-but then the kit drew back.

Warily, the two older cats approached the bridle trail and the two dark heaps that lay there. The smell of death forced their lips in a deep flehmen; that stink would soon bring predators crouching unseen in the night.

But no four-legged predator had done this terrible deed.

Where was the person who had stabbed and torn his fellow humans? Was he hidden in the forest, watching? Might he be listening, so that if they spoke, he would know their secret?

Tasting the damp wind, they sniffed and tested before they approached the two dead humans. When at last they slipped closer, they were skittish, ready to bolt away.

They looked and looked at the two women, at their poor, torn throats, at their pooled blood drying on their clothes and seeping into the earth.

The cats knew them.

“Ruthie Marner,” Dulcie whispered. The younger woman was so white, and her long blond hair caked with blood. Dulcie crouched, touching her nose to Ruthie’s icy arm, and drew back shivering. Blood covered the woman’s torn white blouse and blue sweater. She had a deep chest wound, as well as the wide slash across her throat. So much clotted blood that it was hard to be sure how the wounds might have been made.

Helen Marner’s wounds were much the same. Her blond hair, styled in a short bob, was matted with dirt where she had fallen. She was well dressed, much like her daughter, in tan tights, paddock boots, a tweed jacket over a white turtleneck shirt, her clothes stained dark with blood. A hard hat lay upside downagainst a pine tree like a sacrificial bowl.

No horse was in sight. The horses would have left the fallen riders, would have bolted in panic, the moment they could break free.

Dulcie backed away, her tail and ears down. She’d seen murders before, but the deaths of these two handsome women made her tremble as if her nerves were cross-wired.

The cats could see no weapon, no glint of metal near the bodies. They did not want to pad across the footprints and hoofprints, to destroy the tenuous map of what had taken place here.

But something more terrible, even, than the sight of the double murder held both cats staring.

A jacket lay on the ground beside the bodies, trampled by the horses’ hooves, a creamy fleece jacket with a strand of red hair caught in the hood, a jacket the cats knew well. They sniffed at it to make sure.

“Dillon.” Dulcie’s paws had begun to sweat. “Dillon Thurwell’s jacket.”

Dillon always wore that jacket when she rode, and she’d been riding every day with the Marners. Dulcie looked helplessly at Joe. “Where is she? Where is Dillon?”

Joe looked back at her, his yellow eyes shocked and bleak.

“And Harper,” he said. “Where’s Max Harper? It’s Saturday, Harper always rides with them on Saturday.” He backed away from the bodies, his angled gray-and-white face drawn into puzzled lines.

Police Captain Harper had taught Dillon to ride. These last two months, the foursome had been seen often riding together, as Dillon and Ruthie trained for some kind of marathon.

Leaping up the stone ledge, Dulcie stood tall on her hind paws, staring around her into the night, looking for another rider.

Nothing stirred. There was no smallest whisper of sound-every insect and toad had gone silent. High above her in the forest she could see the kit, peering out from among the rocks.

Trotting up to join her, Dulcie began to quarter the woods, as Joe searched below, both cats scenting for any trace of Dillon.

Circling ever wider, rearing up to sniff along a clump of young pines, Dulcie caught a hint of the child, well to the north of the bodies.“Here. She was here-she rode here. I can smell her, and smell a horse.”

But Joe was assessing the hoofprints that raced away from the scene tearing up the trail.

“Four horses.” He looked up solemnly at Dulcie. “One with small, narrow hooves. That would be Ruthie’s mustang. And a big horse, heavy-wide hooves. The other two sets seem ordinary.”

Dulcie looked at Joe.“The big horse-big hooves, so deep in the earth. Like Max Harper’s gelding.”

“But Harper couldn’t have been with them. They wouldn’t have been harmed if Harper was with them.” Joe’s yellow eyes blazed, the muscles across his gray shoulders were drawn tight. “Four horses. The Marners. Dillon. And the killer. Not Max Harper.”

The prints of the big horse showed a scar running diagonally across the right front shoe, as if the metal had been cut by a hard strike, maybe from a stone.

Warily the kit came down out of the rocks to press, shivering, between Joe and Dulcie. She was usually such a bold, nervy little morsel. Now her eyes were wide and solemn.

Helen and Ruthie Marner had lived in Molena Point for perhaps a year. Joe’s housemate, Clyde, had replaced the brake linings on Mrs. Marner’s vintage model Cadillac. Clyde ran the most exclusive automotive shop in Molena Point, and he was as skilled and caring with the villagers’ imported and antique cars as a master jeweler with his clients’ diamonds.

Clyde hadn’t liked Helen Marner much; he called her stuck-up. It had amused him that Max Harper encouraged Helen’s friendship, but they all knew why. Harper had refused to ride with Dillon alone and put himself in a position that might attract slander.

Harper had gotten to know Dillon during a grisly murder investigation at Casa Capri, an upscale retirement home. Joe and Dulcie had begun their own investigation before anyone else suspected foul play. But Dillon had come into the act soon after-before anyone had a reason to call the police. She, too, had sensed something wrong. And her stubborn redhead’s temperament had kept her prying, despite what any grown-up said. Of course she’d been right, just as Joe and Dulcie had been, all along.

Max Harper had been very impressed with Dillon-had, during the surprising investigation, grown to respect and admire the child.

When Dillon told Harper that she longed to learn to ride, the captain had volunteered some lessons, if Dillon’s parents agreed and providing someone else came along. An ever resourceful child, Dillon had recruited the Marners, as well as Clyde Damen’s girlfriend, Charlie, as an occasional backup.

“And now they’re dead,” Joe said, looking down the nightdark hills, his ears and whiskers back, his yellow eyes blazing.

“Maybe,” Dulcie said softly, “maybe Dillon got away.”

“On that little, aged mare? Not hardly. Escape a killer on a big, heavy horse, a rider bent on stopping her?” He turned to look at Dulcie. “If Dillon saw him murder Helen and Ruthie, he’d have to silence her.”

She sighed and turned away.

He crowded close to her and licked her face and ear.“Maybe she did escape, Dulcie. She’s a spunky, clever kid.”

That was what he liked about Dillon. Thinking of Dillon hurt made him sick clear down to his tomcat belly.

The cats could see no bike tracks along the trail, and the path was too narrow for a car. Staying on the bracken, studying the dirt and the surround, they could find no boot or shoe prints leading in to indicate someone had followed the riders on foot. Joe imagined a stranger on horseback pulling Helen Marner from her horse, grabbing Ruthie’s horse, and pulling her off, knifing them as Dillon escaped, whipping Redwing to a dead run.

Why? Why had someone done this? What had they gained?

“Robbery?” he said softly. “How much money would people carry, out for a Saturday ride? And their horses weren’t valuable, just common saddle horses.” He knew that from hearing Harper and Clyde talking.

He wanted to shout Dillon’s name, bawl her name into the night until the child came running out of the bushes, safe.

He tried again to catch the smell of the killer but could detect nothing beyond the stink of human death, and the sweeter perfumes of horse and of the pine woods.

To look upon a human person brutally separated from life by another human never ceased to sicken the tomcat. This kind of death had no relationship to his own killing of a rabbit or squirrel for his supper.

Dulcie had left him; he could hear her up in the forest padding through the pine needles, and he caught a glimpse of her sniffing along, following Dillon’s scent. Calling the kit, he leaped up the hill, watching for the predators that would soon come, drawn by the smell of blood.

He didn’t like to leave the bodies alone, to be ravaged by hunting beasts-both out of respect for the sanctity of human creatures and because evidence would be destroyed. But the highest urgency was to find Dillon.

The sky had cleared above them, enough so he could see through the treetops a sliver of rising moon, its thin light seeping in hoary patterns between the black pine limbs.

“I saw more,” the kit said softly.

Joe paused, his paw lifted.“What did you see? Did you see the person who killed them?”

“I heard the screams. I ran to see. Two horses bolted right at me and swerved away down the mountain. No riders, reins flying. Then a girl came racing, leaning over her horse, and a man riding after her, trying to catch her. He grabbed at her horse. They were deep in the trees. I couldn’t see what happened. They disappeared over the hill. The man was swearing.”

“What did he look like?”

“He looked like Police Captain Harper.”

“What do you mean, he looked like Captain Harper?”

“He was tall and thin and had a cowboy hat like Captain Harper, pulled down, and a thin face and a jacket like the captain wears. A denim jacket. I could smell the girl’s fear. I ran and ran; I didn’t go back until just now, when I found you. I came back in the dark when I heard you. I don’t…”

“Listen,” Joe said. Voices came from far down the hills, calling, calling, moving up toward them. “Ruthie! Ruthie Marner! Dillon! Helen! Helen Marner! Dillon! Dillon Thurwell!”

And below them, all across the bare slopes, lights came rising up and they could hear horses-a snort, the rattle of a bit, a hoof striking stone. Up the hills they came, their torches sweeping the slopes and shining down into the ravines. And down beyond the horses and hikers, cars moved along a winding road shining spotlights among the far, scattered houses. The red bubble of a police car rose up over the crest, then two more red-lit units searching for the Marners and for Dillon-searching too late for the Marners. Drawing slowly up the hills toward that grisly scene.

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DILLON! DILLON THURWELL!Ruthie! Ruthie Marner!” The night hills rang with shouts, and swam with careening lights that faded and smeared where scarves of fog crept up the little valleys. “Dillon! Dillon Thurwell!” Max Harper’s voice cut through the others, tense and imperative. “Dillon! Answer me! Dillon, sing out! Whistle!Dillon!”

And up the hills above the searchers, Joe Grey stood on a rock beside the bleeding bodies, wanting to shout, too, wanting to halt the cries and bring the searchers swarming to where the murdered women lay, wanting to shout,Here! They’re here! Ruthie and Helen are here. Here, below the broken pine!

Right.

He could do that.

Shout as loud as a catcanshout, bring the riders galloping to take one look at the murder scene and fan out again searching for the killer, their horses trashing every bit of the evidence in their urgent haste-to say nothing of trampling three fleeing cats.

He had to draw the searchers without alarming them into tearing up the surround.

Slipping behind the rock where he wouldn’t be seen, rearing tall behind the boulder to nearly thirty inches of sleek gray fur, Joe Grey yowled.

Opened wide and let it out, yowled-howled-caterwauled-bellowed-ululated and belly-coughed like a banshee screaming its rage and venom into the black, cold night.

Every light swung up. Torchlight illuminated the cats’ boulder as if its edges were on fire. Captain Harper pushed Bucky fast up the hill, the tall, thin officer pulling his rifle from the scabbard as the big buckskin ran sliding on the rocks. A rifle!

Joe knew that the men of Molena Point PD carried rifles in their squad cars, along with a short, handy shotgun and an array of far more amazing equipment. He’d never thought about an officer carrying a rifle on horseback. He guessed that in the wild mountains to which these foothills led, in the rugged coastal range, a rifle might come in handy-there had been times, up in these hills, when he’d wished a cat could use a firearm.

“There!” Harper shouted. “By the boulders-under the broken pine!”

Every beam centered on the rocks and on the angled tree behind them, and on the two bodies sprawled across the dust-pale bridle path. Lights scoured the boulder where the cats had been.

Crouching higher up the hill, they watched Harper’s buckskin gelding top the rise at a gallop and, behind Harper, riders flowing up like a stampede in a TV western, the pounding of their hooves shaking the earth. Crouched close together, the cats shivered with nervous excitement.

Harper held up a hand. The riders pulled up their horses in a ragged semicircle, some fifty feet below the bodies-a ring of mounted men and women, their flashlights and torches bathing the corpses in a brilliance as violent as if the light of final judgment shone down suddenly upon Helen and Ruthie Marner.

Around the grisly honor guard, the night was still.

A bit rattled. A horse snorted nervously, perhaps at the smell of blood.

Max Harper holstered his rifle and dismounted, swinging down from the saddle to approach the bodies alone. Leaving Bucky ground-tied, he stepped with care to avoid trampling any footprint or hoofprint. His long, thin face was white, the dry wrinkles deeply etched, his dark eyes flat and hard as he looked down on Helen and Ruthie, then looked away into the night, shining his light up into the forest.

When he did not see a third body among the rocks and trees, he clicked on his radio.

“Better have the ambulance up here. And the coroner.” He called in his two detectives from the squad cars below, then knelt to check for vital signs, though there could be none. Dulcie and Joe swallowed, knowing the pain with which Harper must be viewing the scene.

Before he rose, he examined the ground directly around the bodies; the cats knew he’d be committing to memory every mark or disturbance, studying every footprint and hoofprint, every detail of the position of the bodies, memorizing the way the blood was pooled, seeing each tiniest fragment of evidence-though all such facts would be duly recorded by his detectives in extensive notes and photographs.

Joe didn’t like leaving their prints at the scene-he could only hope they looked like the tracks of a squirrel or fox, though surely Harper knew the difference. Crouching, Harper studied the earth for a long time, then, rising, he looked away again into the night, shaking his head as if dismissing that wild cry that had summoned him. Maybe he thought ithadcome from some small, wild beast drawn there by the smell of blood, stopping to yowl a hunting cry, leaving its prints, fleeing at the approach of the searchers.

It was as good a scenario as any. They didn’t need Harper to be unduly aware of cats at the scene; they knew that too painfully from past encounters.

Harper, shining his torch across the ground in ever-widening arcs, turned at last, singling out Officer Wendell.

“Call Murdoc Ranch, Wendell. See if the Marner horses have come home. See if they’ve seen Dillon-or if Dillon’s mare is there.” And again he swung his torch up into the black forest, searching for a redheaded little girl whom Max Harper cared for just as he would love his own child. His light swam over the boulder beneath which the cats crouched. But if he saw them at all, they’d be no more than mottled brown leaves and rotted gray branches, their eyes tight closed, Joe’s white markings concealed behind the kit and Dulcie.

And soon, below them, the familiar routine began. Officers emerged from their squad cars on the narrow road a quarter mile below. Detective Ray and Detective Davis hurried up the hill, the two women loaded with cameras and equipment bags, Davis to shoot roll after roll of film of the victims and the surround while Ray made notes and drew a diagram of body positions. Borrowing Bucky, Davis took many pictures from horseback, to gain the higher angle. The cats thought the team would likely work all night, sifting the earth, bagging and labeling minute bits of evidence, making casts of footprints and hoofprints.

Kathleen Ray was young, maybe thirty-five, a small, slim woman with long dark hair and huge green eyes, a woman who looked more like a model for petite swimwear than a cop. Juana Davis was pushing fifty, a stocky, solid woman with short dark hair and brown Latin eyes. Harper stood watching them, going over the scene, the muscles of his jaw tight.

For the first time in many days, the cats felt safe from predators, with the entire Molena Point PD and half the village milling around the hills and forest.

Soon another squad car arrived and four officers double-timed up the hill to organize teams of searchers. Two smaller parties, of skilled climbers, headed up toward the steep mountains.

When Davis had finished photographing, Max Harper laid out for her what he knew of Dillon and the Marners’ activities that afternoon. As the detective taped Harper’s flat, clipped voice, his words stirred a strange fear in Joe Grey.

“Helen and Ruthie met Dillon and me at my place about ten this morning; they rode over from the Murdoc Ranch, where they board their horses. We headed south along the lower trail toward Hellhag Hill. Rode on beyond Hellhag maybe five miles, turned back around eleven, and stopped at Cafe Mundo forlunch. Loosened the saddles, rubbed down our horses and watered them. Had a leisurely meal.”

Cafe Mundo was located just above Valley Road, adjacent to one of the many bridle trails that bisected the Molena Point hills. It was famous for its fine Mexican dishes. The proprietor, having horses himself, liked to cater to the local horsemen, advertising a water trough and plenty of hitching racks. Cafe Mundo was always first to help sponsor overnight trail rides, charity calf roping, and rodeos.

“If Dillon’s not still on horseback,” Harper told Davis, “if she’s fallen, Redwing will come home. I sent Charlie down to see, maybe half an hour ago. She knows the horses, knows how to put Redwing up. They were-Dillon was going to spend the night with Ruthie, going to stable Redwing withthe Marner horses until morning. She…” Harper’s voice missed a beat. “She’s a strong, resourceful little girl.”

He cleared his throat.“When we finished lunch, Helen and Ruthie and Dillon left. That was about one-thirty. They headed up in this direction, were planning on another two hours, up into the foothills and back. Dillon and Ruthie are-were training for an endurance competition.” Harper fidgeted nervously. “Where the hell is the coroner?”

Joe watched him with interest. Harper had only called for the coroner maybe fifteen minutes earlier. It would take Dr. Bern a little while to get up the hills. They’d never seen the captain wound so tight.

But he couldn’t blame Harper. If the captain had remained with the riders, this wouldn’t have happened. Besides Harper’s intimidating presence, even on horseback he would have been armed, very likely carrying the Smith& Wesson.38 automatic in its shoulder holster-if for no other reason than against predators. No one said what kind of predators. Every cop had enemies.

It had been the habit of the foursome, lately, to take an all-day ride on Saturday, as the girls worked on their endurance skills. Charlie Getz had ridden with them until Crystal Ryder came on the scene. Crystal had been too much for Charlie. Too bubbly, too much flirting-too much all over Max Harper. With both Helen Marner and Crystal attempting to take over Harper as private property, the skirmishes had been more than Charlie could endure.

From what Harper had told Clyde, the women’s ongoing battle didn’t thrill him either. He put up with them, to have ample chaperones for Dillon.

Max Harper hadn’t dated since his wife, Millie, died several years earlier. His friendship with Helen had caused some talk in the village. But when Crystal moved to Molena Point and began to pay attention to Harper, there’d been a lot more gossip. Crystal was far more glamorous than Helen, and her persistencewas amazing. She was, in Joe’s opinion, pushy, wore too much makeup, and was always “onstage.” Not Harper’s type of woman.

Joe was no prude. And maybe his view of these matters was different from that of the human male. But he considered sleazy women totally boring-as tiresome as a perfumed Persian decked out in pink claw polish and a rhinestone collar.

Joe enjoyed a roll in the hay as well as the next guy, but he preferred his ladies with sharper claws and more fire.

“Interesting,” Joe said, “that Crystal didn’t ride with the group this afternoon-and that Harper didn’t mention her.”

Dulcie looked at him, wide-eyed.“What are you thinking?”

“Not sure. Just strange.”

“Well, whatever’s on your mind, we need to tell Harper which way that man chased Dillon. The kit said there, to the north.”

“This is one time, Dulcie, the secret snitch is not going to tip the chief. Not with every cop and half the village swarming, and no phones except in the squad cars.”

“But we have to! Dillon could be… You did it before. You called Harper from a squad car while the officers had their backs turned.”

“Not this time,” Joe said, his eyes blazing so fiercely that Dulcie drew back. “Anyway, there’s no need.” They watched Harper swing into the saddle and head Bucky away to the north, shining his torch along the trail, following those racing hoofprints. And soon the silhouette of horse and rider, backlit by the torch, melted into the night.

Dulcie stared after him, praying that Dillon had escaped, that she was out there on the dark hills hiding, and Harper would find her.

Glancing at Joe, she started to follow. But Joe, leaping away beside her, hit her with his shoulders and nipped at her until she slowed.“Don’t, Dulcie. Leave him alone. What could you do? You couldn’t keep up forever-alone in the night, you’re cougar bait. If Dillon’s out there, he’ll find her.”

She sat down in the pine needles, looking at him forlornly.

“Is nothing safe?” she said. “Is no simplest thing people do beyond danger? It was such a harmless pleasure for Dillon, having a horse to ride.”

The two cats looked solemnly at each other, and padded back through the woods to join the sleeping kit; and to watch, below them, as Detective Davis began to lift plaster casts in their little frame boxes, where the creamy liquid had hardened into boot-prints and hoofprints. As Davis worked, the mist blew thicker over the hills, veiling the moon, casting moon-shadows across the coroner’s thin face, where he stood watching the forensics team, making Dr. Bern look paler than ever. Beside Dulcie, the dozing kit woke, yawning a wide pink gape. Joe, angry at the world, it seemed, didn’t wait for her to wake fully; he fixed her with a steady yellow gleam that shocked her right up out of her dreams.

“What were you doing, Kit, all that time after he killed them and you saw him chasing Dillon? Didn’t you know something should be done? That Dillon needed help? Why didn’t you race down to find us?”

“You weren’tthereto find. You were up here on the hills.”

“But you didn’tknowthat,” Joe said impatiently. “Whatwereyou doing?”

“I ran after the man and the girl, I followed them, I didn’tknowwhat to do. Their scent led down the hills, and when I couldn’t see the horses, I could hear them. I ran and ran. So many smells. I wanted to see if she got away, and then I couldn’t smell her anymore and that was near the ruins so I thought she might hide there and I went in to look.”

“Well?”

Dulcie said more gently,“Did you smell Dillon there? In the ruins?”

“So many smells. Foxes and raccoons. A coyote. I could smellhim,and I hurried away under the rubble where he couldn’t come. I smelled all the night hunters. There is water in the cellars. The big hunters come there to drink.”

“We know that,” Joe said impatiently.

“Don’t you remember,” Dulcie said, “we told you not to go there?Did you smell Dillon?”

“I smelled the cougar.”

For a moment, the kit would not look at Dulcie. Then,“I couldn’t smell the little girl in all the other smells. And then I lost the man-smell. But I smelled the lion and I was afraid. I hid,” she said softly. “I hid and I didn’t know what to do.

“Then when I thought he was gone I slipped away and came back here again and looked at the dead bodies, and I was going to go home andtellyou but then I saw you. I saw you, you were here,” she said, crowding against Dulcie.

Dulcie licked the kit’s mottled face. The little black-and-brown patchwork creature with the round yellow eyes was the strangest young cat she’d ever known.

The kit lifted a dark paw to Dulcie, the fur between her claws so long and thick that it made Dulcie smile. The kit, with her furry paws and the long fur sticking out of her ears, resembled too closely some wild feline cousin-wild looks that exactly matched her unruly temperament.

Tenderly, Dulcie washed the kit’s mottled face. “We will search,” she said. “Just as Harper is searching. But where were you, Kit, for three days? Didn’t you think we worried? We looked and looked for you. You could have said, ‘I want a ramble, I need to go off alone.’ You could have told us you were going.”

“Would you have let me go?”

Dulcie only looked at her.

Joe studied the kit, his yellow eyes nearly black, his white paws, white apron, and the white patch down his nose bright in the night.“What is that smell on you, Kit?”

“What smell?”

“Musty. Deep musty earth. I don’t remember a smell like that in the ruins, even in the cellars-notthatkind of smell.”

The kit looked innocently at Joe.

Joe fixed her with a hard gaze.

And Dulcie moved close to the kit, standing tall over her, her own neck bowed like a torn, her tail lashing.“Where,Kit?Wherewere you?”

“I went down,” the kit said softly. “The deep, deep place below the cellars.” And she moved away from them, suddenly preoccupied with patting at the dry leaves.

“Pay attention!” Joe snapped. “What deep place!”

“Down under the ruin,” said the kit, flattening her furry ears and turning her face away.

“Deep down?” Dulcie said softly. “Why, Kit?” But she knew why. The tattercoat kit was keenly drawn to strange, frightening fissures. She was as obsessed with the cellars of the old Pamillon estate, and with the yawning cave-ins that dropped away even beneath the cellars, as she had been with the deep and mysterious caverns that she claimed lay below Hellhag Hill.

“I went down and down.” The kit’s round yellow eyes filled with a wild delight. “Down and down under the cellars. Down and down where my clowder wanted to go. Down and down under water dripping, down long cracks into the earth, down and down until I heard voices, until…”

“You did not,” Joe snapped. “You didn’t hear voices. You didn’t go below any cellar. You’re making it up-inventing silly tales.”

“Deep down,” said the kit. “Down and down and I heard voices.”

“It was echoes,” Joe hissed. “Echoes from water dripping or from sliding stone. You’re lucky to be up in the world again, you silly kitten, and not buried under some earthslide in one of those old cellars.”

The kit looked at Joe Grey. She looked at Dulcie.“Down and down,” she said stubbornly, “to that other place beneath the granite sky.”

And Dulcie, despite herself, despite her better judgment, believed the kit.“What was it like?” she whispered.

“You didn’t go there,” Joe repeated, baring his teeth at the two of them.

“Terrible,” said the kit. “It is terrible. I ran up again, but then I lost my way. I had to go back and start over, I had to follow my own scent.”

Dulcie said softly,“Were the others from your clowder there?”

“I was all alone. I don’t know where they went when they left Hellhag Hill. I don’t like that place, I was afraid. But…”

“Then why did you go?” Joe growled, pacing and glaring at the kit. Half his attention was on her-his anger centered on her-and half his attention on the torchlit scene below them where the coroner and detectives were doing their grisly work.

But Dulcie, pressing against the kit, could feel the kitten’s heart pounding at thoughts of another world-even if it was her imagination-just as Dulcie’s own heart was pounding.

“She’s making up stories,” Joe said, his eyes slitted, his ears flat to his head, his scowl deep and irritable. He didn’t want to think about that other place, if there was such a place. Didn’t want to imagine other worlds, didn’t want to dwell on his and Dulcie’s ancestry. If their dual cat-and-human natures had risen from some strain of beings among the ancient Celts, who had come, then, to this continent, he didn’t care to know more about it.

Joe wanted only tobe.To live only in the moment, fully alive and effective, in this life that he had been dealt.

And Dulcie loved him for that. Joe was his own cat, he felt no need to peer into the lives of his ancestors like some voyeuring genealogist longing for a time before his own.

Joe spoke the human language, he read the morning paper-with a sharply caustic slant on the news. Dulcie considered him smarter than half the humans in the world. But Joe Grey valued what he had here and now, he wanted nothing more. Any additional mysteries about himself would be an unnecessary weight upon his tomcat shoulders.

With tender understanding, Dulcie licked his ear, ignoring her own wild dreams of other worlds and even more amazing talents. And she snuggled the kit close, too, wondering about the skills that this small cat might show them.

She was washing the kit’s splotchy black-and-brown face when they saw Clyde striding up the hill between the swinging spotlights. Immediately Joe and Dulcie ducked, dragging the kit lower behind the boulders.

“Why?” whispered the kit. “Is he not your human, Joe Grey? Why are you hiding from him?”

Joe gave her a slant-eyed look.“He hates finding us at a murder scene. All he does is shout. It’s bad for his blood pressure.” He watched from between the boulders until Clyde turned away again, to where Officer Ray was cataloging the scene. Standing outside the cordoned-off area, Clyde said, “Is Harper out looking for her?”

Kathleen Ray nodded.“The captain, and five search parties.”

“I’ll swing by Harper’s place, see if the mare came home. No word from Charlie? Is she down there?”

“No word. She said she’d be there. The captain asked her to see to the mare.”

Clyde turned, heading down the hill.

“Move it, Kit,” Joe whispered. “Stay close.”

Racing down ahead of Clyde, staying in the heavy grass and dodging torchlight, the three cats covered the quarter mile, scorched between cars parked along the narrow dirt road, and leaped into the seat of Clyde’s antique roadster.

Before Clyde was halfway down the hill, they had slipped up behind the seat and beneath the car’s folded top. Stretching out nose to tail, warm beneath the layers of leather, they were ready to roll.

Clyde wouldn’t have a clue-unless he saw their muddy pawprints. But in the dark, with only the dash lights, he likely wouldn’t see the mud on the seat-not until morning.

The kit, warm and comfortable between them, rumbled with purrs-until Dulcie poked her with a soft paw.“Hush, Kit. Here he comes, he’ll hear you.”

But the kit had fallen sound asleep.

4 [????????: pic_5.jpg]

A WEEK BEFORE Ruthie and Helen Marner were killed, a hundred miles north in San Francisco, someone else was considering the Pamillon estate, thinking of the overgrown grounds exactly as Dillon Thurwell might have done, as a place to hide, to escape a killer.

To Kate Osborne, an invitation to view the Pamillon mansion was a welcome excuse to get out of the city and away from the danger that, perhaps, she only imagined.

Whatever the truth, the stories in the papers had fired her fear until she couldn’t sleep at night, until she had put a bolt on the inside of both the front and the bedroom doors, until she was afraid to walk, except in the middle of the day, or even to take the bus or cable car. She was losing all sense of proportion, and that terrified her.

She had vowed, before ever she fled the city, to make herself visit the Cat Museum, to lay to rest that part of her fears. She would not leave until she had made that short trip up Russian Hill.

Last year, when she’d moved up from Molena Point to the North Beach apartment, she’d been eager to see the museum.

Pictures of the gallery had so intrigued her, the lovely Mediterranean buildings tucked among their sprawling gardens, beneath the old, magnificent oaks. She’d been so eager to study the museum’s amazing collection of cat paintings and cat sculpture. How strange that she’d lived in the city when she was younger and had known about the museum, but had never bothered to go there.

Well, she hadn’t known, then, all the facts about herself. Anyway, she’d been so busy with art school. Her museum visits, then, had been school related, to the San Francisco Museum and the de Young.

Yet the art collection at the Cat Museum included work by Gauguin, Dubuffet, Picasso-fine pieces, housed in that lovely complex at the top of Russian Hill.

It was only now, after going through a divorce and returning to the city-and after learning the shocking truth about herself-that she had a really urgent reason to visit there. Yet she’d procrastinated for over a year, unable to find the courage, unable to face any more secrets. Each time she’d tried to make that short journey, she’d become all nerves, and turned back.

So they keep real cats, too. Of course they do. Everyone says those lovely cats wandering the gardens add a delightful charm to the famous collection.

Well, but whatkindof cats?

That doesn’t matter. No one will guess the truth-not even the cats themselves. And what if they did? What do you think they’d do? Come on, Kate. You’re such a coward. Can’t you get on with it?

And on Saturday morning she woke knowing she would do it. Now. Today. Put down her fear. No more hedging. The morning was beautifully foggy, the way she loved the city, the wet mist swirling outside her second-floor windows, the muffled sounds of the city calling to her like a secret benediction. Quickly she showered and dressed, letting herself think only of the perfect morning and the beauty of the museum, nothing more. Debating whether to have breakfast at the kitchen table, enjoying her view of the fogbound city, or go on to her favorite warm, cozy coffee shop two blocks up Stockton and treat herself to their delicious Swedish pancakes and espresso and homemade sausage.

Hardly a choice. Pulling on her tan windbreaker over jeans and a sweatshirt, fixing the jacket’s hood over her short, pale hair, she hurried down the one flight and into the damp breeze that had begun to swirl the fog. Only once, striding along Stockton, did her thoughts skitter warily again, forcing her to take herself in hand.

Slipping in through the glass door of the Iron Pony, she settled in her favorite booth, where she could look out at Coit Tower, fog-shrouded and lonely.

From the kitchen, Ramon saw her, and brought her a cup of freshly brewed espresso, greeting her in Spanish and laughing. She returned his”Buenos dias. Como esta?”laughing in return. Ramon’s English was impeccable, but, he’d told her solemnly, he spoke only Spanish when a patron angered him. He’d told her he had a violent temper, that he found it imperative sometimes to hide a sudden anger behind the barrier of language to avoid calling some customer names that would get him, Ramon, fired. If he pretended not to understand the insults, he need not confront them.

A strange young man. Maybe twenty-five years old. Very quiet. And except when he’d been insulted, which she’d never witnessed, a content young man, she thought, seeming totally pleased with the world. Maybe he shifted as quickly as a cat from cool satisfaction to raking claws.

Did she have to drag in the simile of a cat? She sipped her espresso crossly. Couldn’t she think of some other description?

She had the notion that Ramon’s alabaster-pale skin offered a clue to the quick temper he described, that such bloodless-looking skin and slight build were signs of a person capable of deep rage. She had no notion where she’d gotten such an idea. Of course it was silly. Ramon’s obsidian hair and black Latin eyes simply made him look paler-as did the birthmark that splotched his left cheek, the rust-colored deformity spreading from his eye to the corner of his mouth as dark as dried blood, in the shape of the map of India.

She had never dared ask him, in the months she’d been coming here, if it was indeed a birthmark or was perhaps a burn scar-though the skin looked smooth.

She enjoyed chatting with Ramon; she didn’t have many friends in San Francisco except her boss, Hanni, and Hanni’s uncle, Dallas Garza, a detective with San Francisco PD. She hadn’t tried hard to make other friends, because of her situation. She felt uneasy with other people-as if they might be able to tell what she really was. Her casual acquaintance with Ramon allowed her to walk out of the coffee shop and that was the end of it, no social obligation, no secrets shared, nothing more expected.

“The pancakes and sausage as usual, senora?”

“Yes, and orange juice if you please, Ramon, it’s such a beautiful morning.”

He seemed to understand that a beautiful morning called for orange juice.“The fog is going quickly-like a watercolor washing away. Look how the sun makes jewels.”

Together they watched diamonds of dazzle spark at them from the sidewalk where the sun sliced down through the vanishing fog. Ramon had a good eye; he was a student at the art institute where she herself had gone ten years before. It was so good to be back in San Francisco. Nowhere in the world, she thought, were the subtle city colors as splendid as on these hills. When soon the sun rose, every hill, with its crowding houses, would be alive with swift-running cloud shadows, the whole world seeming to shift and move. The city stirred such a fierce joy in her, made her want to race through the streets, turning flips and laughing.

Ramon brought her breakfast and the morningChronicle,frowning at the story that slashed across the bottom of the front page. The lead and first details were so gruesome that all the fear rose in her again, sour as bile. Why had he brought this paper to her? She wanted to wad it up and run out of the cafe.

“This terrible thing,” Ramon said, setting the paper down beside her plate. “How can this be, that a man could do such a bloody deed? For why would a man do this?”

She did not look up at him. She thought she was going to be sick. She imagined far too vividly the poor dead cat hanging limp and twisted from a lamp pole, its throat constricted by a cord tied in a hangman’s noose.

“That man should be hanged,” Ramon said.“Muerto. Debe murir.”

She looked up at him, and swallowed. Ramon wanted only to share with her his rage, share with another his own indignation.

For the last week, all over the city someone had been killing cats, hanging the poor beasts by a twisted noose, choking out their gentle, terrified lives. There had been nineteen incidents, in Haight, Nob Hill, Russian Hill, North Beach, the Presidio. Shoving her plate away, she felt her hands clench and stiffen with what she would like to do to the cat killer.

She did not want to read the accompanying article; she hated that Ramon had brought this ugly thing for her to see. She was about to toss the paper away when she saw the upper headline.

DEATH ROW ESCAPEES STILL AT LARGE

SACRAMENTO-Ronnie Cush, James Hartner and Lee Wark, the three death row inmates who broke out of San Quentin ten days ago, are still at large. None has been apprehended. This is the first escape from the maximum detention wing in the history of the prison.

The breakout occurred when prisoners overpowered a guard. All staff in that section have been replaced. Prison officials believe that Hartner may have sought family in Seattle. There is no clue to where Ronnie Cush might be headed. Lee Wark may have returned to San Francisco, where he had numerous contacts. Any witness to the escapees’ whereabouts will be kept in strictest confidence by police and prison authorities.

Kate looked helplessly at her breakfast. She wanted to pitch the plate away. Ramon still stood watching her, so intent she wanted to scream. Why was he staring? As she looked up angrily, he turned quickly back to the kitchen.

But he couldn’t understand how upset she would be, how the articles would terrify her. He could have no concept of how powerfully the cat story would hurt her. And no idea, of course, that the prison break was, for her, perhaps even more alarming.

She was ice cold inside. She felt absolutely certain that Lee Wark had returned-to the very city where she had come to hide from him.

Ramon returned with the coffeepot and stood beside her table, speaking softly.

“Dark the cat walks,” Ramon said, watching her. She looked up at him, startled. “Dark the cat walks, his pacing shadow small.” Ramon’s Latin eyes gleamed. “Dark the cat walks. His shadow explodes tall. Fearsome wide and tall.”

The shock of his words turned her rigid. Before she could speak, abruptly Ramon left her.

She sat very still, trying to collect her emotions. Her hands were shaking.

Why had he said that? What could he mean?

Dropping the paper on the floor, she threw down some money and hurried out to the street, wanted out of there, wanted out of the city.

What was Ramon telling me?Then,Wark can’t know I’m here.

Can’t he, Kate? Remember, before, how easily he discovered your secret?

If it is Wark who’s killing cats,she thought, shivering,Ramon’s right. He ought to bemuerto. Debe murir.

Hurrying back to her apartment, she locked herself in, sliding the new dead bolt on the front door, checking the window locks. She made some cocoa and curled up with a book, a tame, quiet read that wouldn’t upset her, couldn’t stir any sense of threat-a soothing story that offered nothing to abrade her raw nerves.

She couldn’t stop thinking about Wark.

Wasn’t the Cat Museum the first place the cat killer would go?

Had he already been there, stalking the grounds? Did the museum staff not know? Orhadmuseum cats been killed, and the museum had kept that out of the papers?

Had some of the poor, dead cats that were found around the city come in fact from the Cat Museum?

What kind of cats, Kate? What kind of cats is he killing?

Was Wark saving the Cat Museum for last? Last and best, in Wark’s sick mind-before the cops got too close and he had to flee?

Was she imagining all this-the connection between Wark and this maniac?

She didn’t think so. A sick, sadistic killer was loose in San Francisco. Lee Wark reveled in that brand of cruelty. Lee Wark had escaped from prison only thirty miles north of the city.

Coincidence? She had the terrible feeling that if she were to visit the Cat Museum, no matter when she went there, Lee Wark would be stalking those gardens.

5 [????????: pic_6.jpg]

AS CHARLIEGETZ turned her van up the quarter-mile lane that led to Max Harper’s small ranch, the yellow light of the security lamps was mighty welcome. The dark roads were behind her, where perhaps a killer lurked, the hills pitch black, the sky black and starless.

Heading the van down the lighted fence line toward the white frame house and stable, she prayed for the safety of the Marners and Dillon as she’d been praying all night.

The idea of three riders missing was so bizarre-the implication of a child missing made bile come in her throat. Heading eagerly for the stable yard, she knew she was driving too fast.

Slowing the old van, she studied the dark pools of night beneath the overhanging oaks, looking for the mare. She could see, up on the hills behind the ranch, flashes of torchlight jiggling and careening, and could see lights higher up the foothills, disappearing into the pine forest. Parking before the house, she cut the engine and headlights and sat listening to the far, faint shouts of the searchers.

After the wash of light up the lane, the yard was too dark. Harper didn’t like lights glaring in his windows; his yard lights were operable from remotes in his car and truck, and from inside the house and stable.

Now, in the tangle of black shapes around her, nothing shifted or moved.

She’d never been afraid at night, not in Molena Point, not when she’d lived in San Francisco. Tonight her fear made her weak.

Slipping out of the van, she switched on her torch and started across the yard toward the stable, swinging her beam wide, causing the shadows to run and dance-probably only tree trunks, maybe a wheelbarrow.

Then, beneath a far oak, a shadow shifted and turned.

She aimed her light toward it like a gun-wished it was a gun.

Her beam caught the whites of frightened eyes, the line of the mare’s head and pricked ears. Redwing stood pressed against the fence, her eyes wide with fear.

Gently Charlie approached her, aiming her torch away. The mare stood stiffly, holding one leg up. The reins were broken, trailing in the dirt. Harper’s nice Stubben saddle hung down Redwing’s side, the stirrup dragging, the girth loose where a buckle had broken. When she reached for Redwing, the mare threw her head and snorted, rearing to wheel away. Charlie grabbed the broken rein, moving with her, letting her plunge, then easing into her.Laying her hand on the mare’s neck, she felt Redwing trembling. At the same instant, loud barking erupted from the barn where the two big half-Dane dogs had been shut in their box stall for the night. The sound of their voices eased Charlie-as if their bellowing would drive away danger. And the furor seemed to calm Redwing, too. The mare knew the dogs, she played with them in the pasture; she seemed easier at their familiar presence.

Removing the saddle, placing it on the fence rail, she led the mare out to see if she could walk.

The mare limped badly.

Leading Redwing to the barn, Charlie flipped on the lights, found a halter, and carefully removed the bridle, touching it as little as possible. Maybe that was silly, but if someone had grabbed the reins and pulled Dillon off, there could be fingerprints.

Harper would laugh at her. Maybe she read too many detective stories. Hanging the bridle on its hook, she put the mare in the cross-ties and went out to the yard to fetch the saddle, supporting it by two fingers under the pad.

Maybe, when the saddle slipped, Dillon had fallen; maybe she was lying, hurt, up on the dark hills, confused or unconscious.

But why would she be alone, without Helen and Ruthie?

Ignoring the whining dogs, she wiped down the mare, cleaned her skinned knee, and daubed on some salve. Putting her in her stall, she fetched a flake of hay for her and filled her water bucket. The dogs continued to bark and to scrabble at their stall door. Too bad the year-old pups weren’t trained to track; they could be of use tonight. But those two mutts, as much as she loved them, would only get in the way.

When she had the mare bedded, she removed one of the two leashes hanging from the nail beside the dogs’ stall and, by opening their door only a crack, managed with a lot of shouting and strong-arming and ignored commands, to let Hestig out and leave Selig confined.

Leashing Hestig, she tied him to a ring at the side of the stable alleyway. He stood whining, watching her soulfully. She felt easier with the big pup near. The Great Dane part of him gave him a voice like a train horn, and he had the size and presence to intimidate any stranger.

She and Clyde together had started training the two strays in obedience, but it was slow going. Dog training wasn’t Clyde’s talent. The pups had ended up at Harper’s, and she and Max had been working with them in the evenings, taking advantage of the wide, flat acreage to teach them the basic commands. They were learning. But tonight, with the unusual routine, and having listened to the shouting from the hills, they were too excited to pay much attention.

She remained still a moment, stroking Hestig. In the long, quiet evenings, she hadn’t meant for her relationship with Max Harper to turn personal, hadn’t meant to become so attracted to him-and the trouble was, ithadn’tturned personal. She didn’t think Max felt anything for her but friendship.

Harper was Clyde’s best friend. It wouldn’t be like him to hurt Clyde. And he was a cop, his feelings all buttoned up and in control-or at least hidden, she thought wryly.

Except, what about Crystal Ryder?

That one had thrown herself at the captain and gotten a response. But then, the woman was gorgeous, with that tawny blond hair and big brown doe eyes and deep dimples and a figure that, to quote Clyde, was stacked like a brick outhouse. How could Max resist?

While she, Charlie, was just a skinny, gawky redhead with no sex appeal and more freckles than brains.

Crystal Ryder was the first woman Max had looked at since his wife died.

How can I be thinking about such inanities, about my personal problems, when Dillon’s lost and hurt?

Shutting the mare’s stall door, she unsnapped Hestig’s leash from the wall and, with the pup at heel, she circled the stable yard, shining her light deep beneath the trees and up into the hay shed, keeping an eye on the lane, hoping to see a squad car turning in.

But the dirt drive remained empty-empty and lonely. And the winding road beyond the lights was unrelieved in its dense and endless blackness. Feeling vulnerable, she pulled Hestig close to her, and headed for the darkened house.

Using the key Max had given her this evening, and pushing open the back door, she felt Hestig cower against her, so her heart did a double skip.

Quietly she told him to watch. To his credit, the big honey-colored dog came to attention with a surprised growl. Laying her hand on his shoulder, she reached inside and flipped the switch, illuminating the big country kitchen.

No one was there, no one standing against the oak cabinets or lurking beneath the table. Beyond the two inner doorways, the dining room and hall were dense with shadow. She stepped inside, keeping Hestig close, reached for the phone on the kitchen table, and dialed Harper’s cell phone.

“Yes?” he said softly.

“I’m in your kitchen. Redwing came home. No sign of Dillon.”

“We haven’t found her.”

“The mare slipped her saddle, it was hanging down, a girth buckle broken, the reins broken.”

“Does it look like the mare fell?”

“She’s lame on her left front knee. An abrasion, blood and dirt. Yes, like she stumbled. I doctored it. You haven’t found Helen and Ruthie either?”

“We found Ruthie and Helen.” Max’s voice was flat. “They’re dead, Charlie.”

“Dead?” Her breath caught. “How? What happened? Where is Dillon?”

“Someone was up there in the hills. Someone met them on the trail. Their throats were cut. We haven’t found Dillon,” he repeated.

Every drop of strength had drained away. She sat down at the table, pulling Hestig close.

“Both Ruthie and Helen were slashed across the throat,” Harper said, as if perhaps she hadn’t heard, or understood. Hadn’t wanted to hear.

She stared into the shadows of the hall, holding the dog close, filled with the sickening picture of the mother and that lovely young woman lying up there on the dark hills alone.

“Dillon,” she said again. “Where is Dillon? The mare… The mare came home alone.”

“I told you, Charlie. We haven’t found her. Did you unsaddle the mare?”

“Yes, of course.”

“How much did you handle the tack?”

“I… As little as possible.”

“Why, Charlie? How did you know I’d want prints?”

“I just-with three riders missing, I just-thought it might be wise. I don’t know. Just seemed a good idea. Where-where are you?”

“In the hills north of you. I’ll send an officer down. Are you alone?”

“I have Hestig with me.”

“Be wary. Stay in the kitchen. Squad car will be there pronto.”

She hung up, staring at the two dark doorways, wondering if the killer hadbroughtRedwing home-maybe ridden her home-then come into the house.

But why would he do that? After he killed Helen and Ruthie, he’d surely run, try to get away. Shivering, she looked more carefully around the kitchen.

Nothing seemed out of place, not even a dirty dish in the sink. Max kept his house, and even the feed room and tackroom, in the same orderly manner in which he ran the police station, every piece of equipment clean and ready, in its place where it could be quickly found.

She knew Max’s house; she knew where he kept his gun-cleaning equipment, and where a.38 Chief’s Special was cushioned beneath the shoe rack in his closet.

But she would have to go down the dark hall to reach the closet, passing the dark bathroom and bedrooms. She remained at the table, stroking Hestig, feeling cowardly and anxious, waiting for the squad car.

The kitchen still showed a woman’s warmth, Millie’s cookbooks still on the shelf above her little desk, her dried flowers in a vase, the flowered chair cushions. Millie had been a cop, and a good one. But she’d liked having a cozy home. All this, the flowers, the little pretty touches, he had kept, legacy from a cherished and cherishing wife. Millie had been dead for nearly two years before Charlie ever knew Max, before Charlie ever moved to Molena Point.

These last weeks, as she and Max worked with the pups, Max had told her more than he realized about Millie. He’d told her a lot about Clyde, too, as he recalled their high school days, their summers riding bulls on the rodeo circuit. And Harper had told her a lot about himself and the way he looked at life. She hadn’t known he could be so talkative.

And all the evenings she had spent up here, with the excuse of training the pups, she’d kept turning down dinner with Clyde, turning down dates, a simple movie, a walk on the beach.

Shehadgone with Clyde to the jazz concert, though she wanted to be up here with Max. And she’d agreed to see the outdoor theater’s production ofA Midsummer Night’s Dream,but only to ease her conscience-then had sat on the hard bench during the performance, thinking about Max.

She was such a fool.

And how could she think about all this tonight?

But she couldn’t think steadily about what had happened to the Marners. About what could be happening to Dillon. She was terrified to think about Dillon. Staring at the black windows, she realized that Dillon could be here on the ranch, could have slipped from the saddle out there beyond the lights.

She rose, nearly toppling her chair, snatching up the torch. Commanding Hestig to heel in a voice that brought him lurching to her side, she headed out to the yard, was sweeping her meager torchlight between the oaks, jumpy at every imagined sound, when headlights came down the road and turned onto the lane.

It was not the squad car she’s expected, but Clyde’s roadster, flashing down the lane butter-yellow, stirring in her a picture of the night Clyde had escorted her to the opening of her first art exhibit-not a one-man show, but her work prominently featured among that of five local artists. What a lovely evening, and how caring Clyde had been, dressing up for her, polishing the antique car until it gleamed, timing their arrival to pull up grandly before a crowded gallery, handing her out as if she were a movie star.

Behind Clyde’s bright antique convertible, a black-and-white turned in from the road. Clyde was coming up the steps as it parked. The instant she released Hestig, the big pup rushed at Clyde, leaping and whining. Officer Wendell got out of his unit and stood in the yard, asking if she was all right, then went in to search the house. Wendell seemed even more rigid than usual, less friendly. He was always a quiet man. Thin and sour, not a lot of laughs. Maybe the murder had sickened him-or maybe just a sour mood. Wendell had taken a severe demotion recently, after getting into some kind of trouble over awoman. Charlie didn’t know what had happened. She knew that Max wasn’t easy on his men.

Clyde put his arm around her and drew her into the house.“Any coffee?” He looked tired. His dark hair stood in peaks, his T-shirt hung limp with sweat. His voice was hoarse the way it got when he was upset or out of sorts.

She poured the last of Harper’s breakfast coffee into a mug and stuck it in the microwave. “Redwing came home.” She pointed out toward the fence where she’d found the mare huddled. She’d never thought of a horse being huddled, but Redwing had been.

Another squad car arrived. Detective Davis and Lieutenant Brennan got out. Both had cameras. Usually, Davis did the photography. Davis waved her out, nodding toward the stable, her short, dark hair catching the light.

As Charlie hurried out, Lieutenant Brennan began to photograph the stable yard, his strobe light picking out every ripple in the soft earth, every hoofprint. Charlie showed him where she had led the mare to the stable and then crossed from the stable beside the pup. Brennan nodded curtly. She guessed murder of a woman and young girl was not business as usual to these officers.

She hadn’t known the Marners well. Helen was divorced; she and her daughter had been in the village maybe a year, having moved up from LA about the same time that Charlie herself moved down from San Francisco to stay with her aunt Wilma.

Stepping into the stable alleyway, she pointed out to Juana Davis which saddle and bridle belonged to the mare, answered Davis’s questions about where she’d found the mare and in what condition, where she had moved within the stable, how she had handled the tack. Her footprints showed clearly where she had crossed the alleyway from the mare’s stall to the feed room and to the dogs’ stall.

“Nice stable,” Davis said. “You spend much time here?”

“Yes, since we started training the pups. Not before that.” She didn’t let her expression change, would not let herself bristle or take offense.

But cops could be like that. Blunt and nosy.

The stablewascozy-two rows of four box stalls running parallel, separated by a covered alleyway, and with a sliding door at each end. It had originally been a two-stall barn, which Harper had enlarged.

When Davis, making careful notes, had all the information she needed from Charlie, Charlie headed back to the house. She could see in through the bay window; Clyde was standing at the sink, filling the coffeepot. She paused a moment in the yard to watch him-his dark, rumpled hair, his sweaty T-shirt across his heavy shoulders, his jaw set into lines of anger and resolve. She could imagine him up on the mountain searching for the riders, then looking at the torn bodies, and suddenly she wanted to hold him, to ease his distress and her own. Suddenly she felt a great tenderness for Clyde. Quietly she went in, shutting the screen door behind her.

6 [????????: pic_7.jpg]

ONEINSTANTthe kit was there beside Joe and Dulcie, under the folded convertible top, and the next minute she was gone, vanished in the night. The minute Clyde parked in the stable yard, the three cats had leaped out and slipped beneath the car-except that then the kit wasn’t with them.

“Why does she do that?” Dulcie hissed. “She has to be exhausted, wandering the hills for three days. Has to be hungry-but now she’s off again, with cars and riders everywhere. She makes me crazy. What possesses her?”

“She won’t be found if she doesn’t want to be. Let her go, Dulcie.”

“I haven’t any choice,” she said crossly. But Joe was right. Looking for the kit, in the black night, would be like trying to catch a hummingbird in a cyclone.

They watched from beneath the car as Lieutenant Brennan photographed the yard. They watched Charlie cross from the house to the stable behind Detective Davis, and return some ten minutes later. They could see, in through the bay window, part of the kitchen where Clyde stood doing something at the sink, and soon they could smell coffee brewing, a cozy aroma filling them with visions of home and hearth fires. They remained under the Chevy roadster for perhaps an hour watching Brennan at work, watching Charlie and Clyde sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee. When they heard a horse coming down the lane, they slipped out to see Captain Harper, on a very tired Bucky, the gelding eating up the road with his distinctive running walk, even though his head hung. Dismounting in the yard, Harper paused for a moment to speak with Brennan.

“The Eagle Scouts and several more riding groups will be out at first light. Three groups of hikers will work along the sea cliffs, and we have kayakers out. A Civil Air Patrol unit is standing by to make a series of passes over the hills and take photographs. Not much chance she’ll be seen from the air, but with telephoto lenses and observation with binoculars, they might turn up something.”

As Harper moved away, leading Bucky to the stable, Joe and Dulcie slipped through the shadows into the alleyway behind him, and into the feed room, to vanish among the bins of grain. They could see through to the stable yard. Beside the fence, Detective Kathleen Ray knelt beneath powerful lights, sifting sand where the mare had stood, looking for any small bits of evidence, a lost button, even a few threads from the killer’s clothes.

In the alleyway, they watched Detective Davis dust the mare’s bridle and saddle and broken girth for prints. When Harper loosened Bucky’s cinch and eased the saddle off, the gelding sighed deeply. Gently Harper sponged Bucky and rubbed him down, his brown eyes distant and hard, the lines of his thin face etched deep. The cats could guess what he was thinking-that Dillon’s disappearance was his fault, that it was his fault Dillon had ever begun to ride.

Dillon’s mother had never let her have riding lessons, until Max Harper said he’d teach her, until Harper took a liking to the child and said she could ride Redwing. The Thurwells had thought Dillon would be safe with the chief of police-and Harperhadtaken good care of her. Harper had told Clyde oncethat Dillon was the spunkiest little girl he knew. Told Clyde that if he and Redwing could help get Dillon through her teen years without mishap, that was all he asked.

Harper was cleaning Bucky’s feet, lifting Bucky’s left front hoof, when he paused, frowning.

“Davis, give me more light. Shine your torch here.”

The gelding stood patiently, resting his left front hoof in Harper’s hand, leaning his head on Harper’s shoulder. Harper looked up at Davis. “We’ll need shots of this.”

“Looks like a stone cut, right across the metal.” She adjusted her camera. Her lights flashed and flashed again, taking half a dozen shots.

Setting Bucky’s foot down, Harper shone his torch along the line of Bucky’s hoofprints leading out into the yard. “Same prints as at the scene.” His face was set like a rock. “Photograph them, Juana. Every few feet, back down the alleyway, across the yard, up the lane. Pick out individual trails of prints, going and coming. Get them going down the road, where I left this afternoon, and coming back, as far as you can see them.”

Davis knelt, looking.“Exact same scar. I got plenty of shots at the scene.”

“Shots where I rode?”

“Shots where Bucky never set foot.” Rising, she began the tedious, close-up photographing, while Harper put Bucky in his stall, fed and watered him, and headed for the house, avoiding the lines of hoofprints.

Two shadows followed him, flashing across the porch into the darkness beneath a metal chair, Joe’s eyes blazing with anger.

Moving inside, Harper picked up the phone, dialing quickly.

“Turrey, you awake?” Through the screen door, his voice was clear and decisive. He listened, and laughed. “I know it’s not light yet. I need you now. Get a cup of coffee and get over here. We need to pull Bucky’s shoes to be entered as evidence, and reshoe him. No, I can’t pull his shoes. They’re evidence. I need someone not connected. I have to tell you, Turrey, somewhere down the line you’ll likely have to testify in court.”

Turrey must have reacted sharply to that announcement. The cats could hear the faint, sharp crackle of his voice at the other end of the line, and Harper smiled.

“That’s all right, the judge doesn’t care if you’re not a professional speaker.”

“I don’t understand,” Dulcie whispered. “Those big heavy hoofprints at the scene, they did have a scar. But they weren’t Bucky’s. They were there before Harper arrived.”

But Joe was watching the threesome in the kitchen. Clyde and Harper sat at the table, where Harper was opening a cold can of beans and a box of crackers. Outside, Detective Ray had stopped sifting sand, retrieved a box from her car, and came carrying it into the kitchen.“Here are the Polaroid shots, Captain. And the first plaster casts.”

Harper wolfed down cold beans and crackers as he studied the casts and the photos.

“Same scar, deep in the outside curve.”

Kathleen Ray looked hard at the captain.“That one, Captain, is from Bucky. This one, with the leaf at the edge of the cast? That was underneath the bodies. Underneath. Helen Marner’s shoulder. The casts are of the same horseshoe. Or one is a good copy.”

Harper just looked at her.

“And this shot was made way up the hill, in a place you didn’t go. I know where you rode. You didn’t go up there, didn’t go near that part of the hill.”

“Appears to be Bucky’s shoe,” Harper said tiredly. Joe and Dulcie looked at each other. Charlie, standing at the stove, scrambling eggs and cooking bacon, was white faced and grim, her freckles as dark as paint splatters. Harper looked up at her. “Charlie, I don’t have time to eat.”

She stared at the cold beans and crackers.“You are eating. I bet you haven’t had a hot meal since yesterday.”

Harper nodded to Detective Ray.“Turn your tape recorder on, Kathleen. You can take my statement.”

Charlie turned away. Clyde looked at Harper a long time, his eyes filled with helplessness. He looked around him once as if half expecting help to materialize from the woodwork; then he rose and left the house, passing within three feet of Joe and Dulcie. He was too preoccupied to see them.

The two cats, sitting in the shadows beneath the porch chair and peering in through the screen door, listened to Harper recount his movements of the previous afternoon, giving Detective Ray place and time for every smallest action, laying it out in far more detail than he had for Detective Davis-as if Harper were the suspect. And as the facts and Harper’s vulnerability were revealed, the cats’ fears deepened into a raw, claw-tingling indignation. Joe Grey sat glowering, working himself into a deep rage.

Any pleasure he had ever taken in teasing the police captain vanished now. Any smug tricks and sly innuendos, as Joe secretly collected and passed on information, were forgotten. At this moment, Joe’s admiration for Max Harper ruled him.

Someone, some lowlife, was out to get Max Harper, to ruin him big time.

Harper, with no witness to his movements during the time of the murder, would have only his uncorroborated statements, as told to the two detectives. As the cats crouched listening, deeply alarmed, above them the sky began to pale and the dawn wind to stir sharper; and up the hills, the lights of the searchers moved ever higher into the wild, rocky forest.

And farther north, at the edge of the forest within the Pamillon estate, the cougar prowled, stepping soundlessly on thick pads among the fallen walls of the mansion, the big male seeming, in the first gray haze of dawn, no more than a shifting shadow. He was a powerful beast, sauntering casually across the rubble as if he owned this land. In his own wild way, he did own it-had made it part of his territory.

The front walls of the big Victorian mansion had fallen away, leaving the first and second floors open like a two-story stage set on which the king of beasts was, at this moment, the only player.

Pausing at the threshold to the open parlor, he scented out keenly, his ears sharply forward, his eyes narrowed and intent. Softly panting, he lifted his gaze up past the broken stair to the second-floor nursery, where something drew his attention.

Moving silently into the parlor, he prowled among the rotting, vine-covered furniture, his yellow eyes fixed on the ragged edge of the floor above. He crouched.

In one liquid and powerful leap he gained the broken ceiling and stood in the upstairs nursery.

Moving without sound among the remnants of chests and beds, he sniffed at the fallen bricks beside the fireplace. He licked the leg of a rocking chair, tasting blood.

He pawed, for some moments, at the bloody debris around the chair, then dug beside the fireplace at a pile of broken timbers. Something was there,hadbeen there, something had bled there.

But the sharp stink of wet ashes within the fireplace warped all lesser scents. The smell stung his nose, made him grimace. He could scent nothing alive now, nothing edible. He dug again at the timbers, stopping when he raked his paw on a nail and his own blood flowed. Snarling, he backed away.

Padding to the edge of the broken floor, he looked back once, then dropped down again to the parlor, his movements as smooth as water flowing, and sauntered away into the garden. He was, in the rising dawn, the color of spun honey.

Deep beneath the timbers, the kit listened to the cougar depart. Her little body was iced with terror. From the moment the big beast gained the nursery and began to paw and dig, she had been frozen with fear. Even concealed inside the woodbox, beneath the fallen wall, she was petrified. Why had she come here? Why had she left the safety of the ranch yard to go adventuring on such a night?

The lid of the box did not close fully. Crouching in the black interior, she had seen the cougar looking in. She had prayed so hard she thought her heart would stop, prayed that her black and brown coat was invisible. That the stink of ashes would conceal her scent. They were old, wet ashes, packed deep.

The kit did not know or care that the fires of the nursery hearth, laid down forty years before, had, over generations, been augmented by the fires of hoboes and then of occasional flower children, then of the present-day homeless wandering the Molena Point foothills, seeking shelter on cold nights. But indeed, the accumulated charcoal and lime, sour water and rot and mildew hid many scents from the lion.

The kit cared about none of that. She cared only that she was still alive and uneaten. But when, warily, she slipped out and padded across the nursery to hide herself at its edge, looking down, she forgot even her debilitating fear.

He was down there.

The kit, standing on the edge of the broken floor, peered shyly over, watching the golden king.

The cougar, out in the air again, forgot the elusive and confusing scents from the nursery and centered on the fresh trail of a doe, looking up the hill searching for any faintest movement, for the twitch of an ear, the gleam of dark eyes.

He was the color of the sunstruck desert. He was thirteen feet long from tail tip to nose, weighed a hundred and thirty pounds, and was still growing. Forced from the territory of his mother, the young male had come to claim a home range with water and sufficient game.

The Pamillon estate had water trapped in the old cellars, and there were plenty of deer and raccoons, and now, today, that strange, tantalizing whiff of human blood that he had earlier followed. And the vanishing scent of some small feline cousin, lost too quickly in the ashes.

But deer were his natural food, his game of choice. Moving uphill, away from the fallen walls, he padded along the well-used trail, stalking the doe, forgetting the small cat that stood above, so raptly watching him.

The sight of the lion made her shiver clear down to her soft little middle. Shiver with fear. Shiver with wonder, and envy. He was huge. He was magnificent. He was master of all the cat world. She had never dreamed of such a sight, so filled with powerful, arrogant grace. If she had any more lives yet to live, the kit thought, next time she would be a cougar. She would be lithe. Sleek. A golden lioness, amber bright She was so overwhelmed by the wonders the lion stirred in her that it took a long time to remember that behind her in the nursery she had smelled the blood of a human child. It took her more time still to decide what to do about that.

7 [????????: pic_8.jpg]

FROM HARPER’S KITCHEN,the smell of coffee drifted out across the porch as the cats watched through the screen, Joe Grey fidgeting irritably, rocking from paw to paw, his ears back, every wary alarm in his feline body clanging, as he listened to Max Harper, at the kitchen table, giving his formal statement to Detective Ray.

Harper’s long, Levi’s-clad legs were stretched out, his thin, lined face was expressionless, his brown eyes shielded in that way he had-a cop’s closed face-so you could read nothing of what he was thinking.

From the time he had left the Marners and Dillon at the restaurant, until he arrived at the station three and a half hours later, an hour after he was due to go on watch, he had been in contact with no one. As far as Harper knew, no one had seen him.

“I left Cafe Mundo at about one twenty-five, maybe five minutes after Dillon and the Marners. I rode home along Coyote Trail, around the foot of the hills. That’s the shortest way. The Marners and Dillon headed north up that steep bridle trail behind the Blackwell Ranch.”

“And Crystal wasn’t with you?”

“No, the horse she was leasing was to be shod today. I got home about two, unsaddled Bucky and cooled him off, sponged him and rubbed him down. Cleaned his tack and did some stable chores. Fed him, gave the dogs a run, and fed them. I had just come in the house to shower and change when the phonerang.

“It sounded like a woman. I couldn’t be sure. Husky voice, like someone who has a cold. She wouldn’t give her name. Said she thought I’d be interested in Stubby Baker because I was the one responsible for his going to prison. Kathleen, do you remember Baker?”

Officer Ray looked up at him.“Paroled out of San Quentin about three months ago. Mile-long list of scams.”

Harper nodded.“She said Baker had come back to Molena Point to work a land scam involving the old Pamillon place. Said there was a problem with the title, one of those involved family things, and that Baker thought he could manipulate the records. Work through a fake title company, pretend to sell the land, and skip with the money. She said he had fake escrow seals, fake documents. Said he was working with someone from Santa Barbara, that the buyers were a group of older people down there, professionals wanting to start their own retirement complex.

“I’d seen Baker up around the Pamillon place, I’d ridden up there several times because of those cougar reports. And I knew Baker had been nosing around in the Department of Records. That, with her story, made me want to check him out.

“Baker’s staying in a studio apartment over on Santa Fe. The informant said he was scheduled to meet with his partner at four that afternoon, at Baker’s place. That they were getting ready to make the transaction. That the buyers were going to put a lot of money up front, that they had complete faith in Baker.

“The last scam he pulled here in Molena Point was so shoddy I can’t envision anyone trusting him. But I caught a shower, dressed, and went over there. I thought if I could make his partner, get a description and run his plates, we might come up with enough to search the apartment, nip this before those folks got taken. I drove the old Plymouth.”

Some months earlier, Harper had bought a nondescript 1992 Plymouth to use for occasional surveillance. Usually the detectives picked up a Rent-A-Wreck, a different car for every stakeout, so the local no-goods would find them harder to spot.

“I parked at the corner of Santa Fe and First behind some overgrown shrubs, sat with a newspaper in front of my face. Watched the apartment for over an hour. Not a sign of Baker. Only one person went up the outside stairs-the old woman from Two D. Baker’s in Two B. No one came down, no one leftany apartment I could see, and there’s only the one entrance, there in front, except fire escapes. Even the garbage is carried out the front. I could see all of the second-floor balcony, could see Baker’s door and window. Didn’t see any movement inside, no twitch of the curtain, no light burning.

“Maybe Baker made me and had a quick change of plans. I left at ten to five, swung by my place to pick up my unit, got to the station at five.”

Detective Ray pushed back her long, dark hair.“Did anyone see you, anyone you knew?”

“If they did, they didn’t speak to me. I didn’t notice anyone, just a few tourists.”

“Did you know the woman who made the call? Recognize her voice?”

“As best I could tell, she wasn’t anyone I’ve talked with in the past. No, I didn’t recognize her.” Harper frowned. “It wasn’t that woman snitch who bugs me, at least not the way she usually sounds. That woman speaks so softly, with a touch of sarcasm…”

Outside the screened door, the soft-voiced snitch twitched her whiskers and smiled.

“This one-yes, probably disguised,” Harper said. “Sounded older, rough and grainy. If itwasa disguise, I bet it gave her a sore throat.”

And both cats watched Harper with concern. This giving of a formal statement and all that implied had them more than frightened, left them feeling as lost as two abandoned strays in a strange city.

Max Harper was the one human who made their sleuthing worth the trouble, who, when they helped to solve a case, would see the perps successfully prosecuted-the one law enforcement type who made their sneaky feline efforts worth the trip.

And Harper was more than that to Joe Grey. Joe had a deep and caring respect for the police captain-for his hunting abilities, for his dry humor, which was almost as subtle as the humor of a cat, and for his general attitude of quiet power-all traits that the tomcat greatly admired.

But now, crouched in the dark beneath the deck chair, Joe imagined with painful clarity Max Harper facing Judge Wesley not as a witness for the prosecution but as a prisoner about to be prosecuted. The thought made his belly queasy and his paws sweat.

He might torment Max Harper, might be amused by Harper’s irritable response to certain anonymous phone tips-amused by Harper’s unease at never being able to identify the source of certain information. But he would gladly rip apart whoever had set up this scam.

And there was no doubt in either cat’s mind that it was a scam. Some lowlife was out to ruin Harper, with the help of the American justice system.

During Harper’s statement, Charlie had not left the room. When he was finished, she poured fresh coffee for him and Detective Ray, and dished up the breakfast she had kept warm. Harper was wolfing his scrambled eggs when the blacksmith arrived.

The cats followed Harper and Turrey to the stables, again streaking into the feed room. In the rising dawn, it was harder to stay out of sight.

Clyde’s yellow car was gone from the yard. Whether he had left to give Harper privacy or was angry at Charlie for mothering Harper, the cats couldn’t guess. Clyde and Harper had been friends ever since high school, and Clyde was the only non-law-enforcement type Harper hung out with. For Clyde to see his own girlfriend mooning over Harper-if he did see it, if he was even aware of Charlie’s feelings-was enough to make anyone mad.

Well, Clyde had had plenty of girlfriends before Charlie; it wasn’t like they’d been seeing each other forever. These human entanglements were so-human.Filled with subleties and indirect meanings and hurt feelings. Awash in innuendos. Nothing like a good straightforward feline relationship.

From the shadows of the feed room, the cats watched as Turrey pulled Bucky’s shoes, the small, leathered man easy and slow in his movements. As he pulled each shoe, he dropped it into an evidence bag that Detective Davis held open for him. Captain Harper stood aside. Already he had taken an arm’s-length position, directing his people but handling nothing. He had approached Bucky only to bring the gelding from his stall and put him in the cross-ties, then stepped away.

The cats watched the blacksmith clean out the dirt from each hoof, and scrape it, too, into the evidence bags. Watched Turrey fashion a new pair of shoes for Bucky. Dulcie had a hard time not sneezing at the smell of burning hoof as Turrey tested the metal against Bucky’s foot-the seared hoof smoldered as hot as Joe’s anger at Max Harper’s unknown enemy.

Of course Harper had been set up. What else? All Joe could think was, he’d like to get his teeth into whoever had hatched this little plot.

But while Joe wanted to slash the unidentified killer, Dulcie just looked sad, her pointed little face grim, her green eyes filled with misery.

Charlie seemed the last one to admit the truth. When Turrey left, and the cats followed Harper back to the house, Charlie said,“Maybe there was some mix-up. Maybe the photos and casts were made where you did ride, before the murder-maybe days before.” She stood at the sink washing up the breakfast dishes, her face flushed either from the steam or from stifled tears.

“I haven’t ridden up there in weeks,” Harper told her. “And the evidence wasnottaken from where I rode last night.”

“Maybe two separate shoes got scarred. Maybe some piece of dangerous metal is half-buried in the trail, and both horses tripped on it. If we could find it…”

Harper patted her shoulder.“Leave it, Charlie.”

“But…”

“There’s more here than you’re seeing.”

She looked at him, red-faced and miserable.

“I have good detectives, honest detectives,” Harper said softly. “We’ll get this sorted out. And we’ll find Dillon.”

But the cats looked at each other and shivered. Someone wanting to destroy Max Harper had killed two people and might have killed Dillon.

Still, if Dillon was alive, if they were holding her for some reason, the twelve-year-old would be a hard prisoner to deal with. Dillon wouldn’t knuckle under easily.

Dulcie’s voice was hardly a whisper. “What about this Stubby Baker? Harper said he’s been in town only a few weeks. What if Bakerwasin his apartment? What if he saw Harper watching? What if he could testify to Harper’s presence there on the street between four and five?”

“Oh, right. And an ex-con is going to step right up and testify for a cop he hates.”

But he sat thinking.“What day was it that the kit had that encounter with Baker?”

“How do you know that was Baker?”

“She watched him through the window. Don’t you remember? Saw his name on some letters.”

Dulcie smiled.“I do now. The kit is not a great fan of this Baker.”

A week before the murder, the kit ran afoul of Baker as she was licking up a nice bowl of custard in the alley behind Jolly’s Deli.

Jolly’s alley, to the kit, was a gourmet wonderland. The handsome, brick-paved lane, with its potted trees and benches, offered the village cats a nirvana of imported treats. And that particular afternoon she had been quite alone there, no bigger cats to chase her away. Had been up to her furry ears in cold boiled shrimp and a creamy custard when a tall, handsome man entered the alley.

He was darkhaired, slim, with dark, sparkling eyes, a movie star kind of human of such striking magnetism and appeal that the kit was drawn right to him. She sat up, watching him.

“Hello, kitty,” he said with a soft smile.

In a rare fit of pleasure and trust she had run to him and reared up beside his leg-never touching him but curling up in an enticing begging dance, asking prettily to be petted.

The man kicked her. Sent her flying. She landed against a shop wall, hurting her shoulder. She had been shocked at his unkindness. Only in that second after he kicked her, when she landed staring up at him hissing, did she see the evil beneath his smiling mask. When, laughing, he drew back to kick her again.

That man’s smell had burned into her memory. Within the dark side of her mysterious cat mind, she invented vast tortures reserved for this human, exquisite pain that she longed to visit upon him. Oh, she had told Joe and Dulcie in detail how, when he left the alley, she followed him, keeping to the shadows cast by steps and protruding bay windows. Followed him to an apartment building, where he climbed its open stairs from the sidewalk to a second-floor balcony tucked between tall peaked roofs and shaded by an overhanging tree. Swarming up into the branches, the kit peered past wooden shutters intoa lovely apartment of white walls, tile floors and soft leather that matched the way the man looked.

The mail on the coffee table told her his name was Baker. She watched this Baker and hated him. Tried to think of a way to hurt him. Her nose was inches from the glass when he swung around and saw her, and his eyes grew wide. The kit swarmed down the tree and ran.

“A mean-tempered dude,” Joe Grey said. “With his record, and Harper having sent him up, you can bet he’s connected.”

“You may be right, but…”

“Baker’s part of this mess, Dulcie, you can wager your sweet paws. And I mean to nail him.”

8 [????????: pic_9.jpg]

A HUNDRED MILESnorth, in San Francisco, the morning after the Marners’ murder, Sunday morning, Kate headed again for the Cat Museum, feeling upbeat and determined.

If she had known about the grisly deaths of Ruthie and Helen Marner, she might not have left her secure apartment.

She hadn’t read the paper or turned on the TV or radio since last Saturday, when the headlines so upset her. She didn’t care to know any more about Lee Wark or about the local rash of cat killings-but it was silly to put off doing something she wanted badly to do.

She was, after all, only two hours from home, from Molena Point and safety. She could run down there anytime. Hanni wanted her to go.

Anyway, Lee Wark was probably hundreds of miles from San Francisco. Why would he hide in the city, so close to San Quentin? Why would he stay in California at all, with every police department in the state looking for him? Wark had spent plenty of time in Latin America, likely that was where he’d gone. She had, for no sensible reason, let the newspaper’s sensational muckraking terrify her.

Heading up Stockton, walking fast in the fog-eating wind, resisting any smallest urge to turn back, she had gone five blocks and was beginning to feel better, was telling herself what a lovely outing this would be, how much she would enjoy the museum, was happily dodging people who were hurrying along in the other direction-to church, out to breakfast-when she noticed a man on the opposite side of the street keeping pace with her, his black topcoat whipping in the wind, the collar turned up and his black hat tipped low like the heavy in some forties’ movie.

When she slowed, he slowed.

When she moved faster, he swung along just as quickly, his reflection leaping in the store windows.

He did not resemble Lee Wark; he was very straight rather than slouched, and broader of shoulder than Wark. His black topcoat looked of good quality, over the dark suit, his neatly clipped black beard and expensive hat implying a man of some substance. The very opposite of Wark. A man simply walking to church or to an early appointment, or to work in some business that was open on Sunday, maybe one of the shops near Fisherman’s Wharf.

She turned up Russian Hill, disgusted with herself, angry because her heart was tripping too fast; she was letting fear eat at her. Behind her, the man continued on up Stockton, never looking her way. She felt really stupid.

Yet something about him, despite the broad shoulders and beard and nice clothes, left her sick with fear.

Had she caught a glimpse of his eyes beneath the dark brim? Lee Wark’s cold gray eyes? She couldn’t help it, she was overwhelmed again with that terrible panic.

Maybe sheshoulddrive down to the village with Hanni, for the week. Hanni had business there, and her family had a weekend cottage. They were so busy at work, it would be difficult for both of them to go.

“So we take a week off,” Hanni had said. “While we wait for fabric orders and the workrooms. That won’t kill any of our clients. Relax, Kate. I’m the boss, I say we drive down. You know the movers and shakers in the village better than I. You can help me, it’s for a good cause.” Hannihad whirled around the studio, kicking a book of fabric samples, twirling her long skirt, her short white hair and gold dangle earrings catching the studio lights, her brown Latin eyes laughing. “We need the time off. We deserve it!”

Kate had known Hanni only slightly in Molena Point when the family was down for weekends. She had always envied Hanni’s looks, her prematurely white, bobbed hair, a woman so sleek and slim-those long lean lines-that even in faded jeans and an old sweatshirt, she could have stepped right out of Saks’s window.

Strange-if Hanni hadn’t been involved with the Cat Museum, very likely they wouldn’t be considering the trip home just now.

It was Hanni who had awakened her interest in the Cat Museum, who had shown her photographs of the galleries. Hanni was on the board, deeply involved in the charitable institution’s pending sale.

“We have to move somewhere, we’re about ready to go into escrow. Twenty million for that Russian Hill property-and the taxes are skyrocketing. And so much pressure from the city-from some friend of the city, you can bet, who wants to build on that land.”

Hanni shrugged.“For that kind of money, why fight it? We can build a lovely complex of galleries and gardens, and I think the old Pamillon estate, those old adobe walls and oak trees, might be perfect. That’s the way the present museum was built; McCabe started by combining four private homes and their gardens. You need to go up there, Kate. You need to see it.”

“Did you say McCabe?”

“Yes. You’ve read about him? He-”

“I… suppose I have. The name’s familiar.”

Only since she’d moved back to San Francisco had she tried to trace her family, from information the adoption agency was finally willing to release. Her grandfather’s name had been McCabe. The agency said he’d been a newspaper columnist and an architect; they said he had not used a first name.

“If we don’t find a place soon,” Hanni had said, “the art collection will have to go into storage, and we’d rather not do that.” Taking her hand, Hanni had given her that infectious grin. “Come with me, Kate. Jim and the kids don’t care if I go, and you don’t have an excuse. Come help me. You know Molena Point, you know realtors there. I want your opinion of that land.”

“But I don’t need to go there to tell you what I already know.”

“You need a vacation.”

Hanni, the mover and shaker. Kate’s boss was a top-flight interior designer and a morethan-shrewd businesswoman. Kate loved working with her, she loved Hanni’s enthusiasm. She loved telling people she was assistant to the well-known designer, Hanni Coon. And if Hanni wanted a week in Molena Point, what better excuse than a multimillion-dollar real estate deal?

Striding up Russian Hill, she saw no more“suspicious” men. The morning was bright, the blowing clouds sending running shadows before her across the pale, crowded houses and apartments. Climbing, she was short of breath. Out of shape. Had to stop every few blocks. If she were back in Molena Point for a week she’d walk miles-along thebeach, through the village, down the rocky coast.

It would be so embarrassing to go back. She hadn’t been home since the afternoon she threw her clothes in the car and took off up 101, escaping Lee Wark. And escaping her own husband. It was Jimmie who had paid Wark to kill her. That came out in the trial.

Everyone in the village knew her husband had gone to prison for counterfeiting, for transporting stolen cars, and as accessory to the murder for which Wark had been convicted-and for conspiracy to kill his own wife.

How had San Quentin let those killers escape? How could a maximum security prison be so lax? The three had overpowered a guard, taken him hostage, using prison-made weapons. A garrote made with sharpened silverware from the kitchen and strips of blanket. That must have embarrassed prison authorities. The guard was not expected to live. They had dumped him in a ditch in Sausalito, where authorities thought the men had split up. Two had apparently stolen cars, and may have taken clothes from the charity Dumpster of a local church.

Had Lee Wark come across the Golden Gate bridge into the city? He could have walked across.

Well, he wouldn’t go to Molena Point, wouldn’t show his face in the village while Max Harper was chief of police. Harper had come down on Wark with a vengeance, had seen that the prosecuting attorney was aware of every dirty detail, every smallest piece of evidence.

Icould go back for a few days. So safe at home. And none of my real friends care that Jimmie’s in prison-not Wilma, certainly not Clyde.

The thought of Clyde gave her a silly little thrill that surprised her.

Well, therehadbeen something between them, an attraction that she’d never let get out of hand while she and Jimmie were married.

And then when she left Jimmie, Clyde had learned about her double nature, and that had turned him off big time.

As she climbed higher up Russian Hill, the steep sidewalk turned brilliant with sun; the sun on her back felt as healing as a warm, gentle hand. Hurrying upward, stopping sometimes to rest, she fixed her attention on the subtle tone combinations of the many-colored Victorian homes. San Francisco’s painted ladies. But, nearing the crest, she stopped suddenly.

He was there. Stepping out from between two houses. The man in the black topcoat.

She swallowed and backed away, ice cold. Wanted to run. Wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

She couldn’t see his face. Black hat, pulled low. Black topcoat, collar turned up even in the hot sun so his eyes were nearly hidden. Swallowing, trying to make her heart stop pounding, she casually crossed the street.

Maybe he was some harmless ogler. Nothing more threatening than that.

As she drew opposite where he’d stood, he moved back between the two houses and was gone. Peering across, into the narrow side yard, she saw only a hedge and a patchy scruff of lawn.

And now, up the hill, rose the red rooftops and huge old oaks of the museum. She hurried up toward them, eager to be among people.

But then, as she turned into the museum gardens, it wasn’t people who surrounded her, it was the museum cats. Cats sunning under the flowers and bushes and atop the low walls, all of them watching her as she entered along the brick walk and through the wrought-iron gate.

What kind of cats these might be would not be public knowledge-would be the museum’s most sheltered secret, if even the museum staff knew.

She wandered the paths for a long time among lush masses of flowering bushes, tall clumps of Peruvian lilies, densely flowering tangles. The scents of nasturtium and geranium eased her nerves. She felt so uncertain about asking to see McCabe’s diaries. She was sure they had them, yet had been reluctant even to ask if Hanni knew-because she would have to give Hanni an explanation. And she might, in a weak moment, confess to Hanni that she thought McCabe could be her grandfather. It was all so complicated.

Iwill simply ask,she told herself.Ask, and look at what is there, and notmakeit complicated.Moving toward the door, she pinched a sprig of lavender, sniffed at it to calm herself, stood looking in through the museum’s leaded windows at the white-walled galleries.

But as she turned toward the main entrance, she was facing the man in black. He stood just beyond the door, beneath an arbor, his features in shadow, his muddy eyes on her.

Catching her breath, she hurried in through the glass doors and fled to the reception desk, begging the pudgy woman curator to call a cab. She felt hardly able to speak. She stood pressing against the desk, waiting for the taxi to arrive, then ran out to it, sat stiffly in the backseat, unable to stop shaking. She was so cold and shivering that when she got home she could hardly fit her key in the lock. Safe at last in her apartment, she threw the bolts on the doors and turned up the heat.

It had been Lee Wark. She’d seen him clearly. His eyes, the same muddy-glassy eyes.

What if he’d followed her home, in a second cab? Or maybe he took her cab’s number, would find out from her driver where she lived? She had to call the police. Report that she’d seen him. Wark was a wanted felon, a convicted killer.

Most of all, she had to get out of San Francisco.

9 [????????: pic_10.jpg]

CLYDEDAMEN’S white Cape Cod cottage shook with the stutter of jackhammers and the thud of falling timbers, enough racket to collapse a poor cat’s eardrums. Joe Grey sat on the kitchen counter, waiting for Clyde to make his breakfast, and watching through the window the handsome Victorian home behind thembeing torn down and fed, timber by splintered timber, to a series of large metal Dumpsters that stood in the wide front yard.

The house’s finer fittings, the crown molding, the stained-glass windows, the hand-carved banister and carved cabinets, had long since been sold to an antique dealer, as had the fine Victorian furniture. Seventy-year-old Lucinda Greenlaw had no need any longer for large pieces of furniture since she had married Shamas and moved into his travel trailer and set out to see the world-or at least see more of the West Coast.

All the houses behind Clyde’s had been sold. Both sides of that street were being cleared to accommodate a small, exclusive shopping plaza. The constant noise of the tear-down had been too hard on the other cats-on the three ordinary kitties who could not understand the source of the threatening racket, and on old Rube, the elderly Labrador. Clyde had taken them up to the vet’s to board.

Clyde and Dr. Firreti had an arrangement involving hospital and boarding bills swapped for auto repairs, an agreement that worked to everyone’s advantage except that of the IRS. Clyde didn’t talk about that.

“Another few weeks,” Clyde grumbled, staring out at the destruction, “we’ll be looking out the window at a solid three-story wall smack in your face. The house will be dark as a tomb. No sunrise. No sun at all. You want to look at the hills? Forget it. Might as well have the Empire State Building in the backyard.”

“A handsome stucco wall,” Joe said, quoting Dulcie, “to define the back garden-turn it into an enclosed patio.”

“That view of the hills was the main reason I bought this house-that and the sunrise. A three-story wall will destroy them both.”

“It won’tdestroythe hills and sunrise. The hills and sunrise will still be there. You just…”

“Shut up, Joe. Here, eat your breakfast. Kippers and sour cream. And don’t growl. You don’t have to kill the kippers. You may not have noticed in your enthusiasm that the kippers are already dead.”

Clyde set his own plate of eggs on the table beside a bowl of Sugar Pops. The phone rang. Snatching it from the wall, he answered through a mouthful of egg.

He grew very still.

Joe padded across the table to press against Clyde’s shoulder, his ear to the phone.

Max Harper sounded grim.

“I have an appointment with the city attorney. Ten A.M. Going to take administrative leave.”

“Because of the Marner case? But-”

“Because of Bucky’s shoe, Bucky’s hoofprints all over the scene. And because of new evidence.”

“What new evidence?”

“I just got the report from Salinas. The lab rushed it through. They have the murder weapon.”

“Oh. Well, that’s-”

“Remember that bone-handled butcher knife that Millie’s aunt sent her from Sweden?”

“I remember it. A big, stubby knife with silver inlay.”

“One of my detectives found it in my hay shed, under a bale of alfalfa.”

“But-”

“The dried blood on it was a match for both Helen and Ruthie.”

“That’s insane. No one would commit a murder and hide the weapon in his own barn. Where are you? I’ll come over. If you step off the case-”

“I’ve already stepped off. I’m going to ask Gedding to appoint an interim chief until this thing gets sorted out.”

“Max, if someone’s out to frame you-”

“I’ve removed myself from the case. There was nothing else I can do. I’m not giving up the search for Dillon. I’ll keep on with that, acting as a civilian. And I’m going to have to look for witnesses.”

“I can take some time off, help you talk to people. Help you look for Dillon.”

“I-we’ll talk about it. Every cop on the central coast is looking for her. Every law enforcement agency in California.”

“But-”

“I see Gedding at ten.”

“Meet for lunch?”

“Say, one o’clock at Moreno’s.”

“One o’clock.” Clyde hung up, glancing toward Joe.

But Joe Grey wasn’t there. Through the kitchen window Clyde saw a gray streak vanish over the fence, heading into the village. Clyde stood looking, swearing softly, but he didn’t open the door to shout after Joe.

What good would it do? He couldn’t make Joe come back. And, under the present circumstances, he guessed he didn’t want to.

If Joe could help Harper, Clyde promised himself he’d never again make one disparaging, discouraging, cutting remark aimed at the tomcat. Would never again tease either Joe or Dulcie. He was, in fact, so upset about Harper that he poured coffee on his cereal and had eaten half the bowl before he realized how strange it tasted.

By the time Max Harper entered Lowell Gedding’s office at ten, the two sleuths in question had concealed themselves handily behind a Chinese planter of maidenhair fern, on the wide ledge inside the city attorney’s bay window.

Gedding didn’t like screens on his windows, nor were screens needed in Molena Point. The sea wind kept flies away. And the decorative burglar grid that covered the window offered ample security. The window could safely remain open, allowing access to no living creature larger than, say, your ordinary house cat.

The morning sun washed pleasantly across the white walls of Gedding’s office and across the pale Mexican-tile floor. A white, handwoven rug was positioned on the amber tiles directly in front of Gedding’s dark antique desk. Three walls were bare. On the fourth expanse hung five black-and-white Ansel Adams photographs: stark, hard-edged studies of sand dunes, magnificent in their simplicity.

Gedding sat behind his desk, relaxed and cool. He was a slim, bald, deeply tanned man in his sixties, with the look of the military about him. His gaze was direct, his body well honed, easy in its nicely tailored business suit of a dark, thin fabric. His green eyes were intense.

“Sit down, Max. I gather this is about the Marner murders.”

Harper nodded.

“You have nothing further on Dillon Thurwell?”

“Nothing. Search parties are out, her picture on the Web and to the wire services. We-the department has the murder weapon.”

Gedding leaned forward.

“Detective Davis found it yesterday. They got the lab report back this morning. The blood of both victims was on it.”

“And?”

“It is a butcher knife from my kitchen. It was found in my hay shed.”

“Is it a common make, a knife that could be duplicated?”

“It is a one-of-a-kind carving knife made in Sweden. Swedish steel, hand-carved bone handle and silver inlay.”

Gedding looked deeply at Harper.“Why would someone set you up, Max, but do it so obviously? Had you missed the knife prior to the murder?”

“I hadn’t used anything out of that drawer in weeks except a couple of paring knives. It could have been gone for some time.”

“It’s not like you not to remember details.”

“In your own house? In a place you’re so used to, you stop seeing things?”

“I suppose. So what now? You’ve already removed yourself from the case. You’re not here to ask for administrative leave?”

“Exactly why I’m here. Someone took that knife from the house. Someone either borrowed my horse or came up with a set of matching shoes for his own horse, and marked both shoes. Someone with a pair of boots like mine, the soles worn into the same indentations.”

“You’ve checked the house for any signs of breakin.”

“The detectives have been over it three times.”

“No one has a key?”

“No one.”

“Surely a houseguest or dinner guest could have taken the knife, anyone coming in. Have you made a list of who’s been there?”

Harper handed a list across the desk.“Everyone who’s been in my house the last three months. A few close friends and the plumber. You can see I have a big social life.

“I don’t think the killer’s name is there. No one comes in my place, Lowell, except friends I trust fully.”

“That include Crystal Ryder?”

“She…” Max hesitated. “She’s been up at my place three times, uninvited. She didn’t go in the house any time-that I know of.”

“Couldshe have gone in?”

“Yes, I suppose she could have. While I was feeding or working with the horses. I didn’t like her coming up there. When she showed up, I went on with my work.”

“That’s why she isn’t on the list.” Gedding’s tone was cool.

“Exactly why. Because she wasn’t inside, to my knowledge.”

“That’s not the way I heard the story. Talk in the village has you two pretty close.”

“Put her on the list,” Harper said. “Make a notation that I never saw her go inside, never saw her inside the house.”

Gedding leaned back in his chair.“I’ve received two anonymous phone calls that when you left the restaurant, the day of the murder, you were seen riding your buckskin up the mountain following Helen and Ruthie and Dillon. Ridingupthe mountain, Max, away from your place, not down the hills toward home as you said in your statement.”

“There’s nothing I can say to that, Lowell. It isn’t true. I didn’t do that. I went directly home, took care of Bucky and the other animals. Answered the phone-that tip about Baker. I showered and dressed, and headed for Baker’s place. You’ve read my statement.”

Gedding sighed.“And you have no changes to make to that statement?”

“None.”

“It’s turning into a tangle. The best bet-not that I think your people can’t handle it, but to get them off the hot seat-would be to call in an outside detective.”

Harper nodded.“I think you have to do that. Someone on loan from another district.”

“I can talk to San Francisco. I have a friend in the department there. Good detective-Dallas Garza. The family has a weekend cottage down here. I’m sure he’d welcome a change of scene.”

Behind the Chinese planter, narrowed yellow eyes met blazing green eyes. Neither Joe nor Dulcie had thought of an outside investigator.

And how had Gedding come up with a candidate so fast?

The cats had thought there was mutual trust here. Joe had heard Harper tell Clyde, more than once, how Gedding had stood by him when the mayor or city council meddled in police business.

What bothered Joe was, one council member had pushed hard to hire Gedding. And that man wanted Harper out of the department. So where did Gedding’s loyalties lie?

“Garza’s brother-in-law,” Gedding said, “is chief U.S. probation officer in San Francisco. I believe Wilma Getz worked with him before she retired. Garza’s niece-she’s the interior designer that Kate Osborne works for. But you know the family-they have a weekend cottage in the village. Kate and Hanni, when they were small, used to play together.”

“I know who they are,” Harper said stiffly. “Should I say,small world,“he added dryly.

Gedding shrugged and straightened the papers on his desk.“Have you made any other arrangements?”

“When your man arrives, Ray and Davis are prepared to step off the case, if he so chooses. I’ve put Lieutenant Brennan in charge of the department.

“As for my personal life, I don’t plan to stay at home. I’ve taken my horses up to Campbell Ranch, they’ll keep them ridden. As long as I live alone and isolated, there’ll be a shadow on my activities. I’m locking up my place and moving in with Clyde. Unless,” Harper said with a twisted smile, “unless you plan to put a leg bracelet on me.”

Joe Grey felt his belly lurch. Though Harper was joking, the thought of an the electronic monitor made him twitch. If Harper had to phone the station for permission to walk out his front door, he might as well be locked in a steel kennel.

It was noon when Clyde left Gedding’s office, now on official leave. The cats were about to slip out through the window when Gedding made a longdistance call; they subsided again, beneath the potted fern.

Gedding was apparently talking with the chief of police in San Francisco. It was all very low-key. Gedding was as nice as pie; apparently he and Chief Barron went back to college days. Barron seemed to be telling him that Garza was busy on a case and suggesting he send another man. Gedding was gently insistent. He wanted Garza, badly needed Garza. It was a long and oblique discussion that left the cats fidgeting. It ended, apparently, with San Francisco’s assurance that Garza was on his way.

“Most informative,” Joe muttered as they hurried out along the parking lot.

“Informative, and confusing. Look. Harper’s still here.”

In the parking lot shared by the courthouse and police headquarters, Harper was putting some cardboard boxes in his king cab pickup; the cats could see a pair of field boots sticking out from the top and a gray sweatshirt.

“He’s cleaned out his desk,” Dulcie whispered.

“Dulcie, don’t be concerned about Harper. No creeping lowlife is going to get the best of Max Harper.”

He wished he believed that.

Dropping the box and the boots in the truck bed, Harper closed the canvas cover. He looked more than tired. The minute he drove off, the cats trotted down to Ocean and over to Moreno’s Bar and Grill where Harper was headed.

Padding down the narrow alley past Moreno’s front door, they slipped in through the screened kitchen door, pawing it open behind the backs of a cook and two busboys. Past the bar into the restaurant, and through the shadows to the far corner, to Clyde and Harper’s usual booth. Sliding beneath the table unseen, they cringed away from Clyde’s size tens. The carpet smelled like stale French fries.

“The horseshoes,” Clyde was saying. “Your men didn’t find any more tracks made with the cut shoe? Didn’t find anything on the trail that could have cut the shoes like that?”

“Ray and Davis have been over every inch.”

“There have to be two shoes. And you said on the phone that your boot prints were at the scene. But you were up there searching. Of course your prints would be-”

“The prints were under the victim’s prints. And partial prints under their bodies. The only time I got off Bucky was when I first arrived, to check the bodies. That set of prints was clear. There were other prints like them, underneath.”

“Some son of a bitch has gone to a lot of trouble. How would he get your boots? Could he replicate them?”

“They’re Justin’s. I buy them up the valley, at the Boot Barn. Those soles were the same shape, same size. No problem there. But they had the same worn places on the left heel and right sole.”

“So the guy stole your boots, then put them back. Or he took a cast of your boots somewhere. Fixed up an identical pair. Same with the horseshoes. Somewhere, that night, was there another horse wearing the same shape of shoe with the same scar?”

“I think the guy took Bucky. Came in the house, took my boots and the knife, then returned with them.”

“Did he have time to do that?”

“Yes, he would have. I left about three forty-five. Helen and Ruthie were killed around five o’clock. And when I came back to change cars, I didn’t go in the house or the stable. He could still have had Bucky.

“And later, when we got the missing report and I went home to get Bucky, he was nervous-irritable and tired. The horse was tired, Clyde. And Bucky is in top shape.

“I’d ridden him for some four hours, then put him up. He’d had plenty of rest-or should have-before I took him out again on the search.

“I was irritated at myself, when I saddled him to go look for the Marners, for not rubbing him down very well, after lunch. He had saddle marks, though I could have sworn I cleaned him up. Had what looked like quirt marks on his side and rump. I thought he’d been rubbing himself again. And his bridle was hung up differently than I hang it. I thought that strange, thought I’d been preoccupied.” Harper paused, then, “Pretty unobservant, for a cop.”

Clyde said nothing.

“The bridle. The saddle marks, Bucky’s condition. The boot prints and hoofprints. And Gedding has received two anonymous phone calls-he thinks from the same man-that I was seen leaving the restaurant at noon riding Bucky up the mountain, in the opposite direction from my place. Following the Marners and Dillon.

“The day after the murder, Davis walked the trail that the Marners and Dillon rode. The first half mile above the restaurant, they rode on deep gravel. No prints of any value. But where you can see hoofprints, there’s the same scar-marked print, coming along behind their three horses.

“Not a lot of people ride that trail, it’s rough and steep. Davis said that deer trails crossed the hoofprints in two places, heading down to water and back again up toward the forest.”

Joe tried to imagine a stranger riding up that mountain following the three riders. A stranger riding Harper’s horse? A stranger who had taken Bucky after Harper left for work, and beat it down to the restaurant, to leave hoofprints following the Marners. Then followed them, killed them, and took out after Dillon. And then brought Bucky home, put him back in his stall.

“I’ve turned the department over to Brennan. Likely Davis and Ray will be off the case when Gedding’s man gets here. Dallas Garza. San Francisco PD. I’ve moved the horses up to Campbell Ranch, and the pups, too. They’ll be fine. I need a place to stay-where someone will know what I’m upto.”

Clyde was silent for some time. When he spoke, his voice was low and angry.“You’re quitting. Just quitting-stepping back like that. If that doesn’t make you look guilty-”

“There’s nothing else I can do. That’s protocol, to do that. Nothing guilty about it. If I stayed in the department, I could manipulate my people, cook the papers, cook the evidence. It’s not ethical, Clyde. You know that.”

“I’ll clean up the spare room. But what about during the day-I can’t baby-sit you, Max, while I’m at work.”

“I’ll make myself visible in the village. And I’m not finished looking for Dillon. I can move around, be seen, keep my eyes open but stay out of the department’s way. If I ride out with the searchers, I’ll stay with a group. Some of them keep their horses up at Campbell’s.”

“The department’s searched the old Pamillon place?”

“We were all over it that first night and the next day. The detectives have been back three times, have climbed down into every dark, musty cellar that ever existed on that land.

“This morning they had tracking dogs in there. One of them scented something; it started on a trail, then kept doubling back-sniffing around a puff of animal hair caught on the rocks. Dogs got all confused. I don’t think they ever did get Dillon’s scent, I think it was just a fox or something-maybe that cougar. The cougar’s pad marks were back and forth through the old house-that’s what has me worried.”

From beneath the table, the cats couldn’t see their faces. Nor did they need to.

Harper said,“If therewassome trace of Dillon up there that the dogs couldn’t find, it’s beyond what any human could detect.

“Every department in California has her description and photo,” Harper said. “The local TV channels will keep running her picture, along with a recording of her voice, that her mother gave us. Whatever son of a bitch has her, Clyde, whatever son of a bitch hurts her, I’ll kill him.”

10 [????????: pic_11.jpg]

MAX HARPER’Swords kept ringing in Joe’s head.If there was some trace of Dillon, that the dogs couldn’t find, it’s beyond what any human could detect.

Had Harper been unwittingly asking for other-than-human assistance?

Not likely. Not Max Harper.

But as the two cats emerged from the grass at the edge of the Pamillon estate and trotted beneath the chain barrier, Joe’s mind was filled with questions. The scarred horseshoe, Harper’s boot prints, the anonymous phone calls to Harper and then to Gedding.

Behind them down the hills, the red village rooftops and dark oaks shone in a bright patchwork against the blue sea-a chill winter day, clear and sharp and filled with potential.

Slipping in among the fallen walls, their whiskers sliding across broken bricks, threading between overgrown rosebushes whose thorns caught at their fur, they knew that something had drawn them here. A scent left undetected? Some small clue overlooked? Something that puzzled them and pulled them back.

Springing up the trunk of a broken oak tree, they studied the massy growth below them, the jungle of tall, wild broom and upturned tree roots. Vines woven across a rusted wheelbarrow. A wrought-iron gate standing alone, slowly being pulled down by vines. A world as impenetrably green and mysterious as Rima’s haunted Green Mansions, in the book that Wilma and Dulcie liked to read.

Seeing nothing below them to draw their specific attention, they dropped down again among the foliage where the afternoon light filtered to jade.

Scenting along through the bushes, they could detect no human trail. Only wild green smells and animal smells, filling every pocket of air. They had to rear up, every few steps, to see their way.

Where the ancient adobe bricks had been dished out by fifty years of wear, rainwater was cupped, and the cats drank, lapping among the leaves. Down beneath crushed leaves and broken foliage, the earth was a mass of crisscrossed hoofprints, boot and shoe prints, small animal tracks and the tracks of the hounds that had come searching.

Hours before the police teams arrived, before anyone knew that the Marners were dead, the civilian search party had ridden here, trampling any amount of evidence, so that later when Harper’s people went over the land, they could record only fragments.

Joe and Dulcie came out of the weeds onto a broken terrace so covered with rubble that it was impossible to tell where the rotting timbers of the veranda ended and the decaying floor of the house began.

Carved mantels stood half devoured by creeping vines. Fragments of torn and curling wallpaper hung from broken walls, as delicate as butterflies.

Prowling the parlor through forests of nettles that thrust between the rungs of broken chairs and curtained crippled bookcases, one wondered why the locals hadn’t long ago taken every piece of furniture. Vines covered a capsized table to form a den that smelled of raccoon. Scraps of water-soaked, mouse-gnawed sofa cushions had moldered into mush beneath a mass of yellow flowers. All around them, they saw the old house being sucked back into the earth from which it had sprung.

They found no footprints small enough to belong to Dillon Thurwell. They could detect no scent of Dillon. But Joe smelled the cougar, and warily they watched the shadows. And then, near the stink where the lion had sprayed, they caught the scent of the child. Dillon’s scent, leading across the parlor and up the broken stair to the nursery.

The morning glories had arrived upstairs long ago, to festoon a cane-backed rocking chair and to crawl up the faded wallpaper across cartoon rocking horses, the vine’s heart-shaped leaves and tendrils fingering out through the broken windows. Morning glory crept across the nursery fireplace that stood alone where the walls had fallen into landslides of timbers and bricks.

The fireplace stank of wet ashes spilling out onto the floor. Across the ashes led a trail of small, neat pawprints that continued beneath the fallen wall.

The cats were scenting among the rubble when they heard voices, someone in the garden below.

Padding to the edge of the broken floor, they watched two young women approaching.“Kate,” Joe said softly. “Kate Osborne.”

“What’s she doing here?” Dulcie gawked at the other young woman. “That beautiful white hair. I’ve seen her before, in the village.”

“I think that’s the woman Kate works for. Hanni something-this detective’s niece. Maybe they came down with him. Detective Dallas Garza.” Joe sat down, licking ashes from his paw. “Maybe it was Kate who called Clyde last night. He got all excited. Shouted, ‘When did you get in town? Where are you?’ I was half asleep. It’s all right if he wakes me in the middle of the night. But let me scratch an itch or wash my face, jiggle the bed a little, and it’s a federal case.”

“So when did Kate come down?”

“Last night, I guess. He made a date for breakfast-was off like a flash this morning, all polished and scrubbed, nearly forget to makemybreakfast. And he’s meeting her tonight for dinner. Didn’t give a thought to Charlie. Apparently didn’t wonder if Charlie would be jealous.”

“It would do Charlie good to be jealous,” Dulcie said darkly.

“Clyde called Charlie this morning before he left the house; I think Kate asked him to. Sounded like Kate wants to see Charlie’s drawings. I didn’t want to shove my ear in the phone; Clyde can be so bad-tempered in the morning.”

Below them, the white-haired woman had fished a camera from her leather tote and was taking pictures of the ruined gardens and house. Kate sat idly on a broken wall in a patch of sunshine, her short blond hair as bright as silk. She was dressed in pale faded jeans and a creamy sweater; Kate always wore cream tones or off white. Hanni’s sweatshirt was bright red, her earrings long and dangling.

“The walks could be repaired,” Hanni said. “This is a lovely patio, the way the old walls rise around it.” She kicked away some rubble to look at the brick paving. “This part looks good. And maybe even some of the old building could be kept and reinforced. And if these plants were pruned and cleaned up-a gardener could do wonders.”

“Hanni, I’m having trouble keeping my mind on this, with the murder and the missing child.”

“It’s terrifying, I know. But there’s nothing we can do, Kate. At least at the moment. The department will work overtime-every department in the country has the information, every search team is looking for the child. And Dallas will be down in the morning.”

“I keep thinking of Max Harper, suspected of murder. Keep thinking of Dallas investigating Harper as if he were a criminal. It makes me feel sick. Makes me want to rip and claw whoever did this.” Kate looked surprised at her turn of speech, looked embarrassed. “I… To think that someone has done this terrible thing, has killed and kidnapped people, in order to hurt Harper…” She looked hard at Hanni. “There can be no other explanation. Don’t people know that!”

“I’m sure they do. But the department has to do it by the book, Kate.

“This kind of tragedy goes with the territory. For every cop who does a good job, there are a hundred guys out there wanting to destroy him, and not caring who else they hurt.”

Kate sighed.“And Lee Wark’s out there somewhere. He hates Harper.”

Hanni shook her head.“The whole state’s looking for Wark. He’ll have left the country by now.”

“I hope. Harper was very kind to me when Jimmie hired Wark to kill me, when I was trying to get away from them. This new city attorney-what’s he like? How will he treat Harper?”

“I don’t know anything about him. I haven’t been down to the village for over a year.” Hanni removed a roll of film from the camera and inserted another. “Not to worry, Dallas will get to the truth. He won’t let anyone railroad Harper.”

Kate rose, looking around her into the tangled bushes. The cats watched her with interest. Usually she was so calm, so in control. Now she moved with a lithe, almost animal wariness, nervous and watchful.

“Isthere something about this place?” Dulcie said. “About the Pamillon mansion-some strangeness, the way the kit imagines?”

“Idon’t know, Dulcie. I don’t feel anything strange. You and the kit-”

A small voice behind them said,“Thereissomething. Something shivery.”

The cats turned to look at the kit where she sat atop a vine-covered dresser, her forepaws neatly together, her long fluffy tail wrapped around herself, her round yellow eyes intense.“Somethingelder,here in this place.”

But Joe and Dulcie’s attention was on the dresser top. They leaped up to see better.

Beside the kit’s paw, half hidden among the green leaves, lay a piece of shiny metal. Joe pushed away the leaves.

“What is this, Kit? Where did you get this?”

A silver hair clip gleamed among the leaves, its turquoise settings blue as a summer sky. Joe sniffed at it and fixed his gaze on the kit. And Dulcie’s green eyes widened. “Dillon’s clip,” Dulcie said softly. “The barrette that Wilma gave Dillon.”

Joe pushed close to the kit.“Where did you find this?”

The kit looked across the jungly nursery to the pale stone fireplace that loomed against the afternoon sky.

“In the fireplace? Show me.”

The kit leaped away among the vine-covered furniture and vanished behind the fireplace beneath a heap of fallen timbers beside the chimney. Joe was there in a flash, a gray streak pawing and pushing in where she had disappeared. Shouldering under the timbers, he pushed his head beneath the partly open lid of a long wooden box the size of a coffin-the lid would open only a few inches. The kit crouched within, on the rusted floor. The interior was metal lined; had perhaps, at one time, held firewood.

“Here,” the kit said. “It was right in here.” Even the inside of the box reeked of wet ashes. They could not smell Dillon. There was nothing inside but the kit. Joe backed out again, where Dulcie pressed close behind him.

“We have to get the barrette to Harper,” she said softly. “Or tell him where it is. I suppose whatever prints were on it are smeared with paw marks and cat spit.”

Joe Grey flattened his ears.“Harper mustn’t have anything to do with finding this.”

Her green eyes widened.“But-”

“Prosecution could say he planted it.” He looked keenly at Dulcie. “The detectives need to find it here. The department detectives-or Garza.”

“Then we’ll have to phone the station.”

“We’re not phoning the station. An anonymous phone tip would make Harper look like dog doo.”

“Well what, then?” Dulcie hissed.

“Someone uninvolved could find it,” he said with speculation. “Find it and call the station.” He looked down into the garden.

“Kate,” she whispered.

“Kate,” he said and leaped down the broken stairs toward the garden.

Joe didn’t know he was being watched, just as Kate and Hanni were being watched.

From higher up the hill above the ruined mansion, the three cats had been observed for some time, with keen and unwavering attention-as had two human creatures.

The movements and noises of the humans puzzled and interested the young lion. The mouth noises of his small feline cousins puzzled him far more.

The cougar was uncertain about whether two-legged beasts should be considered food, but the three little felines were certainly edible. They were nice and fat, and were out in plain view waiting to be taken-except that these small cat creatures made noises like the two-legs, and he did not know what to make of that.

And as Joe Grey descended to the garden, to lure Kate away from Hanni and lead her to the hair clip, above them on the hill the cougar slipped closer, padding among dense cover and silently down the slope. Intensely curious, the lion stalked toward the patio, moving as smooth and silently as a drifting cloud-shadow, his big pads pressing without sound among the vines and stones, his broad head cocked, listening, his golden eyes seeking to separate possible lunch from possible threat-his teeth parted to taste cat scent and human scent, trying to sort out another strangeness, in a world filled with dangers from the unknown.

11 [????????: pic_12.jpg]

CHARLIE GETZ was on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor of her one-room apartment when Kate arrived, an hour earlier than they’d planned. Charlie answered the door with the knees of her jeans sopping, her red hair in a mess, and a ketchup stain down her T-shirt. Opened the door to a gorgeously turned-out blond, sleek golden hair, clear green eyes, her creamy merino sweater immaculate and expensive. Charlie felt likeshe’dcrawled out of a Dumpster. She’d meant to shower and change, make tea, put the bakery cookies on a plate, try to act civilized. She had never met Kate, only talked with her on the phone last night. If Clyde had told her what a stunner this woman was, she’d have spent the morning fretting over her clothes and trying to do something with her hair.

Kate held in her arms the relaxed and purring tortoiseshell kit. Joe Grey and Dulcie stepped out from behind her, Dulcie’s tail waving, Joe’s docked tail erect and cheerful, the two cats smiling up at her as they pushed past Kate’s ankles into the room. But the expression on Kate’s face made Charlie hurry her inside and hastily shut the door.

“What’s wrong? There’s nothing wrong with the kit?”

“No, she’s fine. I’m sorry I’m so early. I’m Kate. Hanni and I were up at the Pamillon place, we hurried straight down to the police, and I…”

Charlie led Kate to the dinette table and pulled out a chair. Kate sat, still holding the unprotesting kit, cuddling her as if she needed the kit’s warmth. Behind her, Joe and Dulcie leaped onto Charlie’s daybed and began diligently to wash, their expressions smug and secretive. Charlie looked at them intently. “Start again,” she told Kate, turning on the burner under the teakettle and sitting down opposite her.

“We were-we found something of-that might be Dillon’s. I…” Kate looked deeply at Charlie. “I found it. I left it there, didn’t touch it. I came right down to the police. A silver barrette. With turquoise. They-Officer Wendell has gone up to look. But I…” Kate stared absently at the teakettle. When she looked back at Charlie, her eyes were filled with fear and with a strange and powerful wonder.

“What?” Charlie said.

“We saw the lion,” Kate whispered.

“The mountain lion? The cougar?”

“Yes. And it saw us. It came toward us. The kit went up my back like a bullet.” Kate turned to show the bloody splotches down the back of her sweater. She didn’t seem concerned about the wounds or the sweater. Tenderly she stroked the kit. And she began to laugh.

“She clung on my head and she…” Kate doubled over, cradling the kit, laughing until tears came.

When she looked up, she said,“You know about them.”

Charlie was silent.

“It’s all right,” Dulcie said softly. “Kate knows-more then you’d guess.”

Charlie looked at Kate with speculation.“Then what happened?” she said. “What did the lion do?”

“He came right down into the ruin,” Kate said. “Came directly toward us-as if he was curious. He paused not twenty feet from us. We were terrified, we daren’t move. He kept coming, watching and watching us. I thought he would attack-but he was so beautiful. I can’t explain how I felt.

“The kit was up my back digging her claws in. The lion stopped again and stood looking at us. Just-looking. I wanted to run, and knew you daren’t do that. I glanced at Hanni. She was standing stone still. I felt like we were glued to the ground. And then the kit, still digging in-she snuggled down by my ear and whispered, so soft. She told me to look big, to hold my jacket up, make myself look bigger.”

From Kate’s lap, the kit stared at her, trying to see what was so amusing.

“She told me to look him in the eye and speak clearly. She said, ‘Tell him to get lost.’

“I held up my coat and spoke to him just as the kit said. And Hanni-Hanni knew what I was doing. She came up beside me, holding up her coat, and we stood together telling the lion very sternly to go away.

“And he did,” Kate said. She sat back in her chair, hugging the kit. “He turned and melted away into the garden. He was standing on a fallen tree one second and gone the next. I thought he had dropped down behind the log, that he would wait, then attack. But then we saw him far up the hill, standing among the trees. Still watching us.”

Charlie had to grin. She felt like she’d known Kate forever-Kate’s animal sense, her humor, and the way she loved the kit. All were qualities that drew her to Kate-as did the fact that she and Kate shared the cats’ momentous secret. They were bound together, with Clyde and Wilma, in a confidence that, if any of them broke it, would be the most horrible of betrayals.

“And we got out of there,” Kate said. “The moment he was gone. Went straight to the police to tell them about the barrette.”

“Wilma gave Dillon a barrette,” Charlie said. “Silver, set with turquoise strips.”

“It was there in the Pamillon nursery. Beside an old firewood box next to the hearth. A box big enough for a young girl to hide.”

“But why didn’t the searchers find it?”

“The kit found it in the chest, caught up under the lid. Must have pulled off when Dillon hid.”

Kate grinned.“The kit found it, and the cats brought it to me while Hanni was distracted.”

“And you gave it to Officer Wendell?”

“Yes. What’s wrong?”

“I… nothing. When you went to the police, wasn’t Hanni surprised that you brought the cats down from the ruins with you?”

“No. She wouldn’t have left them, with the cougar there. It seemed perfectly natural to her to bring them down.”

Charlie rose to pour boiling water into the teapot. She felt as comfortable with Kate as if she’d known her forever. Setting the teapot on the table, she fetched the lemon cookies, sliding them onto a plate.

Kate’s color was coming back. “To see such a thing, Charlie. Can you imagine it? I felt terrified, but I was filled with such wonder. I still can’t believe I saw that beautiful beast, so close to us.”

How strange, Charlie thought, that Kate’s voice seemed filled with envy.

And she saw envy again, a few minutes later, as Kate looked at the pencil and ink studies of animals that Charlie had lined up along the wall, and at the framed drawings hanging above them, sketches of cats and dogs and of Max Harper’s horses. “And raccoons,” Kate said. “These are all quite wonderful. And foxes. Where…?”

“In the hills,” Charlie said, “around Harper’s place. We’ve been working the pups on obedience, those two big pups Clyde found. Working them in Max’s pasture.”

“And the foxes were watching?” Kate teased.

“In the evenings,” Charlie said, laughing. “That big fellow in the drawings, he comes near the porch. He knows when the dogs are shut in their stall. I think he comes to hunt mice. Max never puts out food.”

The village of Molena Point imposed a stiff fine for setting out food for wild animals. The area was overrun with raccoons; they turned over trash cans and would break into people’s houses, tearing through the screens. Even George Jolly had been criticized for setting out treats in his alley, though the deli was right in the center of the village, not on the outskirts where the smell of food was more likely to attract a wild beast. Raccoons hunting in packs had killed village cats and small dogs-and the raccoons and foxes drew the larger predators: bobcats and an occasional coyote, and now the cougar.

“You’ve been seeing a lot of Harper,” Kate said tentatively, “what with training the pups.”

Charlie nodded.“Clyde talked to you about that?”

“He mentioned it.”

“And…?”

Kate shrugged.“Clyde’s easily made jealous.” She grinned. “Not to worry-jealousy’s good for him, keeps him on his toes.”

“Clyde asked you to pump me. To see how I feel about Harper.”

“Would you mind?”

“I-I suppose not. What difference? Our petty feelings, right now… What difference? Oh, why did this have to happen! To a good man!”

“That’s how you feel about him.”

“Maybe. I really don’t know how I feel, Kate.”

Kate nodded.“Are there any leads to the murder? Any suspects? I know that everyone’s looking for Dillon. What a terrible thing this has been.”

“There’s a parolee in town who might be involved. But I don’t hear much. The department keeps pretty tight security.” She looked at Kate. “Those officers will do everything that’s humanly possible to find the killer and clear their chief.”

“There’s… no chance that Harper, under some kind of stress, in a moment of rage…?”

“Max Harper?” Charlie felt her face go hot. “Kill that woman and her daughter? No way in hell Max could do such a thing.” She rose, refilled the teakettle, and put it back on the burner. Turning, she looked at Kate. “You can’t believe drat.”

Kate smiled.“No. I don’t believe that.”

“Still a fishing trip.”

Kate shrugged.

From the couch, the cats watched this exchange with amused interest.

Kate took two more cookies, ate them quickly.“Do you remember when three men escaped from San Quentin?”

“Yes. From death row? You’re talking about the one from Molena Point. The one who was sent to prison at the same time-”

“The same time as my ex-husband.”

Kate swallowed half a cup of tea.“I think I may have seen him in San Francisco. Someone in the city is murdering cats. He did that, Lee Wark did that.” She shivered. “He liked to kill cats.”

On the couch, Joe and Dulcie moved closer together, their blood going icy. The tortoiseshell kit turned wide yellow eyes on Kate.

Kate looked back at them sternly.“You would stay far away from a man like that. A tall, thin man, Kit. Thin and hunched and pale, with muddy eyes.”

The three cats shivered.

“The man in San Francisco,” Kate said, “had a black coat that made him look squarer and broader. A black goatee. Black hat. But his eyes were the same. Like a dead fish.”

The kit crowded closer to Kate.Frightened,Dulcie thought.Frightened down to her little black paws. And so am I.And she watched the kit, terrified for her.

Lee Wark had tried to kill Dulcie and Joe just as he had tried to kill Kate. And if he got one look into the kit’s eyes, Wark would know that she, too, was not an ordinary cat.

But Wark was not there in the village, he would not come there. The very thought made her fur crawl.

“Dallas will be here in the morning,” Kate said. “He’s very aware of Wark.”

“What’s he like? What kind of man?”

“I work with his niece, I’m her design assistant. Dallas helped to raise Hanni and her sisters after their mother died. Hanni says he’s totally honest. But…” Kate laughed. “I guess that’s like asking what kind of man your father is. What are you going to say?”

“I… have another source, too,” Charlie said.

“Your aunt Wilma? She worked with Hanni’s father at one time.”

“Yes, in the San Francisco probation office, before he was appointed chief. She knows Garza by reputation. Wilma says he’s okay.”

“Hanni says no little girls ever had better raising. They learned to ride, to hunt, to handle firearms-and to clean house and cook. Hanni says Dallas is a wonderful cook. Kate, he has to be a good man, to take such care in raising his dead sister’s children.”

But Joe Grey, watching the two young women, thought,Even crocodiles take care of their helpless young. Even Mafia parents see that their kids learn what they want them to know.

Charlie said,“Whoever’s out to get Harper, I hope Garza sees them burn him in hell.”

Joe Grey hoped so, too. Though the haste with which the city attorney had suggested Garza, and the pressure that Gedding had put on the chief in San Francisco to get Garza left him wondering-hoping the source of this cold-blooded setup to destroy Harper didn’t reach clear to San Francisco via Molena Point City Hall.

The balance of Max Harper’s life now lay in the hands of Dallas Garza. And Joe Grey, stretching out across the daybed, considered how best to monitor Detective Garza’s moves.

Meantime, he’d like a look at confidence artist Stubby Baker, Harper’s unwitting and apparently useless alibi.

12 [????????: pic_13.jpg]

A CAT COULD travel for blocks above the village of Molena Point never setting paw to the sidewalk, crossing the chasms above the streets on twisted oak limbs or by leaping the narrow alleys between skylights and attic windows, by trotting between shingled peaks so precipitous that even with all claws out, one couldn’t help but slide, landing on a swinging sign below or a roof gutter. At only a few streets must the feline traveler come to earth like a common tourist and run across behind the wheels of slow-moving cars.

Stubby Baker’s apartment was a handsome penthouse on the third floor above a row of exclusive clothing shops. The kit led Joe Grey and Dulcie there as if she had invented surveillance. “That’s where he lives,” she hissed, clinging to an oak branch beside Joe, three floors above the street. “Right in there across that balcony behind those big glass doors, the man who kicks cats.”

From the tree in which they crouched, the cats looked down on a long tiled balcony and a pair of many-paned French doors. Despite the bright day, a light was on within. Baker sat at a dining table littered with papers, just inside the glass doors. He was a tall well-knit man totally unlike his nickname, his dark hair neatly trimmed, his smooth skin well tanned. A man the women would find appealing.

The apartment had high, dark beams against a white plaster ceiling, white walls, a skylight through which the sky shone blue and clear. Used brick formed the floor and the corner fireplace, beside which hung eight small, well-framed reproductions of Richard Diebenkorn’s landscapes, gleaming rich as jewels. An opening behind the fireplace apparently led to a bedroom. Before the fire, three tan leather couches formed a luxurious conversational group, their cushions deep and inviting, perfect for kneading claws.

Baker seemed totally absorbed in the official-looking documents he was reading, making occasional notes or corrections. He wore clean chinos and a tan golf shirt. Expensive sandals graced his thin, tanned feet. He gave every impression, both in his person and in his environment, of a well-to-do businessman of some stature, not an ex-con with a laundry sheet that would stretch a city block.

The cats, slipping along the branch closer to the window, had a fine view down onto the papers that occupied him: documents marked with seals and notary stamps, and a land map marked off into individual parcels. Pens and a ruler were aligned beside it. Joe read the larger print upside down, a talent he had developed during interminable breakfasts when Clyde hogged the front page.

“Deeds of trust,” he said softly. “Copies of wills and property transfers.” He studied the land map. “The way the coastline runs, thatcouldbe the Pamillon estate.”

On an end table, among a clutter of dog-eared paperbacks, lay a stack of bills. The paperbacks didn’t seem to fit Baker’s image; the covers looked like lurid, cheap fare. The utility bills were of greater interest, particularly the phone bill on top, showing half a dozen longdistance calls to one Marin County number.

Joe peered closer, committing the seven digits to memory just as he had committed his own phone number, Dulcie’s, and several numbers for Max Harper.

He might not want to explore some of his more bizarre inherited talents, but the memory bank within his gray sleek head was of considerable use to the tomcat.

Marin County, some thirty miles north of San Francisco, was the home of San Quentin State Prison. And Lee Wark hadn’t been the only convicted murderer incarcerated there thanks to Harper.

Repeating to himself the number and prefix, he was trying to figure how to get inside the apartment and paw through the rest of the bills when Dulcie hissed, staring down at the street.

Almost directly beneath the balcony, in the line of halted traffic waiting for pedestrians to cross, sat an open black Mercedes convertible, its radio blaring rock music, its driver staring above her up toward Baker’s windows. Her honey-colored hair was tied back with a yellow scarf. Her tan shorts revealed long, tanned legs. Her brown eyes scanned the portion of French doors that she must be able to see above the angle of the balcony. Beside her on the front seat sat three loaded grocery bags. The cats could see peanut butter, a jar of jelly, some kind of cereal. The traffic moved on.

Dulcie watched narrowly as the convertible slid away.“What was she looking at?” Dulcie said.

“Maybe at us.” Joe leaped to the roof, away from the branch and Baker’s windows. “Maybe she’s a cat lover.”

“Oh, right.” She joined Joe and the kit on the roof, her green eyes glowing. “Could she be checking on Baker? Is there a connection between Crystal and Baker?”

“I don’t-” Joe began. But Dulcie was gone, streaking across the rooftops, following Crystal’s convertible as it crept in the line of slow-moving cars. Joe saw her disappear over the edge and reappear on the roofs of the next block, lashing her tail with annoyance-very likely after dodging too close to slow-moving wheels. He wished she wouldn’t do that. The village’s daytime streets, though crowded and slow, belonged to the cars of upscale tourists. That, he had pointed out to Dulcie, was why they used the rooftops.

The early-morning village streets, before the tourists were out of their beds, boasted more careful drivers. Those streets smelled better, too. Smelled of the sea and of newly watered gardens, while the midday village smelled, to a cat, of exhaust fumes-deodorants-shaving lotion-perfume-chewing gum-restaurant cooking and too many human bodies.

Joe caught up to Dulcie, the kit crowding close, and they followed the black Mercedes for eight blocks, crossing the streets twice among the feet of the tourists, enduring endless remarks about the cute kitties and constant attempts to pet them, dodging away from reaching hands.

But when Crystal’s car turned right, traffic moved swiftly again and the cats couldn’t keep up; they ran until they were panting. Standing on the sidewalk, Joe stared after the Mercedes, frustrated. Joe and Dulcie didn’t see the black SL again until the following week.

But the kit saw Crystal’s car later that evening and followed it, alone. Galloping along the sidewalk, dodging between tourists’ feet, she was wildly excited to be on a trail that the two big cats had lost.

The time was just dusk. She had been out for a prowl through Jolly’s alley, because no matter how well Wilma fed her, she could never get filled up, and Jolly’s had such delicious offerings, all that lovely smoked salmon.

Leaving the alley licking her whiskers, she saw the open Mercedes go by, saw Crystal’s tawny hair blowing and smelled Crystal’s perfume. She followed, running seven blocks after the car but careful about crossing streets, followed until Crystal pulled into a drive and parked before a closed garage door.

Crystal hurried up the wooden stairs, the kit following so close on her heels that when Crystal pushed in through the front door it slammed in the little cat’s face. Backing away, the kit leaped to the windowsill, pressing her nose to the glass. There was a curtain drawn across.

Rearing up, she couldn’t see over it.

Taking the direct approach she mewled at the door, her cries ever louder and more desperate, in the age-old classic plea:Iam abandoned, I am starving, I am so terribly hungry and cold.She worked herself into a such a frenzy, convinced herself so well of her plight, that she was all a-tremble when Crystal flung open the door and dumped a pan of water in her face.

The kit fled for Wilma’s house.

13 [????????: pic_14.jpg]

DALLAS GARZA arrived in Molena Point at 8 A.M., the morning after the three cats spied on Stubby Baker. He was a big, broad-shouldered man dressed in civilian clothes-faded jeans, a tan shirt, charcoal V-necked sweater, and a tan corduroy sport coat, clothes that blended well into the milieu of Molena Point, comfortable layers to be removed as the fog burned off and the day turned warm. Garza’s thick black hair was trimmed short, in a well-styled, no-nonsense haircut. His chiseled, square face, brown as oak, seemed carved into lines that were all business-a look that won immediate confidence from law enforcement and nervous reluctance from those who would screw with him.

During his twenty-three-year career he had been put on loan three times to other departments when their internal affairs got into a tangle, carrying out investigations of fellow officers-once in Redding on a drug-related case, and twice in southern California on charges of moral misconduct. This was the first time he had been called in to investigate a murder.

He had never met Max Harper. Garza didn’t socialize on his vacation time; he kept to himself. He didn’t like the fact that his case was Molena Point’s chief of police, an officer well thought of in the village and among other law enforcement agencies in the state.

But he owed Lionel Gedding. And Garza was rigid about paying his debts.

He was uncomfortable, too, that Hanni was here and had opened the cottage, as if they were down for a family vacation.

He didn’t stop at the cottage to drop off his bag, but drove directly to Molena Point PD. In the police lot behind the station, he swung a U and backed into a slot against the back wall. Sitting in his car, he took in the blank, two-story brick wall on his right where the jail was housed, and the single-story police station on his left. The station was connected to the courtrooms and city offices behind him by an enclosed passageway.

Garza had worked in San Francisco for ten years. Before that, he had put in five years on a SWAT team in Oakland. He would be forced to retire at age fifty-seven because his work was considered hazardous duty. He had no idea what he would do after that. He was four years younger than Molena Point Police Chief Max Harper. He had read the file on Harper the night before.

Leaving the police parking lot, he walked two blocks toward Ocean to have breakfast at a favorite small cafe. Sitting in the patio with his back to the restaurant wall, he ordered three eggs over easy, ham, biscuits, and coffee. He ate slowly and neatly, watching the village street. A lot of the locals out this time of morning were dog walkers. And the tourists were walking mutts, too. Several hotels in the village catered to pets. Folks liked to bring their dogs along where the little poodles and spaniels-and a few big dogs-could run on the beach, show off up and down Ocean-four-legged conversation pieces-and sit with their masters at the outdoor cafes.

It amazed him that people with money, people who drove expensive foreign cars, had mongrels instead of well-bred animals. Mutts. Absently he counted nineteen dogs; only two of them were purebred, and neither of real good breeding.

If Garza was a snob in any way, it was in the matter of canines.

A well-bred pointer or setter, a handsome big Chesapeake or Weimaraner of really good bloodlines was one of the finest accomplishments of mankind.

A far finer accomplishment, in many respects, than man himself.

But that was a cop’s view.

Paying the bill, tucking the tip under the sugar bowl, he walked to Molena Point PD, entering by the unlocked front door into the big open squad room. His first look at the department didn’t please him.

In the big open room, all functions seemed to be carried out with little thought to privacy or security. And certainly minimal attention to neatness. This surprised him. Harper had a reputation for running an orderly shop, but these officers’ desks were piled with papers; a case of soft drinks had been left by the front door; several officers had hung their jackets over the backs of their chairs; two had laid their guns atop their desks; a pair of field boots stood next to an overflowing wastebasket. They didn’t use shredders? Even the dispatcher’s area contained stacks of papers that he would never have allowed. He did not, as he began to make the rounds of the room, find much to admire in Max Harper’s department.

Joe Grey and Dulcie spotted Garza leaving the restaurant as they stepped out of Jolly’s alley after a leisurely post-hunting snack. The man’s solid build and his military walk and air of authority drew their gaze. Dulcie’s green eyes widened; her dark, striped tail twitched with interest. “Who’s that?” The broad-shouldered, darkhaired Latino was an imposing figure.

“Either a full bird colonel or some kind of law enforcement. My guess would be our detective from San Francisco. Garza’s due to arrive this morning.”

They followed him, padding along the curb and through sidewalk flower gardens until the broad-shouldered stranger entered Molena Point PD. As Garza stepped in through the glass door, the cats beat it into the courthouse, whose front door was easy enough to claw open, galloped down the hall into the squad room, and took cover under Max Harper’s desk.

They couldn’t see much but the jungle of desk and chair legs and officers’ shoes spreading away across the linoleum, but they could hear Garza working the room, introducing himself to individual officers. They listened with interest to the causal wariness exhibited by Harper’s men and women as they tookGarza’s measure.

“Talk about a roomful of tomcats,” Joe said, grinning.

“So what would you expect? Garza was sent here to dotheirjob and possibly to help prosecute their chief.”

Joe slipped out from under the desk far enough to see Garza sitting at Detective Davis’s desk with Davis and Ray. They seemed to be going over field notes, Garza reading his copy and asking questions. Joe felt nearly invisible, with all officers’ eyes on the threesome while trying to look busy with their own affairs. When at last Garza headed for Harper’s desk, carrying the detectives’ thick sheaf of reports and photographs, Joe was deep under the drawer section beside Dulcie.

Sheltered from Garza’s feet, they dozed as the detective shuffled papers. Periods of silence indicated that he was reading. He rose occasionally to refill his coffee cup from the large coffeemaker on the credenza behind him. Joe was soon cross-eyed with boredom.

They had meant, coming out of the alley, to head for Dulcie’s house and make that call to Marin County-Joe had a feeling about that phone number. The same kind of feeling as when, though he couldn’t see or smell a mouse, he knew the little beast was close. He wanted to make that call in an empty house, without any human listening, and Wilma would be atwork.

Telephones still amazed him-sending his voice over that unseen cable to manipulate someone invisible at the other end.

That joining of humanity’s electronic wonders and his own remarkable feline skills gave him a huge sense of power. A real twenty-first-century, state-of-the-art jolt.

And right now, while they marked time on the dusty linoleum under Harper’s desk, learning nothing of value, that Marin phone number bugged him.

They listened as Garza arranged to see the stable manager where the Marners had kept their horses, and to see several Marner family members who had arrived soon after the tragedy and were staying in the village. He set a time to see Charlie Getz and to interview the staff at Cafe Mundo. The problem with all this was that Joe and Dulcie would be privy to nothing, no more inside line to what was happening than if they’d been a thousand miles from Molena Point.

Garza told Lieutenant Brennan that he would talk with the Marners’ neighbors in their condo building, and he made an appointment for that evening with Dillon Thurwell’s parents. That would be a hard call, for Dillon’s mother and father to talk with police again, when there was only that one slim lead to finding Dillon, only the lost barrette.

At least they knew she’d escaped the killer at one point. But nothing after that. Nothing more than that one small piece of jewelry that had been described in the paper just after the murder, the barrette Dillon’s mother said the child had been wearing when she left the house Saturday morning. Nothing else to give them hope that Dillon was still alive.

Garza made no appointment with Joe’s housemate, though Clyde was Harper’s closest friend. Other than this omission, the detective seemed to be starting out in an efficient and businesslike manner. Maybe he was going to descend on Clyde’s place unannounced, hoping to catch Harper off guard.

When Garza finished with the phone, he nodded to Detective Davis and Ray, and the three of them headed back to the conference rooms, Garza carrying the reports Davis had given him, as if he meant to go over the meat of the case in strict privacy. The cats were crouched for a swift race down the hall to listen, when they heard the conference room door slam closed.

Slipping into the shadows of an adjoining room, they pressed their ears uncomfortably to the wall-cats’ ears are not made for wall-pressing; it hurts the delicate cartilage. Even with their superior hearing, they could make out only indistinct murmurs, and the conference rooms had no windows that might be open to the bright morning. Their source within Molena Point PD had dried up faster than canned tuna left in the sun. Sometimes even a cat, the most facile and adept of snoops, gets outshuffled.

“Come on,” Joe said, and he headed down the hall, through the courthouse, dodging behind the heels of a pair of attorneys-you could always tell attorneys, they had briefcases growing out of their hands-and down the street to Dulcie’s house, hot to get at the phone.

14 [????????: pic_15.jpg]

JOE AND DULCIEspied the kit in Jolly’s alley as they were headed for Dulcie’s house and the phone. The kit sat smugly beneath the jasmine vine beside an empty paper plate.

Dulcie nudged her.“Come on, kit. Is that your second breakfast?”

The kit smiled. Her face smelled of caviar and roast lamb.

The two cats hurried her along out of the alley and down the street-like herding fireflies. She was everywhere, up the bougainvillea vines that climbed the shop walls, up into the oaks and across the roofs and down onto balconies and awnings. When they nosed her through Dulcie’s cat door, she charged at a plate of scrambled eggs that Wilma had left on the floor and inhaled yet another meal.

“I saw Wilma walking to work,” she said between bites. “She looked elegant. Those beautiful pale jeans and that new black blazer and cashmere sweater.”

“Just jeans,” Dulcie said. “Not soveryfancy, kit.”

“Elegant,” the kit repeated. And Dulcie had a sharp sense of the kit’s fascination with beautiful clothes-a hunger perhaps as keen as Dulcie’s own covetous craving. She wondered if the kit had ever stolen a silky garment from some house when she traveled with that rebel band of homeless cats. Wondered if the kit, just as she herself, had ever innocently lifted a silk nightie from someone’s clothesline or nipped in through an open window to snatch a lacy teddy or a pair of sheer stockings.

Well,Dulcie thought,Idon’t do that anymore.

At least, hardly ever.

She missed having those lovely garments to snuggle on. Oh, Wilma gave her pretty things. But the stolen ones were nicer.

She was ashamed of her failing, and secretly reveled in it. She didn’t consider herself a thief. She always gave back the stolen items, in a way-leaving them in the box on the back porch that Wilma had provided, where the amused neighbors knew to retrieve their “misplaced” clothes.Notstealing, she thought, following Joe through the dining room and onto Wilma’s desk.

Joe pushed the phone from its cradle, squinched his paw small, and punched in the San Rafael number. He was unusually nervous. The kit bounced up beside them to watch, round-eyed. And the three cats bent their heads, listening to the measured ringing.

A man’s gravelly voice. “Year. Alby? That you, Alby? You’re two minutes early.”

Joe said,“Is this Davis Drugs?”

“What the hell? Who’s this? Who you calling?”

“Davis Drugs.” Joe repeated the number he’d dialed.

“You got the wrong number, buster. Get off the friggin’ line.”

Joe pressed the disconnect, scowling.“That didn’t net much.”

“Didn’t it?” said Dulcie. “Wait a few minutes, and try again.”

He waited, then punched the redial, checking the little screen to be sure he’d dialed the right number the first time. The kit watched every move.

A different voice answered. Smooth but equally abrupt.“Yeah? Who you want?”

“Hello?” Joe said inanely.

“Who you want to talk to?”

“I was calling Davis Drugs. Can you tell me what place I’ve reached?”

“DavisDrugs!That’s a good one! We ain’t got that brand, buddy. Who you calling?”

“Can you tell me what place this is? Maybe I have the…”

A clanging, metallic voice sounded in the background, its vibrating rumble so loud they couldn’t make sense of the words. Sounded like “Wall uh-uh-ers heave ta ecc-ecc-ecc-ed wall at once.” A man shouted, “Come on, Joobie. Get off the damn phone! I got a call coming.” Then a click and the line went dead. In a moment the recording came on telling Joe to hang up and dial again.

He slapped his paw to silence the offensive message.“What was that all about?”

Dulcie sat scowling, trying to make out the words. She lifted her paw.“Let me try.”

She punched the redial and the speaker button so they could all hear. She sat washing her paws, listening with all the sophistication of a debutante buffing her nails while monitoring the call of a dull-witted suitor. The gravelly voice answered.“Start talking. It’s your nickel.”

“Hi, honey. This is May.”

“May who?”

“Maybe I could give you a good time, baby.”

He guffawed, his laugh so loud that Dulcie backed away. But her voice was sweet and smooth as cream.“Honey, are you the handsome one?”

“You bet I am, baby. That’s me.” The guy bellowed a rasping laugh. “Handsome as a hound pup. Who is this? Where you calling from, honey?”

“My name’s Chantelle. What’s yours?”

“Baby, this is Big Buck Brewer. You calling from near here? Why don’t you come on up? Have us a little conjugal visit.”

Dulcie rolled her eyes at Joe.“I’m just a few blocks away, honey. Maybe if I come up there, we could party?”

“Baby, if you can figure out how to get in here, I guarantee you’ll have a party.”

The loudspeaker went again.“Waaalll pr-boom-boom-boom-out of the… yar-yar-yard…” And the phone clicked and went dead. Dulcie looked at Joe, her green eyes huge.

“A prison,” Joe said softly.

Dulcie nodded.“Prison loudspeaker. ‘All prisoners out… out of the exercise yard’?” Her eyes were wide and gleaming, her ears sharp forward. “A prison, Joe? How could we call inside a prison? What prison?”

“There’s only one prison in that area code.” And Joe Grey thanked the great cat god-or the great phone god-that Pacific Bell was so explicit in its billing, listing each city along with its longdistance number. “San Rafael, Dulcie. San Quentin State Prison.” He showed his teeth in a wicked feline grin. “San Quentin, temporary home of every serious felon and convicted murderer in the state of California.”

“But…howcould we phone into a prison? Were those inmates-how could inmates answer the phone? What am I missing here? They’re locked up, they’re supposed to… They wouldn’t havetelephones.”

“Right. And I don’t have claws and whiskers.”

She only looked at him, her green eyes wide with shock-and with growing excitement.

The kit gaped at them both. She was beyond her depth.

And Joe Grey looked like he’d swallowed a whole nest of mice. “This is from the horse’s mouth, Dulcie. Straight from Harper’s men, at the poker table. There are pay phones all over San Quentin. Maximum security prison, but the inmates can make a call to anyone, any time they please.”

“You’re putting me on.”

“Not a bit. They can call out, and can receive incoming calls if they stand around and wait for them. Like, say, their outside contact calls at a prearranged time.”

Dulcie shook her whiskers, her green eyes narrowed with disgust.“What’s the point of putting them in prison? I thought it was to get them out of circulation. What good, if they have all that contact with the outside?”

“Exactly. But the phones are only part of it. Those prisoners have computers, e-mail, the Web, you name it.”

Dulcie sighed.

“The Justice Department wants to crack down on the phones, though. Justice thinks the prisoners are making too many drug deals and orchestrating too many murders from behind bars.”

“Now you’re kidding.”

“Dead serious.”

“Too manydrug deals? And just how many is too many?Too manymurders?” Her tail lashed with rage. “What’s happening to the world?”

“You have to make allowances. You’re dealing here with humans.”

“Oh, right.”

“Bottom line-the state earns a lot of money from those pay phones. Harper said the take in California alone last year was something like twenty-three million bucks from prison pay phones.”

“Come on, Joe.”

“Knight Ridder Newspapers-the wire service,” Joe said authoritatively. “Harper was so angry about it, he clipped the article to show Clyde. It gave statistics for Illinois and Florida, too. Said in Illinois, in one year, inmates placed over three million longdistance calls-and the deal with the phone company is, the state gets half the take.”

Dulcie’s ears went back; her eyes darkened with anger. “Why do we even bother to try to catch a killer, if that’s all it means? He gets free room and board, free computers, free phones so he can do his dirty drug deals-and the state of California rakes in twenty-three million dollars.” She was soworked up she growled at Joe and the kit both. “Those cons sit inside like some Mafia family in its Manhattan penthouse arranging drug sales and murdering people by remote control.”

“That’s about it,” Joe said. “Used to be, prisoners were allowed maybe one call every three months-and those were likely monitored. Now they can use the phone all day. That’s who you talked to, Dulcie, some inmate waiting for a call.”

And Joe Grey smiled.“Lee Wark escaped from San Quentin, but his accomplice in the Beckwhite murder is still there-and Osborne is not on death row. Osborne’s serving life. He’d have unlimited phone privileges. And he isn’t the only no-good that Harper helped put in Quentin. Kendrick Mahl’s there, too.”

Max Harper had helped see Mahl convicted for the murder of Janet Jeannot.

Joe and Dulcie had also helped-though only two people in the world knew that.

Joe sat down on the blotter.“This could be not one felon setting up Harper, but a partnership. A whole squirming nest of rats.”

“Fine,” Dulcie said. “Our source of department information dried up. Harper knows no more than we do. And when we can’t pass on the tiniest little tip without implicating Harper.”

Joe said nothing. Pacing back and forth across the desk, his ears and whiskers were back, his scowl deep, pulling the white splotch down his face into washboard lines.

The fascinated kit lay belly-down on a stack of bills, looking from one to the other as if watching them bat a mouse back and forth.

“So how are we going to play it?” Dulcie asked. “How are we going to lay this on the new detective? Clyde’s right about the phone tips. We try an anonymous tip with Garza, he thinks Harper’s trying to manipulate him.

“Still,” she said, “when the tip proves to be true…”

Joe rubbed his whiskers against hers.“We don’t want to blow this, Dulcie. I want to think about this.”

He gave her a broad grin.“I could move in with Garza.”

“Oh, right. Play lost kitty, as well fed as you look?”

Joe dropped his ears, sucked in his gut, and crouched as if terrified, creeping across the desk as though someone had beaten him.

“Not bad.”

“Add a little roll in the dirt, scruff up my fur, and I’m as pitiful as any homeless. You’re not the only one who can play abandoned kitty.”

“But youcan’tplay stray kitty for Garza. His niece, Hanni, knows us from when she gave us a ride to Charlie’s apartment. Hanni knows you’re not a stray.”

Joe looked sheepish. He didn’t often forget such important matters.

He had to get hold of himself. This worry over Harper was fogging his tomcat brain.

“So I stroll in the front door, look Garza in the eye. Don’t offer up an excuse. Make myself at home. Demand food, lodging, and respect. I think Garza could relate to that.”

“I think Garza would boot you out on your furry behind.”

“Or Kate can grease the wheels. She can say Clyde asked her to keep me for a few days, until the demolition is finished. Say I’m a bundle of nerves from all the noise. That I’ve gone off my feed. Twitching in my sleep.”

Dulcie smiled.

“Once I get inside, I make friends with Garza, and I have free access. I can figure out how to let him in on the Quentin connection, if he doesn’t already know.”

“And what if he does know? What if he’s part of it?”

He only looked at her.

“Joe, this is beginning to scare me.”

“Hey, we’re only cats. Who’s to know any different?”

“Lee Wark would know different.”

“Lee Wark isn’t here. Wark wouldn’t dare show his face in this village.”

“So when are you moving in with this high-powered San Francisco detective?”

“Soon as I can set it up with Kate-and with Clyde,” Joe said, thinking how unreasonable Clyde could be.

“Clyde’s going to pitch a fit. You know how he-”

“I don’t need Clyde’s permission. I’m a cat, Dulcie. A free spirit. A four-legged unencumbered citizen. I don’t need to answer to Clyde Damen. I’ll tell him what I’m going to do, anddoit. If I want to freeload on Garza, that’s my business. It’s none of Clyde’s affair.”

“You’re getting very defensive, when you haven’t even talked to Clyde yet.”

Joe only looked at her. Then he dropped off the desk, beat it through the house and out the cat door.

And Dulcie sat listening to the plastic flap swinging back and forth in its little metal frame. Pretty touchy, she thought, feeling bad for Joe.

It wasn’t easy to have his best line of communication dried up-and the source of that information, the man he admired so deeply, the brunt of a plot that would destroy that man. Couldn’t the city attorney see this? Couldn’t the movers and shakers of the city make a few allowances?

But she guessed that was part of being human-humans ideally had to stay within the law. Once they’d made the rules, the point was to follow them.

15 [????????: pic_16.jpg]

MID MORNING SUNwashed the village with gold, laying warm fingers into Joe Grey’s fur as he galloped through the streets, dodging dogs and tourists’ feet. Sliding in through his cat door, he heard the washer going. The time was ten-fifteen. Maybe Harper, who had moved in last night, was getting domestic. Strolling into the laundry, he found Clyde was still home, sorting clothes, tossing the whites onto the top bunk, which belonged to the cats, and his colored shirts onto the lower bunk. The fact that the dirty clothes were picking up animal hair was of no importance in this household.

“What’re you doing home?” he said softly, glancing in the direction of the spare bedroom. “Harper’s not still asleep? You feeling okay? You take the day off?”

“Took the morning off. Harper’s riding with one of the search groups.”

Joe leaped into the bottom bunk, onto old Rube’s blanket, and began to lick dust from his paws. “Has he heard anything more about the case? Anything from his officers?”

Clyde didn’t answer. Continued to sort clothes.

“Well? What? You don’t need to act likeI’mthe enemy.”

“You know how I feel about your meddling.”

“I’m meddling? Harper’s career is on the line, his whole life is on the line, and I’mmeddling?And what about the evidence we’ve already found?”

“What evidence? What are you talking about?”

“The barrette, Wilma’s barrette. Didn’t Harper…” Joe stared at Clyde. “Didn’t anyone tell Harper about the barrette? The one that Wilma gave Dillon? We found it up at the Pamillon place-the kit found it.”

Clyde looked blank.

“I can’t believe Harper wouldn’t tell you-that someone in the department wouldn’t tell him. His own men…”

Clyde laid down the shirt he was clutching.“How do you know this? How do you know it was the barrette Wilma gave her? And that she was wearing it Saturday? If it was the same barrette, she could have lost it anytime. Where on the Pamillon place? She could have been up there weeks ago, fooling around, she-”

“She was wearing it that day, that was in the paper, Clyde. With a description of it-silver, with turquoise bars. Her mother said she was wearing it that morning when she dropped her at Harper’s place. And Dillon had it on when she and the Marners met Harper for lunch. The waitress in the cafe remembered it.Thatwas in the paper.”

Clyde looked hard at him.“Andyoufound the barrette. After the detectives went over that place three times.”

“So?”

“They need to know that, Joe! What did you do with it? You shouldn’t move evidence. Why didn’t you call the department? You could at least have told me!”

“Wedidn’tmove it. We didn’ttouchit. The departmentknowsabout it. What do you think we are, idiots?Why in the world would we move it? Why would we disturb evidence?”

“Cut to the chase, Joe. Did you call the station? Who did you talk to? An anonymous tip right now could really mess Harper up. When was this?”

Joe glared.

Clyde sat down on the bottom bunk, ducking under the top rail.“You didn’t call Garza?” He fixed Joe with a cold glare. “You didn’t lay one of your anonymous phone tips on Garza. If you start this stuff with Garza…”

“Start what stuff?”

“Start these insane, unwanted, disruptive, and probably illegal telephone calls. If you start that with Garza-”

“If you really need to know, we found the barrette on Tuesday. Garza wasn’t here yet. And it wasn’t me who informed the department. Nor was it Dulcie.”

Rising abruptly, narrowly missing a crack on the head, Clyde snatched a wad of shorts and socks from the top bunk, flung them in the washer, and turned back to scowl at Joe.“Not the kit! You didn’t teach that innocent kitten to use the telephone.” His face had begun to flush. “Tell me you have not laid your despicable and alarming habits on that little innocent kitten.”

“It wasn’t the kit. The kit is afraid of phones. She thinks telephones transmit voices from another world.”

Clyde let that one go by.“Who, then? Who called the station? Not Wilma. You haven’t laid your dirty work on Wilma.”

“If you must know, it was Kate. We found the barrette upstairs in the nursery. Kate pretended she found it, and she reported it-told them where to find it. Do you really want to put those red Tshirts in with the white stuff? You have a sudden yearning for pink Jockey shorts?”

Clyde snatched out the offending shirts. For a long moment, both were silent. Then,“You laid that stuff on Kate?”

“For all intents and purposes, Kate found the barrette. She went directly to Molena Point PD, as any law-abiding citizen would do. I’m surprised no one at the station told you or Harper.”

“They’re notsupposedto tellme.They’re working a murder case. This is serious business. The department’s not supposed to talk to Harper, either.”

“Who made that rule? He ought to be able to step back without being completely cut off.”

“Lowell Gedding made that rule.”

Joe swallowed.“Harper needs to know about the barrette. He needs to know that Dillon got away-at least for a while.”

“And I’m elected to tell him.”

“Who else?”

“And how do I explain that I came by such information?”

“Kate told you, of course. Fill her in-but get your stories straight.” He studied Clyde a moment, then curled up on Rube’s blanket and closed his eyes. Let Clyde sort it out.

He hadn’t told Clyde about their spying on Stubby Baker, and about Baker’s connection to San Quentin. He had to think about that. If Harper knew, he might be so angry, and so hot to follow up, that he’d do something foolish, maybe blow the case himself.

Oh, right. Harper had been a cop all these years, to do something stupid now?

Still, with the pressure on, and Harper so rudely excluded from the information loop, who knew?

This whole scene, Joe thought miserably, made him feel like he was clinging to a broken branch that was about to fall, hard, on the concrete.

Clyde said,“Lowell Gedding has complete confidence in Garza.”

Joe opened his eyes.“Confidence in him to do what?”

Clyde glared.

“Confidence that Garza will come up with evidence to clear Harper? Or that Garza will stack the evidence to please those guys on the city council who’d like to see Harper out of there? Who’d like a softer brand of law enforcement?”

“You’re letting your imagination run overtime. HarperaskedGedding to call in an investigator. That had to be done, to put Max at arm’s length. Harper knows Garza’s reputation,hehas confidence that Garza will clear him. And if Gedding wanted to dump Harper, why would he call in an outside investigator?”

“Why would henot}Make it look good. Make a solid case against Harper. An investigator who’s in Gedding’s pocket.”

Clyde’s brown eyes blazed with indignation, but then with uncertainty.

“Gedding was mighty quick to suggest Garza,” Joe said. “He had Garza right on the tip of his tongue, primed and ready, when Harper suggested an outside man.”

“How would you know that?”

“I heard him. Dulcie and I heard him.”

Clyde poured soap into the washer and slammed the lid, closing his eyes as if in pain.“I don’t want to know how you two were able to hear Lowell Gedding and Max Harper, in a private conversation, behind a closed door, inside Lowell Gedding’s private office.”

Joe Grey smiled.“What I’m telling you, Clyde, is that Gedding came up too fast with the name of Dallas Garza. As if he had it all planned.” He sat up straighter, studying Clyde. “Your face is awfully red. You really ought to think about the damage that stress does to the human body. How long since you’vehad a checkup? You really shouldn’t get yourself so tied in knots.”

Clyde turned on his heel and left the laundry.

Alone, Joe pawed a nest into Rube’s blanket, and settled down, considering his options.

Despite the dangers and drawbacks, moving in with this new detective was the only thing he knew to do, if he wanted a line into Molena Point PD.

He could make a run every day into the squad room. Spend his time underneath Garza’s desk-until he got caught and pitched out on his furry ear.

And from beneath the desk, what would he learn? He could hear phone calls and conversations, but he’d get no look at department correspondence or at Garza’s notes and reports. And as to interviews, Garza had arranged all his appointments away from the department.

Rolling on his back, he shoved Rube’s blanket aside. Long-term surveillance beneath the detective’s desk would be about as productive as hunting mice in a bathtub.

He was going to have to move in with Garza, give it a try, hope that Garza brought work home at night, away from the department and from the officers who were close buddies with Max Harper.

He imagined Garza, late in the evenings, making his notes and listening to his tapes in private. Quiet evenings in a cozy cottage, perfect to think over the facts, see how they added up; and a good time to place sensitive phone calls.

Particularly if he meant to frame Harper.

Clyde returned with an armful of sheets, tossing them practically on top of Joe.“What are you grinning about?”

He stepped atop the pile of wrinkled bedsheets.“Why would I be grinning? This situation is not a matter for levity.”

Clyde began to sort through his dark shirts, dousing spot remover liberally on shirt fronts and inside collars, forcing Joe to endure a fit of sneezing.

“Tell me something, Joe. I know I’m opening a can of worms here. But what, exactly,isyour take on the Marner murders? What doyouthink happened up there?”

“You’re asking me? You want my opinion? The lowly house cat?”

“Cut it, Joe.”

“You never ask me anything. All you ever do is-”

“Kate and I had dinner last night. I think it’s interesting that she didn’t tell me a thing about the barrette.”

“Maybe the department told her not to. So what’s your point?”

“She told me-this wasn’t in theGazette,only in the San Francisco papers-that Lee Wark escaped from prison three weeks ago, with two other death row inmates.”

Though he knew this, a chill coursed down Joe’s spine. Kneejerk reaction to the mention of Lee Wark.

“Kate said prison authorities thought Wark might be in San Francisco.”

“I hope Harper knows this,” Joe said.

“Harper’s not in the most talkative of moods.” Clyde looked at him deeply, the kind of look that made Joe pay attention. “Kate said there’s been a spate of cat killings in the city.

“She’s terrified it might be Wark. That’s why she came down here, to get away. I don’t have to tell you, Joe, that scares the hell out of me.”

“It doesn’t make me feel like party time.” Joe sat very straight. “Do you remember when Wark was sentenced? His outburst in court, that he swore he’d get Harper?”

Clyde nodded.“That he’d get Harper. And Kate. And anyone else who helped do him.” Clyde fixed Joe with a keen stare. “Wark knows you cats helped.”

He reached to touch Joe’s shoulder, looking at him deeply. “Kate says that for a week before the Marner murders there were no cats killed in city. Two days after the murders, they started again.”

Fear sparked between Joe and Clyde.

The idea of Lee Wark slipping around Molena Point made Joe Grey as shaky as if he’d eaten a poisoned rat.

16 [????????: pic_17.jpg]

LIKE A CAVE in the side of the hill, the Garza family cottage nestled against a steep wooded slope above the north end of the village, its living room windows affording a view of the village rooftops, while its kitchen windows looked up into the back gardens that crowded above it.

The rafters and paneled walls were washed antique white, and the living area divided by a creamy stone fireplace behind which was a small, open study. Beyond the study were Garza’s bedroom and bath. At the other end of the large, airy great room, before a deep bay window, stood a dining table big enough to seat a vast tribe of Garza relatives. A stairway tucked next to the kitchen led down to two additional bedrooms and a bath.

On the shelf of the bay window among a scatter of patchwork pillows, Joe Grey sat eating broiled shrimp and pilaf from a flowered plate. At one end of the long table, Dallas Garza and Kate and Hanni enjoyed larger portions of the same fare, and a green salad in which Joe had shown no interest. The detective glanced up at Joe occasionally, amused possibly by Joe’s excellent appetite, or possibly comparing him unfavorably to members of the canine persuasion. From the photographs on the walls, it was obvious that Garza was a dog man. Joe was surrounded by professional-quality color shots of businesslike hunting dogs. Pointers, setters, two Labradors and aWeimaraner, each picture accompanied by the dog’s extensive pedigree and a list of his field honors.

Some of the photos were not posed portraits but had been taken in the field, the dog carrying a pheasant or quail or duck to Garza or to Hanni; in many instances, Hanni was just a little girl-she’d had black hair then, but you couldn’t miss those dark, laughing eyes.

Joe knew of dog-oriented families where cats came under the heading of vermin-right down there with a cockroach in the kitchen cupboard. He was surprised Garza had let him in the door.

Shortly before supper, Joe and Kate had made their entrance, Kate carrying Joe over her shoulder, asking nicely if the tomcat could stay for a few days. She said cats in the house upset Harper and made him sneeze, and that Clyde and Harper were painting the interior of Clyde’s house, to keep Harper occupied in the evenings while he wasn’t working. She said paint fumes were death on cats. It was true about the paint; Kate’s manipulation of Clyde had been extensive, Joe thought, smiling.

Garza had studied Joe with the same expression that, Joe imagined, he used on a particularly seedy transient arrested for mugging old ladies.“Can’t Clyde take the cat to a kennel?”

“Clyde put the other three cats and his Lab in the kennel. But Joe pines away. He won’t eat. The last time Clyde boarded him, Joe worried and paced until he made himself sick.

“And Wilma Getz couldn’t take him; her cat has the sniffles-like kennel cough, you know.” She had given Garza that lovely bright smile. “I don’t want him to be a problem. It’s just that… I volunteered, I guess. I could take him to a motel.”

Garza snorted.“You know you can’t get a motel on short notice-particularly with a cat in tow.”

Kate had watched Garza diffidently, glancing at Hanni.

It was then Joe made his move.

Leaping down from Kate’s shoulder and looking the detective square in the eye, he had meowed twice, boldly, the way a dog would speak, and lifted a paw to shake hands. Such pandering disgusted him-but he was doing it for Harper.

Garza had widened his eyes and burst out laughing, a hard, bawdy cop’s laugh.

Joe had kept his paw raised, watching the detective with the same keen intensity he had seen in the expression of an attentive German shepherd.

Garza, possibly impressed, certainly amused, had leaned down to shake Joe’s paw. “I guess he can stay. As long as he doesn’t spray the furniture. Who taught him to shake hands?”

Kate said,“Clyde’s taught him a number of tricks. Clyde says sometimes he seems almost as smart as a dog.”

Joe cut her a look.

“Can he roll over?”

“Roll over, Joe. There’s a good boy.”

He had flopped down on the rag rug and dutifully rolled over, an appalling display of submission. He was going to kill Kate.

Amazing what indignities a good sleuth had to endure, for a little inside information.

“He can fetch, too,” Kate said. Wadding up a piece of paper into a twist, she tossed it across the room.

Joe fetched the paper back to her, quickly expanding the list of embarrassments he was going to visit upon Kate Osborne. She had sensibly ended the list of his talents with the fetching routine.

Now, finishing his shrimp, he sat on the window seat washing his paws and observing the human diners, wondering if he could work them for seconds. With a few more“cute” exhibits of caninelike intelligence, Garza might have offered a glass of wine.

Thus began Joe’s surveillance of the man who had been appointed to clear-or to destroy-Max Harper. When, after dinner, Kate and Hanni went for a walk in the village, Garza retired to his desk and turned on his tape recorder. And Joe leaped nimbly onto the protruding end of the mantel, where he had a clear viewof the top of Garza’s desk.

The first interview tape that Garza played, with Dillon’s parents, made Joe feel deeply sad-and then angry.

The Thurwells blamed Max Harper for Dillon’s disappearance.

Even with the heartbreaking tragedy of their missing child, they had no right to blame Max Harper. Harper had treasured that child, had been so proud of her increasing riding skills, of the way she handled Redwing.

He supposed the Thurwells had to blame someone. Supposed that to blame Harper was only human. But Harper had taken such pains with Dillon, had taught the little girl a valuable discipline.

The Thurwells were good to Dillon, but, as Dulcie pointed out, they didn’t seem to see the need a growing child has for some direction in her life. Harper knew about that kind of need. He had given Dillon the goals she’d hungered for, had fostered the skills and the strength of mind that could keep her from going off suddenly on some tangent when she hit her teens.Dulcie said you didn’t have to be a human to recognize that universal need.

When Garza had rewound the Thurwell tape, he played Harper’s statement to Detective Davis, and as the tape ran, he made detailed notes on a large yellow pad.

The detective played back interviews with various personnel at the ranch where the Marners kept their horses, and with the manager and the three waitresses who had been on duty at Cafe Mundo the day of the murder. There was nothing in their answers to conflict with Harper’s statement.

Garza played, three times, his interview with the witness who claimed to have seen Harper following the three riders up the mountain, directly after lunch. The man was a tourist staying in the village, a William Green. He said he had been out biking, that he had recognized Harper because Green had lost his car keys the week before, and had gone into the station to identify them after a foot patrol found them, that Captain Harper had come in while he was signing for his keys, and he’d heard an officer call him by name.

Fishy, Joe Grey thought.

Green was very sure about his details. Joe felt easier when Garza made a note to check out the man’s home address and background.

At twelve-fifteen, Garza called it a night. Kate and Hanni had come in around ten and gone downstairs to bed. Switching off the desk lamp, Garza turned suddenly toward the fireplace, looking directly at Joe.

“For all the attention you’ve given me tonight, tomcat, I’d say you were some kind of snitch.”

Joe’s belly did a flipflop. He purred hard and tried to look stupid. He could feel his paws sweating.

Garza grinned.“Working for Max Harper? And does that mean you’re working for the killer?” Garza’s eyes were as black as obsidian, totally unrevealing. Joe regarded him as coolly as he could manage, considering he had a bellyful of hop-frogs.

“Instead of spying on me, you might make yourself useful. This cottage has been shut up for months. It has to be crawling with mice.”

Garza tousled Joe’s head as he would rough up a big dog, and headed for the bedroom.

Well, maybe it was only Garza’s way. Joe had heard him tease Hanni with the same dry wit, and had seen him ruffle her head, too.

Retiring to the window seat, he curled up, listening to the night sounds through the slightly open, locked-in-place window. The small clock on the kitchen pass-through said 12:19. An occasional car passed on the street below, and later a party of raccoons began to squabble, chittering and hissing, and he heard a garbage can go over. He woke and dozed, and when next he looked at the clock, its illuminated face said 4:40. Something had waked him. His head raised, his ears sharp, he lay listening.

The sound of footsteps reached him softly from up beyond the kitchen windows, and the rustle of bushes, sounds so faint that only a cat would hear.

Dropping to the carpet, he sprang to the pass-through and padded silently across the kitchen counter. Keeping to the shadows behind the bread box, he peered out beside the curtain into the night.

A man stood among the bushes on the hill, a dark shadow nearly hidden among the black masses of foliage and trees, a thin, tall man, looking down into the house.

Was he stoop-shouldered like Lee Wark? Through the glass, Joe could catch no scent, but the look of the man made him choke back a stifled mewl, his voice as tremulous as a terrified kitten. In panic, he dropped to the floor, crouching behind the refrigerator, and stared up at the window, half expecting the man to slide it open and climb in. He was ashamed to admit the fear that swept him; he was scared down to his tomcat paws.

Butwasit the Welshman? The shadow blended so well into the overgrown gardens that he really couldn’t see much. And now, his nose filled with the stink of dust from the refrigerator’s motor housing, he couldn’t have smelled Wark if the man had stood on top of him.

Leaping to the counter, he peered out again, but the figure was gone. He could see only the crowding houses and massed bushes, could detect no human shape within the indecipherable tangles of the night.

Pacing the house, he worried until dawn, prowling in and out of bedrooms, making the round of partly open, locked windows both on the main level and downstairs. Twice he imagined he could smell Wark, but the next instant could smell nothing but pine trees and the lingering stink of raccoons.

If that was Wark, had he come here looking for Kate? Joe began to worry about Dulcie and the kit; he wondered if they were out hunting, in the night alone. At 5:00, pacing and fretting, he leaped to Garza’s desk, pushed the phone off its cradle onto Garza’s blotter, and made a whispered call, watching Garza’s closed bedroom door.

Wilma answered sleepily, a curt and irritable“Yes?”

“I think Lee Wark may be in the neighborhood, prowling around the Garza place, but now he’s gone. Watch out for him. Are they there? Tell Dulcie she needs to be careful.”

“They’re here. I’ll see to it.” Wilma asked no questions, wasted no time getting up to speed. Thank God for a few sensible humans.

Beyond the closed bedroom door, he heard the detective stir. Pawing the phone into its cradle, he fled for the window seat, had just curled up when the bedroom door creaked open and light spilled out-and Joe was gently snoring.

Maybe he’d been wrong, maybe it wasn’t Wark out there. Could it have been Stubby Baker? Could Baker be interested in Garza’s notes and tapes? Baker was tall and slim like Wark, and about the same height. He was straighter and broader of shoulder, but in the shadows, might he have appeared hunched?

By 5:20 Garza had showered, made coffee, and was frying eggs and bacon. Joe, strolling through the kitchen, yowled loudly at the back door.

“At least you’re housebroken.” The detective gave him a noncommittal cop stare and opened the kitchen door.

From the garden, Joe glanced up at the window, expecting to see Garza’s dark Latin eyes looking out, watching him, but the lighted glass remained blank. He found, beneath the window, the waffle prints of a man’s jogging shoes incised into the damp earth; large shoes, certainly larger than Clyde’s size 10s. Carefully prowling, he studied each area of bare soil,tracking the prints clear around the house, pausing where the man had stood looking into the downstairs bedroom windows.

Surely neither Kate nor Hanni had been awakened and seen him. They’d have called the department-or come upstairs to wake Dallas. Presumably, Dallas was the only one with a firearm. Heading around the house again, he pawed at the kitchen door, bellowing a deep yowl.

Kate opened the door. He stepped in, sniffing the aromas of breakfast. Kate and Hanni were showered and dressed, all polished and smelling of Ivory soap. Hanni sat at the kitchen table across from Garza, drinking coffee as Garza ate his fried eggs and bacon and sourdough toast. The detective glanced down at Joe absently but didn’t offer to share.

Evidently no one had pointed out to Garza, and he probably didn’t know, that any ordinary cat, moved to a new house, would be kept in for a couple of weeks so he would become oriented and not run away.

When no one offered him a fried egg, Joe fixed his gaze on Kate, licking his whiskers.

Kate fetched a can of cat food.

He looked at her, amazed.Cat food?

“Cat food,” she said, shaking the can at him. “I’m not cooking eggs for you. Dinner was one thing-you can share our dinner, but I’m not laying out caviar and kippers at six in the morning like Clyde does. Besides, you’re getting fat.”

He hated when someone threw insults and he couldn’t talk back.Fat?Kate didn’t know muscle when she saw it. Under his gray velvet fur he was as solid as coiled steel. Studying the can Kate had flipped open, and taking a good sniff, he was relieved to know it was the fancy kind, the brand that, the commercials implied, should be served on a linen tablecloth from a crystal sherbet dish.

He guessed Kate hadn’t seen the commercials, because she plopped the fish concoction into a cracked earthenware crock and plunked it unceremoniously on the floor.

So much for early-morning amenities.

Grinning with sadistic pleasure, she turned her back on him.

Garza, finishing his breakfast, rose and stepped to his desk. Joe heard him lift the phone and punch in a number-it was local, seven digits.

“Max? Right. You want to come down to the station? I’ll want another statement. Then I want to go up to your place, have a look at the house and stable, then on up to the scene. That fit with your plans?”

All very friendly and low-key.

And Joe was stonewalled. He considered hiding in Garza’s car, riding up to Harper’s with the detective, then following the two men up the mountain-but he knew that wasn’t smart.

Garza, pulling on a suede sport coat over his jeans and shirt, headed for his Chevy coupe. When he had gone, Joe looked with meaning at Kate.

She opened the door and followed him out, leaving Hanni deep in the arts section of the morning paper.

Joe’s whisper was hasty. “Someone came prowling last night. Stood outside your bedroom. Did you see him?”

Kate turned pale.“No. Not a thing. Who…?”

“Tall and thin. It could have been Wark.”

She went completely white.

“There are footprints. Good ones. Garza needs to see them.”

“I-what’ll I do?” She was clearly shaken.

“Call the station. Tell them you just found the prints-that they seem fresh to you. That they go to the kitchen window, then on around the house. They’ll send someone.”

“Shall I call Dallas? I have the number of his cell phone.”

“I-let the department handle it,” Joe said, not certain himself what to do. “And walk around the house yourself first. So they’ll believe you. Don’t step on his prints.” And he hurried away to make sure that Dulcie and the kit were safe, despite Wilma’s promise. Racing down the sidewalks dodging early-morning shadows, he kept seeing that brief, muddy gleam of the man’s eyes, looking in through the kitchen window.

17 [????????: pic_18.jpg]

IT WAS STILL DARK when Dulcie set out to find the kit. Prowling the village among the blackest pools of night, it wasn’t hard to follow the tattercoat’s smell, which had taken on a potpourri of eau de bath powder from Wilma’s dressing table.

Awakened by Joe’s predawn phone call, she had galloped into the living room to make sure the kit was safe in her basket, and found her gone. With her mind on Lee Wark, she had stormed out her cat door, tracking the kit’s boudoir scent over the roofs and across gardens and streets until she found herself doubling back to her own street some five blocks above Wilma’s house.

The kit’s trail led to a neglected duplex built over a pair of double garages, a property unusual in the village for its shabbiness, the yard overgrown with weeds, the clapboard walls badly in need of paint. The stairs led up to a deck that ran the length of the building, dark at the far end but light beneath the windows of the nearer unit; she could see a lamp burning within, but no movement. The kit’s scent led up the stairs to the deck, where an unlatched screen had been pulled out a few inches; Dulcie spotted a hunk of dark fur clinging. She was about to leap up when Joe Grey appeared from the shadows.

She turned a slow green gaze on him.“You following me or the kit?”

“Both of you.” He was all claws and nerves. “I have a bad feeling about Wark.”

Above them, the sky was the color of Joe’s coat, heavy gray without any promise of sun, though the time must be nearly seven.

Joe looked the building over.“Shoddy. Why would the kit come here?”

“Who knows what’s in that wild little head?”

Leaping to the sill, he tried to see through the muslin curtains. There was a screen, but the glass was open a few inches. Dulcie followed, the two cats balancing awkwardly on the slanted, narrow ledge. They were looking into the kitchen and could see one big room to their right, apparently a studio apartment. It was sparsely and cheaply furnished. Pushing in under the screen, they stepped onto the old, cracked tiles of the counter, icy beneath their paws. Dropping silently down, they followed the kit’s scent across the battered linoleum, beneath the scarred breakfast table and into the studio. They heard the courthouse clock striking seven. The room contained a decrepit metal chair meant for outdoors, a scarred coffee table littered with clothes, and a pullout couch made up into a bed. The bed was occupied, the woman’s tawny hair spilling over the pillow. Crystal slept soundly.

And in the rusty metal chair, the kit slept, curled up tight and so deep under that she was not aware of them.

“What the hell?” Joe said softly.

“Beats me.”

“Has she been slipping away to visit Crystal? Why would she do that?”

Crystal’s sandals and riding boots were tossed in the corner beside a pair of high heels. Her purse lay on the coffee table among the tangle of clothes, beside a blue folder. Joe reared up to have a look, front paws on the coffee table.

“Sarden Realty,” he said softly. The folder bore the familiar tree-in-a-circle logo of the local real estate firm. As he reached a paw to flip it open, the kit woke.

She gazed from one to the other with eyes like yellow moons.“How did you find me?”

“Shhh,” Dulcie said. “She’ll hear you.”

Joe pawed open the folder. He was silent for a few moments, then looked at Dulcie.“It’s a sales contract and closing statement. Escrow papers. For this address, Dulcie. Crystal has bought this place.”

“Crystal? This dump? Why?”

“The previous owner was Helen Marner,” Joe said. “The escrow closed two weeks before Helen was murdered. Crystal paid four hundred and eighty thou, with forty thousand down.”

Dulcie looked at him wide-eyed, trying to process this.“What does this mean? Can we get this to Garza? Can you slip the papers out?”

“Oh, right. Crystal finds the papers gone, knows someone’s been in here.”

“But…”

Creeping toward the bed, Joe studied Crystal for signs of waking. She seemed deep under.

Something wasn’t right here. Something was making his fur crawl. He felt as edgy as a mouse in a glass bowl. “Peninsula Escrow,” he whispered, leaping onto the table. “Garza can get a copy from them.” Standing among Crystal’s wrinkled clothes, he looked intently at the kit. “What are you doing here, Kit? What made you come here?”

“I followed a man. He was in Wilma’s garden. And then I followed Crystal.”

“You’re not making sense.”

“Yes, I am. A man came in Wilma’s garden and looked in the window.”

“What man? When was this?” Joe felt his fur going stiff. “What did he look like?” He stared into the shadowed hall that led, apparently, to a bathroom and closet, but saw no one, could scent no other human in the apartment.

“What did he look like, Kit?”

“Muddy eyes. Bent over, like his shoulders wouldn’t hold him real straight.”

Every hair on Joe’s back went rigid.

“When he looked in the window, I dropped off Wilma’s desk and hid. When he went away, I followed him.”

“I thought you hated that cat door.”

“I hate it, but I wanted out. I followed him to where that oak tree grows through the middle of the street and there are pictures of a blue dog in the window and that place where Wilma likes to eat breakfast.”

“The Swiss Cafe. Then what?”

“She was standing by the oak tree.”

“Crystal?”

“They argued. They got so mad-mad as raccoons fighting over garbage. The man said that someone named Mel owed him money. Crystal said, ‘You think I’m stupid? How could he owe you money when you didn’tdoanyone. You think he pays for nothing?’ “

The kit looked from Joe to Dulcie, her round yellow eyes darkening.“What did that mean? How could hedosomeone? Do what?”

Joe dropped off the coffee table, nudging the kit out of the chair and toward the kitchen.“Did she call the man by name?”

The kit mewed a laugh, then hushed, staring back at Crystal’s sleeping form. “She called him ‘you stupid bastard.’ She said, ‘The deal wasn’t with you, you dumb Welsh bastard. What makes you think…?’ Then he interrupted her.”

The three cats leaped to the kitchen counter.“How can you remember all that?” Dulcie said. “How can you repeat all that, word for word?”

“The big cats taught me-the cats I lived with. Well, then the man said, ‘Don’t be such a bitch. Who do you think did them? They’re dead, ain’t they?’

“Was he talking about those women? Is that what it means-to make them dead?”

“Yes, Kit,” Joe said gently. “What else did they say?”

“She said, ‘We’ll see about that, you no-good deadbeat,’ and she left. Walked away real fast and mad, and I followed her.”

“Did Wark see you?” Dulcie said. “Did he know you were there?”

“I stayed way deep in the shadows. I followed her up and up the hill past the shops and saw her come in here. The light came on inside. I found where the screen was loose. I watched her until she went to bed, then I slipped under just like you would. And here I am,” she said proudly.

Joe and Dulcie exchanged a look. Dulcie sighed. She wanted to cuff the kit’s inquisitive little nose-and wanted to hug her. Across the room, Crystal stirred but didn’t wake. Beside the cats, the kitchen window was brightening with dawn.

“Before she turned the light off,” the kit said, “the phone rang.”

“And?” Joe said impatiently.

“She listened but didn’t say anyone’s name. She said, ‘Of course I met him. What do you think?’ Then a pause. Then, ‘No. I haven’t the faintest. I’m still looking for her, you know that.’ She was real angry. She shouted into the phone, ‘Oh, right. And let them hang me, too? You think I want to spend the rest of my life in T.I.?’

“What’s XL?” said the kit.

“It’s a prison,” Dulcie said shortly. “Go on, Kit.”

“She hung up. And she opened up the phone and took out something. Like a little box. She put it in that drawer and put another like it in the phone. Then she poured a drink of that sharp-smelling stuff, there by the refrigerator. She drank it down and went to bed. And I came inside to see what I could see.

“What was that box?” the kit said. “What was she doing? After she went to bed I curled up in the chair to watch her, but I guess I went to sleep. Then you were here.” The kit looked deeply at Dulcie, the tip of her tail twitching. “It’s scary.”

“What’s scary?” Joe said. “Being in here with Crystal? Then why did you go to sleep here?”

She looked bright-eyed at Joe.“It’s scary spying on humans. Coming into their den to spy on them.”

“Then why did youdoit?” Joe growled.

“Because you would have. Because humans do bad things, and you know how to make them stop. Because if you know enough about them, you can make them pay for being bad-like you did before, when that man was killed on Hellhag Hill. I followed her because she’s a mean person.”

Joe Grey sighed, and hid a grin, and pawed open the drawer beneath the counter.

Two reels of miniature tape lay inside, the kind used in answering machines. They were tucked down among some packages of plastic spoons and forks. Joe picked them up in his teeth and dropped them on the counter.

“Those paper towels behind you, Dulcie. To keep the drool off.”

Nipping at the towels, Dulcie managed to pull one free. She was wrapping the tapes, folding the towel with her paw, when Crystal rolled over and pushed back the covers.

Joe glanced back at the escrow papers, then snatched up the package of tapes. Dulcie pushed out the window behind him, nosing the kit along, and they fled down the stairs and underneath.

Crouched in the damp shadows, they heard Crystal moving around in the kitchen above them, heard water running, then the sucking of a coffeemaker. A lone car passed, its tires hissing along the fog-damp street. Above in the apartment, a door slammed; the pipes rumbled as if Crystal was taking a shower.

Joe dropped the paper packet between his paws.“Now we’re getting somewhere.”

“Now,” Dulcie said softly, reaching to pat at the packet of tapes, “one of us will have to phone Garza.”

“Maybe,” Joe said. “Maybe not. I can leave the tapes tucked into the morningGazette.”

“But what about the escrow papers? If she bought the house from Helen and didn’ttellanyone… And if thatwasWark she met last night…” She looked deeply at Joe, her green eyes burning. “What does this all add up to?DidCrystal pay someone to kill the Marners? How does this apartment sale fit in?”

Carefully, Joe Grey washed his front paw.“I guess, if Garza got a phone call from an escrow officer, that wouldn’t be the same as an anonymous call.”

“Except,” Dulcie said, “he’d check it out with the escrow company. When there’s no one there by that name-”

“So I get the name of the escrow officers. I think most of them are women-and you’ve been dying to call Garza. You can ask him to keep it confidential.”

Dulcie purred.“You did very well, Kit. I can’t believe you remembered that long conversation.”

“I told you. The clowder cats. They tried to do magic, but they never could. I learned to say the spells the way they did. But they never worked, never made anything different. I was still cold and hungry.”

Joe Grey licked the kit’s ear. “You’re fine now, Kit. You’re just fine.” And he picked up the packet of tapes and led the ladies away from Crystal’s, through the bright, chill dawn.

18 [????????: pic_19.jpg]

THE GARZA COTTAGE smelled of spaghetti sauce laced with marsala. Beyond the windows, the February sky was dark but clear. A thin sliver of moon shone above the treetops. The ringing of the phone mingled with the chiming of the courthouse clock from down in the village. When Garza answered, Joe Grey was already stretched out along the back of the mantel, his eyes closed, his studied breathing deep and slow, feigning sleep. The time was 7 P.M. He could just hear the crackle of Dulcie’s voice from the other end of the line.

Garza listened.“Peninsula Tide Company?” Then a long pause. Then, “Yes, of course I’m interested. Can you tell me your name?”

He listened again attentively, making notes on a pad. Dulcie’s voice would have, Joe knew, that soft, insinuating tone that so annoyed Max Harper. The name Garza jotted down wasCaroline Jacobs.Joe wondered why Dulcie had chosen that name, from the list of four woman officers he’d given her. Maybe because it had a nice rhythm.

Duplex, Dolores above First. Helen Marner to Crystal Ryder. $480,000. Closed February 9.

“Oh, yes, this is very helpful information. Any information we receive about Helen Marner is of course of departmental interest. Can you get me a copy of the escrow papers?

“I see. Yes, of course I understand. I will simply make an inquiry. If Miss Powers wants to furnish us with a copy, I’ll send a man over.” Garza paused. Joe cocked his head, straining toward that faintest murmur from the other end of the line. Dulcie, at this moment, was most likely stretchedout on Wilma’s desk blotter, taking her ease beside the handset, and feeling smug. These little tips to the law really brought out the ham in his lady. Maybe she should have her own talk show.

“Tell me,” Garza said, “were you responsible for making a delivery to my home this morning?”

Whatever Dulcie’s response, Garza grunted as if unconvinced. “Do you know anything about such a delivery? Whatever you say will be strictly confidential.

“I see. But you do know where I live,” Garza said. “You did have my phone number.”

The premise didn’t necessarily follow, but it was a good try. Joe heard a faint click from the other end.

Garza stared at the phone until the canned recording came on, then hung up. Joe settled back into his relaxed sprawl and shut his eyes, waiting for Garza to play the tapes that the detective had found inside his morningGazette.Garza had unwrapped and examined them and dropped them in his pocket.

And he did not play them now. He rinsed out his coffee cup, slipped on his jacket, and left the house for an appointment.

Joe spent a restless night pacing the cottage. Kate and Hanni were at a play, and Garza had not returned when he grew too impatient to stay inside, and went to hunt, slipping out a loose downstairs window, through the burglar bars. He did not look for Dulcie and the kit; they had promised to stay inside. Keeping to the local gardens, he contented himself with house mice. He ended up at home in time for breakfast.

Slipping in through his cat door, past a tuft of tortoiseshell fur, he stopped in the living room, laughing. The kit had learned very quickly to taunt Clyde.

“Whycan’tI sit on the table? Joe Grey sits on the table! And I don’twantscrambled eggs. We had breakfast. We dined in Jolly’s alley,” the kit said grandly.

“Hush,” said Dulcie. “Let me finish.”

“It’s a really shabby duplex,” Dulcie was saying. “But a lovely location and view. Charlie would love it.”

Clyde said.“Wouldyoulike a scrambledegg,Dulcie?”

“I would,” Dulcie said softly. “The kit ate all the blintzes.”

Joe shouldered into the kitchen, to see the kit, looking hurt, jump onto the table. He watched Clyde pick up Dulcie and set her beside the kit, apparently in the interest of fairness. Leaping up beside Dulcie, Joe stretched out across the open newspaper. Clyde, scowling at him, added two more eggs to the skillet.

“It was Wark that the kit saw,” Dulcie said. “It had to be. And it was Wark Joe saw snooping around the Garza cottage.”

Clyde looked at Joe.“Did Garza catch him?”

Joe flicked a whisker.“None of them saw him; they slept right through, even our big-time detective.”

“You sure it was Wark?”

“I’m not sure. Could have been Baker. But the kit saw Wark talking with Crystal.”

Clyde sighed.“Did the man at the cottage see you, Joe?”

“Of course he didn’t see me.”

Clyde dished up the eggs, setting the cats’ three plates on the table. Having nowhere to put his own plate, he stood at the stove to eat. “If you were looking out the window, those white markings would shine like neon.”

“You think I don’t have sense enough to keep away from the glass? That is so insulting.”

“You think he was looking for Kate?”

“I have no idea. Maybe looking for Kate. Maybe checking on Garza. If he was involved in the murders-”

“He could have been looking for you and Dulcie. You’d better come home where you’re safe.”

“Why would I be safe at home? Wark knows where I live. He was all around this house, if you remember, after Beckwhite was murdered. Looking in the windows-right in my face. Scared the spit out of me.”

“Then you can move in with Wilma. No, you can’t do that. He knows where Dulcie lives.”

Joe said,“Dulcie and the kit can stay with Charlie. Not likely Wark knows about her.”

“And you can stay there, too. You don’t need to be hanging around Garza’s.”

“Where do you think Garza makes his sensitive phone calls and tapes his notes? Kate set that up for me, and you helped her-I’m not tossing that away.”

Clyde just looked at him. That ever-patient, put-upon expression of a defeated human.”

“I’ll keep of sight,” Joe said.

Clyde said,“I’ll talk to Charlie about Dulcie and the kit.”

Joe dropped to the floor.“Even Charlie’s apartment isn’t the safest. There’s only one way out, just the front door, down the stairs and through that little foyer to the street. Wark breaks in, you’re cornered. No back door, no side windows. And that window over the street-you can’t reach anything from there, not a rooftop, not so much as a vine. It’s only one floor down, but all concrete. Splatter a cat like-”

“Hush,” Dulcie said. “It’s a perfect setup. Charlie can fix a way for us to slip out to the roofs-through a vent or something. You know how clever she is. Wark would have to bring a ladder to get up on the roofs. And he can’t jump from roof to roof, or run across a branch, or leap six feet between buildings.”

Joe was unconvinced.

“Anyway, he’s after Kate,” Dulcie said. “This time, Joe, he’s not after us. He followed Kate in San Francisco. It’s Kate you should worry about.”

“Kate knows he’s here,” Joe snapped. “Besides, with a warrant out for him, the department will pick him up-haul him back to Quentin.”

Clyde poured a fresh cup of coffee. What he appeared to need, Joe thought, was a double Prozac. With his coffee cup so full it sloshed, he sat down at the table, looking deeply at the cats.

“However this turns out, you two have opened a whole can of worms with Garza. The guy comes here to do a legitimate piece of police work and-”

“That’s a matter of opinion,” Joe said darkly.

“To do a straightforward investigation, and he starts getting anonymous phone tips.”

“One phone call,” Dulcie said, “from a legitimate employee of Peninsula Escrow.”

“And unexplained tapes are left at his door that might be evidence and might not. That might be a plant. Don’t you think Garza-”

“So what were we supposed to do?” Dulcie said. “Hold back information?”

Clyde sucked at his coffee.“Crystal Ryder has been in town for maybe six months, living in that duplex. Why, all of a sudden, did she decide to buy it?”

“She had a lease/option,” Joe said. “Apparently she decided to move on it. My question is, why just two weeks before the murder? And it would be interesting to know, as well, why Helen owned a place in Molena Point, when she’s lived for years in Santa Barbara.”

“I can answer that,” Clyde said. “She had half a dozen rentals in the village. Max told me that. She had them with a rental agency.”

“A pretty shoddy agency,” Dulcie said, “or they’d have insisted she paint the place.”

Clyde rose to rinse the dishes.“You three have an opinion on everything. You have an inside line to Garza’s investigation. You have spied on Stubby Baker. You have tossed Crystal Ryder’s apartment and tampered with critical evidence. And you-”

“If you mean the tapes,” Joe said, “if we’d left them there, and Crystal hid them, Garza might never know they existed.”

“And what about the barrette?” Clyde said.

“We had no contact with the police over that,” Joe told him. “Kate reported the barrette to the police, they told her they’d go right up there, photograph where they found it, and book it in as evidence. It’s probably, right now, sitting in the lab being dusted for prints and particles caught in the setting. They-”

“Probably they are going to find cat hairs.”

“Why must you always drag in cat hairs? Why must you always tell us we’re messing up an investigation? Do I really have to remind you, Clyde, of the murders in the past, where with our help Harper has made a case?” He looked at Clyde sadly, hurt written in every line of his gray-and-white face.

“The three of you are going to Charlie’s. You’re going now. And you’re going to stay hidden.”

“Dulcie and the kit are going. I’m settled in with Detective Garza and I intend to stay there.”

Clyde slammed down the plate he was drying, nearly breaking it.“At least you won’t be here in the house taunting Max Harper, makinghislife miserable.”

“We are trying to save his life. And when have I ever taunted Harper?”

But then Joe said, more gently,“Howishe doing?”

“Not good. Won’t talk about the case or about anything else much. He’s quit going out with the search parties. Afraid he might taint some piece of evidence.”

“How would he…?”

“If they find her-when they find her-someone might claim he tampered with evidence or slowed the search, maybe made counterproductive suggestions, that kind of thing. He’s getting…”

“Paranoid,” Joe said. “That’s not like Harper.”

“He talked last night about quitting the force. Retiring. After he’s cleared, of course. Talked about going to Alaska.”

“Alaska!” Joe yowled.

“Max Harper,” Dulcie mewed, “leave Molena Point? I don’t believe that.”

“There’s more than that to believe.” Clyde looked at the cats deeply. “I think there’s something between Max and Charlie.”

The cats widened their eyes, trying to look amazed.

“I wouldn’t be surprised to see them, when this thing is over, take off together for Alaska.”

Dulcie stared at Clyde, then turned away, washing furiously.

Clyde said,“Maxhadbeen talking, the last few months, about reorganizing the department. He has five new officers and a new clerk. They’re getting crowded in that one-room setup. But now…”

“He has basement space,” Joe said. “Where they store the old files, where they have the shooting range and emergency operations room.”

Clyde nodded.“He’s done some really nice plans to redesign the building, give officers more space and privacy. Add an up-to-date report-writing room, more room for communications, a bigger evidence lockup, more security.

“But since the Marner murder, it’s as if he never heard of a redesign. Has no interest. Seems like he doesn’t give a damn about the department.”

“When this is over,” Joe said, “he’ll launch into it. Bounce back. Reorganize the space. That would be just the ticket, get his mind off what those buzzards are trying to do to him.”

“If we only knew which buzzards,” Clyde said. “I don’t know, I’ve never seen him like this. Years ago, in Salinas, after a bad bull ride when Max got gored in the shoulder, when he was all broken up and in the hospital-and didn’t have a dime-he was still joking. Still on top of it.

“His shoulder got infected, he had a high fever, three ribs broken. I was scared he was going to cash it in. But he hung in there-joking all the way, with that dry humor.

“Even when Millie died, even though he’s never gotten over it or stopped missing her, he was never like this.

“You had the feeling, when Millie died, that no matter how destroyed he was, he knew things had to get better. That he knew that’s the way life works-that we all take our bumps and keep ridin’. But now…” Clyde shook his head. “Now, he doesn’t seem to believe that anymore.”

Joe just looked at him. Sometimes all these human problems were too much; sometimes he thought the household animals were the lucky ones. All they had to do was nap on their soft beds, gobble their three squares, enjoy lots of petting, and no worries over humankind’s disasters.

Except he remembered too clearly that other life, before he realized his ability to speak. He wouldn’t want to return to that. He’d been bored out of his tomcat mind.

As a young cat, it had been a big deal to invent some simple new entertainment-find some new diversion in one of the several shabby apartments he’d lived in, a new way to tease some human in one of the interchangeable families who’d taken him in. Stupid kitten stuff. He’d never had a real human friend until he met Clyde. Or he’d find some smaller, skinnier kitten abandoned in an alley, someone weaker than he, that he could tease andtorment.

When he moved in with Clyde, he’d graduated to intimidating Clyde’s lady friends. How amusing, to terrorize those lovely young women, faking lethal claws, treating them to loud snarls and flashing teeth-all because life could get so yawningly, nerve-deadeningly, mind-numblingly dull.

But now, with his newly discovered skills, there was no time to be bored. He hardly had time for a nap or a good rabbit hunt-the sleuthing life took every claw-clinging ounce of creativity he could muster.

And now, as a pattern of clues was forming in the Marner murders, a morass as intriguing as a crisscross of fresh rabbit tracks, he had no time for discontented thoughts-except in terms of the final retribution for this killer.

This case was more than a fascinating puzzle. This time, he wanted not only justice, he wanted revenge. Sweet, sharp-clawed revenge. This time, he was out for blood.

19 [????????: pic_20.jpg]

DRESSED IN the oversized T-shirt she’d slept in, Charlie Getz stood on a ladder in her small bathroom, removing the vent fan from the ceiling. She had gone up on the roof last night, removed the fresh-air grid and wiped out a quarter-inch of accumulated dirt from inside the vent pipe. The four-inch tunnel didn’t allow much room-peering along its length at a small circle of sky, she went queasy at the tight quarters through which the cats must push. Six feet of claustrophobia leading from her apartment out to the village rooftops. She guessed Dulcie and the kit could slither through, but Joe Grey had better not try.

Coming down the ladder, glancing in her bathroom mirror at the reflection of her milk-white legs, she had a sharp vision of Molena Point’s pretty, tanned blondes in their tennis shorts. The only tan she had was what her grandmother had called a farmer’s tan, brown only on her neck and hands and lower arms. Not a body to bring the men flocking.

Not the face, either,she thought.But I have a warm heart. And I have nice hazel eyes, if anyone bothers to look.

She wished Max Harper would bother.

Lifting the disconnected ceiling fan from atop the ladder, she nodded to Dulcie and the kit where they crouched in the doorway peering up.

“That should do it. Your own private tunnel. I’ll leave the ladder for you to climb.

“But I warn you, Dulcie. If a rat or a bat comes in through that vent-if so much as a wool moth comes in-you’re dog meat.”

Dulcie smiled. Lashing her tail in reply, she leaped up the ladder into the hole and was gone through the ceiling. Charlie imagined her slipping along above the bathtub, popping out of the wall above the roof like a swallow from its hole. The kit followed her, her fluffy tail twitching as it disappeared, probably to race madly across the rooftops.

She’d done a drawing once of Dulcie and Joe running across the roofs. But it wasn’t a cheerful piece, it was dark and frightening. Though it hung in a prominent place in the Aronson Gallery, still it disturbed her.

Clyde had brought Dulcie and the kit over last night, like a father bringing his children to stay with a favorite aunt. Clyde had treated her like an aunt, too, making it obvious that he knew how she felt about Harper. When he left, she’d been really down. Had she hurt him terribly? She’d queried Dulcie, but Dulcie had little to tell her.

“He’s… would the word be stoic?” Dulcie had said. “Understanding?”

“Stoic,Dulcie?”

“Max Harper is his best friend. You are, in a different way, his best friend. He’s so caught up in Harper’s problems just now…” Dulcie, sitting on the end of the daybed, had looked up quizzically at her. “You are asking me, your friendly neighborhood cat, about your love life?”

“Come on, Dulcie. You sound like Joe.”

“What can I tell you? He loves you both. He knows Harper needs someone just now.”

“You’re saying he’s glad to dump me on Harper.”

“No, he-”

“He’s seeing someone else.”

“No! But-but when Kate called him that night, when she got into town…”

Charlie had sat back against the pillow, hugging herself. Kate. Kate Osborne. That beautiful blonde. It seemed a hundred times harder to lose a man to a beautiful woman than to some pig. If her rival were ugly, she could tell herself Clyde didn’t have any taste. But Kate Osborne…

But why did shecare?She’d been mooning over Max, feeling guilty that she was longing for him, that she was hurting Clyde.

And now here she was green with jealousy because Clyde wanted someone who was more beautiful than she could ever hope to be.

“Perfidy,” she had told Dulcie. “Perfidy and capriciousness.”

Dulcie had smiled and turned away to wash.

“It is all very well, Dulcie, to have a nonchalant wash-up when you want to end a discussion. But such behavior isn’t very informative.”

Dulcie hadn’t answered.

The bottom line, Charlie told herself, was that she wanted what she couldn’t have.

And that didn’t say much for her depth of character.

And through this conversation, the kit had prowled the one-room apartment poking into every box and cranny-making herself immediately and totally at home. Taking over just as she had taken over Wilma’s house and, before that, Lucinda and Pedric’s luxurious RV Claiming every surface-Charlie’s few pieces of furniture, the kitchen counters, the packing boxes Charlie used for cupboards, as her own feline territory. Leaving little face rubs and tufts of black-and-brown fur as fine as silk, tomark her conquests. Clyde said the kit was the greatest feline opportunist ever born, and Charlie believed it.

But who could blame her? The kit had never had a home. Always on the move, tagging along behind a clowder of cats that didn’t want her, never sleeping in a warm, safe house or knowing the friendship of a human, until she went to live with Lucinda and Pedric Greenlaw.

Charlie smiled. The kit had learned pretty fast.

Stashing the ceiling fan in the cabinet beneath the bathroom sink, she put her tools by the front door with her purse, nuked her cold cup of coffee, and sat down to finish her sweet roll, using her paper napkin to wipe Dulcie’s and the kit’s pawprints from the table. This business of having cat houseguests was like living in a dream straight from Lewis Carroll. It was one thing to take your meals with cats who could carry on a dinner conversation, one thing to go to bed at night with two kitties who said, “Good night, Charlie,” like some feline version ofThe Waltons.But cats who peered over your shoulder at the pages of the latest Dean Koontz, one trying to learn to read while the other offered off-the-wall opinions of Koontz’s writing style and baroque setting, was a bit too much.

At least Dulcie was well read-and her opinions of Koontz, though wild, were always, upscale and positive.

Finishing her breakfast, Charlie pulled off her T-shirt, showered, dressed quickly in jeans and a clean shirt and tennis shoes, and headed out the door. She had two houses to clean today, a garden fence to repair, and a roof to mend.

But as she climbed into her old Chevy van, she took a moment to look up toward the roofs and say a silent prayer for Dulcie and the kit, and for Joe Grey. Her wish, as she turned out of the alley, consigned Lee Wark to a far more uncomfortable fate than incarceration in the Molena Point jail.

And while Charlie’s prayer coiled itself into the wind to be sucked up like celestial e-mail by the forces that rule the universe, one subject of her concern was quickly and stealthily pawing through Dallas Garza’s papers, scanning a stack of police reports on ex-cons who, apparently, Garza considered possible suspects in the Marner murders. This turn of events was heartening: the tomcat was in a very up mood. The prospect of half a dozen additional contenders cheered him considerably. Maybe Garzawasgoing to give Harper a fair shake.

Unless these documents were for show, simply to make his investigation look good.

The time was 8:15. The cottage was empty, Garza gone to work, Kate and Hanni headed for the Pamillon estate to make measurements and take additional pictures. This time they had a cell phone, two canisters of pepper spray, and, tucked in Hanni’s belt, a.38 automatic that she intended primarily as a noisy deterrent to scare away the cougar.

But was the cougar all they might encounter? Joe wondered if the old adage was true, that a murderer would return to the scene.

Of the six ex-cons in the police reports, four were on parole and two were under house confinement. One of those on parole was Stubby Baker, who had served twelve years on seven counts of embezzlement and fraud. Garza had files on both Baker and Lee Wark. Joe was drawn to the information on Wark in the same way a rabbit is drawn to the mesmerizing form of a weasel that stands deadly still, waiting for his prey to approach.

Wark was thirty-two years old, had brown hair and light brown eyes (muddy). He was five-ten, 160 pounds, pale (make that pasty) complexion, hunched posture. (They got that right.) He had no facial scars. He had been born and raised in Wales, had become a U.S. citizen at the age of twenty-three.

In the photograph Wark wore his hair trimmed short and neat. Joe had seen it only shoulder length, always greasy. Wark’s current legal address was San Quentin State Prison.

Wark’s interests while in prison had included reading lurid space operas, girlie magazines, and Celtic history. He took no more exercise than the prison demanded. He had socialized with only two other inmates: James Clayton Osborne, Kate’s ex-husband and Wark’s partner in the murder of Samuel Beckwhite, and Kendrick Mahl, whom apparently neither man had known before they were incarcerated. Both Osborne and Mahl were serving life without parole.

Joe knew from the newspapers that the guard whose throat had been lacerated with the prison-made garrote was still hospitalized but that doctors now thought he would survive.

At the bottom of the stack of files and reports was a document Joe had not expected. It was not a police report but a three-page memo from LAPD, on a witness in a seven-year-old fraud trial.

He forgot to listen for anyone approaching the cottage. He forgot he wasinthe cottage. He did not realized he was digging his claws into the page. He read avidly, his stub tail twitching. The witness was Helen Marner.

While art dealer Kendrick Mahl, now serving time in San Quentin, was married to Janet Jeannot, whom he later murdered, he had an affair with Helen Marner, a society reporter and aspiring art critic for theLos Angeles Times.

Joe and Dulcie had helped Max Harper amass the evidence that would convict Mahl-including the decisive clue, which the police would never have discovered without the curiosity of someone small enough to crawl twenty feet through a mud-filled drainpipe.

The memo said that Mahl saw Helen Marner whenever he flew down to L.A. to conduct business with clients. During this time, Helen realized that Mahl was accepting part of the sales price for each painting under the table, thus circumventing the artist. She had blown the whistle on Mahl. In the case that ensued, she had testified against him.

Mahl had not been convicted; he had received only a reprimand and probation and had had to pay restitution. At about that time, as Joe remembered, Mahl’s marriage to Janet had started to go awry.

Later, when Mahl went to prison for killing Janet, he had not kept in touch with Helen Marner. But he had kept in contact with the woman he was then dating. Joe was so fascinated that he startled himself with his loud, intense purring. If ever he’d hit the jackpot, he’d hit it this morning.

Or, rather, Garza had hit the jackpot.

The question was, what was Garza going to do with this information? Mahl and Crystal Ryder had been hot and heavy when Mahl was sent to Quentin. Joe couldn’t wait to hear the phone tapes-if he got to hear them.

Joe was still on the desk chewing over the facts when a car pulled into the drive. Glancing through to the kitchen windows, he saw Garza heading for the back door. He was crouched to drop to the floor behind the desk, when he changed his mind-if Garza had come home to work, he wouldn’t see much from the floor. Leaping to the mantel, he settled above Garza’s desk in his classic improvisation of deep, deep sleep.

The back door opened. He listened to the detective moving around the kitchen. Sounded like he was making a sandwich. Refrigerator door, sound of knife on cutting board, sound of a jar being opened, the smell of pickles. Lying limp as a rag, Joe considered the suspects, to date.

Kendrick Mahl had to hate Helen Marner for blowing the whistle that he was ripping off his artist clients. Mahl was mean-tempered anyway, a vindictive sort who had made Janet’s life miserable.

Lee Wark and Jimmie Osborne had both been in residence at San Quentin when Mahl was convicted. Very likely the three men had been drawn together by their mutual connections in Molena Point and their mutual hatred of Max Harper.

And Mahl’s contact on the outside, Crystal Ryder, was a friend of Stubby Baker, who also had no love for Harper.

Garza came into the study carrying a plate and a cup of coffee. The smell of ham and cheese and pickles filled Joe’s nose. Setting his lunch on the desk, Garza opened the morning paper, then turned to look at Joe. Joe kept his eyes closed, didn’t flick a whisker, but he felt his heart pounding. He imagined Garza’s intense black gaze on him, a penetrating cop look. Couldn’t a little cat catch a morning nap?

Only when Garza sat down at his desk did Joe open the old peepers enough to peer over the detective’s shoulder.

He didn’t see the two miniature tapes he’d been hoping for. Were they still in Garza’s pocket? Or had he left them at the station, properly checked into the evidence vault? He was wondering if he’d ever get to hear them-how he could manage to hear them-when the phone rang.

Pressing the speaker button, Garza continued to enjoy his sandwich.

“Detective Garza, I got your number from the newspaper. I don’t understand. Why does the paper keep saying there were no witnesses to where Captain Harper was the afternoon of the murder? Except that man who said he saw Harper on his horse, following the riders?”

“He is the only witness we have,” Garza said, laying down his sandwich.

“I made a report the day after the murders. You must have a record of that.”

Garza clicked the phone’s record button. Joe could see the tape rolling. “Could you give me your name, please?”

“This is Betty Eastmore. I manage Banton’s Jewelry, across the street from where the captain was parked, the afternoon of the murder.”

“And you made a police report to that effect?”

“Yes, I gave it to Officer Wendell while he was on patrol. He had some blank report forms, I filled it out right there in my shop and signed it. He said he’d take care of it for me. Is it just that the paper didn’t want to say there was a witness? In case-”

“Would you like to meet me at the station? I can be there in five minutes.”

“I’m not at home, I’m in Sacramento. I fly back tonight.”

“How did you know about the article?”

“My daughter called me. She thought it was strange.”

“When can you come in?”

Betty Eastmore made an appointment with Garza for the following morning. He offered to meet her at the airport, at the time her plane was scheduled to land, and give her a ride back to the village.

Was that really very professional, Joe wondered, meeting her away from the station to take her report?

For the rest of the afternoon, lying on the mantel behind Garza’s head, Joe listened to the detective play back interview tapes and record his observations. He did not play Crystal’s tape. Just before dinner, Garza played his interview with Max Harper. The detective’s questions, and his dictated notes, were upsetting. By the time the tape was finished, Joe didn’t want any supper. Garza had really bored into Harper. Oh, he’d started out very friendly, all buddy-buddy cop stuff, but when he couldn’t make Harper change his story, he had come down hard, taunting Harper.

Harper had handled the interview calmly, with no change of voice, and of course no discrepancies in the facts. But later when Garza played back his own recorded memos, he had constructed a scenario where Harper could have galloped up the mountain the short way, meeting the Marners at the crest. Garza had calculated that Harper would have had time to kill them, get home again, change clothes, and get to the station by five. The tape was made before Betty Eastmore called him. The detective made it clear that there was no witness to Harper’s whereabouts between four and five, when Harper claimed to be watching Stubby Baker’s apartment.

During Harper’s interview, Garza had questioned the captain’s relationship with Crystal Ryder and with Ruthie Marner-he had asked a good many questions about Ruthie, and about how her mother viewed their friendship.

“She viewed it just fine. We were friends, riding companions, Crystal and the Marners and Dillon-I rode with them because of Dillon, because I didn’t want to be riding alone with a minor.”

“I can understand that.”

But later, in his notes, Garza discussed in some detail Harper’s leave schedule for the past two years. Harper had taken three short vacations down the coast to Cambria, where he could have met either Crystal or Ruthie or Helen, could have spent several days with any one of them.

Nonsense,Joe thought.That is totally reaching for it.But only once did the tape make Joe’s fur stand rigid.

During the time that Garza and Harper walked the Pamillon estate, while Garza taped their conversation, they had seen the cougar’s pawprints, and had discussed the possibility that the lion might have found Dillon as she hid from the Marners’ killer. The discussion sickened him. He wondered if he should go back there and search again.

But what good? He and Dulcie had been all over that property, and so had the search teams.

And what did Garza intend to do with the Eastland woman’s statement? The detective’s interview of Harper left him feeling decidedly irritable.

Dropping down from the mantel, he retired to the window seat, all claws and bad temper. He was lying on his belly, sulking, when Kate and Hanni returned. Hanni, setting her camera and purse on the dining table, stopped to stroke him. Angry and out of sorts, he hissed and slashed at her.

She jerked her hand away, her brown eyes widening.

He hung his head, ashamed. And Kate descended like a whirlwind, grabbing him by the nape of the neck.

Hanni stopped her.“Don’t, Kate. Maybe he hurts somewhere. Maybe I touched a wound from fighting.”

“I doubt it. Let me feel, Joe. Are you wounded?” Kate glared at him and poked him, pushing and prodding with a familiarity that even Clyde would hesitate to inflict. “You growl at anyone again, Joe Grey, you’re dog meat.”

He wanted to claw Kate as well.

“Can’t find anything,” she said lightly. “I’ll watch him for swelling. Probably he has a hair ball.” She gave him another scowl, her amber eyes blazing with such a catlike temper herself that he wanted to yowl with laughter.

But later at dinner, Kate and Hanni together fixed him a nice plate of lamb chops, cutting the pieces up small. Serving him on the window seat, Hanni reached again to stroke him.

He gave her a purr.

“Friends?” she said.

He rubbed his face against her hand; though, in truth, his mood hadn’t brightened much.

Why hadn’t Garza tossed Stubby Baker’s apartment? Why hadn’t he searched Crystal’s duplex? Did he not have sufficient cause? Didn’t he think the judge would issue warrants?

Or did he have no need to do those things?

Did Garza already know where Dillon was?

Watching the detective, he told himself he was letting his imagination run crazy, that he was too emotionally involved. But he felt as restless as bees on a skillet.

Well, maybe Garzadidn’thave probable cause to do those searches. But not every player in this game needed a warrant.

Giving Kate a look of urgency, as if he really needed to go out, he headed for the back door.

20 [????????: pic_21.jpg]

THE TIME was 9:30, the night sky clear, the slim moon and stars as bright as polished diamonds. On the village sidewalks, traffic was beginning to thin, late diners emerging from the restaurants, heading home or to their motels. While the tourists dawdled, looking in the shop windows, Joe Grey hurried along, brushing past their ankles, dodging across the narrow streets between slow-moving cars until soon he had left the shops behind and was among the crowding cottages. Passing Wilma’s house and moving up the north slope of the village, he paused before Crystal Ryder’s duplex.

Above the two double garages, with their closed, unwelcoming doors, Crystal’s windows were ablaze. In the far unit, only a faint light burned. Two different kinds of music came out-modern jazz from Crystal’s side, country from her neighbor, the two mixing in nerve-jangling discord.

Padding up the tall flight of wooden stairs, he leaped to Crystal’s window.

The screen was still loose, but the window itself was locked. He was peering between the curtains when the garage door rumbled open below him. Dropping to the deck, he looked over, watching Crystal’s black Mercedes back out, the top down, Crystal’s amber hair catching the light from the overhead. Behind her, as she headed down the hill, the door rumbled closed again. He watched until she was out of sight, then tried the front door, leaping up to swing on the knob.

Locked.

Galloping down the stairs, he fled around the building and up the grassy hill, to where the back windows might be accessible.

From the steep slope, he peered across a six-foot space to a lone window, very small, perhaps the bathroom window. The top half was open a few inches.

No light burned in the bathroom, but light seeped through from the studio. Springing across to the sill, he leaped for the top of the double-hung. Under his sudden weight, it crashed down so hard it nearly sent him flying. Scrambling over, he dropped down inside, narrowly missing a cold bath in the commode. He was just congratulating himself on his graceful entrance when the garage door rumbled up again and he heard the Mercedes pull in.

Had she forgotten something? If he only waited a few moments, would she drive away again?

Since he and Dulcie had followed the kit and found the tapes and escrow papers, he hadn’t been able to shake his uneasy feeling about this apartment. Call it overactive curiosity, call it senseless fear. Joe thought of it as the kind of feeling a cop got-he’d heard plenty of stories over the poker table as he lolled across the cards, getting in the way. Sometimes an officer justknewsomething was amiss. Knew that the perp had a gun stashed in the seat behind him. That the innocent-looking high school girl batting her eyes at him from the driver’s seat had a trunkful of drugs. No rhyme or reason. Just a feeling. He had it now, about this apartment.

Crouched in the bathroom where he’d landed, he heard a door open in the garage, then close again, and a lock snap or slide home. Heard Crystal come upstairs within the house, heard the door at the top open, heard her cross to the kitchen.

He peered out. The door to the stair stood ajar. The smell of garlic and tomato sauce filled the stairwell. He beat it down to the garage before she came back.

He heard her cross the room, heard the door close above him, heard her crossing back and forth, heard the water running, then in the kitchen heard her pull out a chair, then silence.

The garage was empty and neat, not like many village garages, filled with cast-off furniture, moldering storage boxes, and greasy yard equipment.

This two-car space had been swept clean. It contained only Crystal’s black Mercedes, a broom standing in the corner, a square metal furnace, a washer and dryer, and some empty metal shelves fastened to the wall. Beneath the stair was a small wooden door. He could hear, from within, a soft shuffling noise, then a tiny thump as if rats were at work on whatever was stored there.

The aroma of spaghetti clung around the door.

Sniffing beneath the door, he caught a scent that made him rear up, pawing at the bolt, then leaping and fighting, trying to slide it back.

The sounds from within ceased.

Above him, footsteps crossed the room. The door opened, spilling light. Crystal came down, opened the little door, slipped inside, and closed it behind her.

In the small space, the two female voices echoed sharply, one young and angry, the other haughty.

“I want to call my mother. I want to tell her I’m all right. If you really mean to help me, I don’t see why-”

“How many times do I have to go over this? He’s bound to have a tap on their phone. One call, and he’ll find you. And if he finds you, Dillon, he’ll kill you. You’re the only witness.”

“I’m tired of being shut in this stinking place. I’m cold. I’m tired of the dark! I’m tired of using a bucket for a bathroom.”

“It’s better than being dead.”

“Not much. Why can’t I come upstairs with you! I hear you moving around, I hear the TV and radio. I hear the water running-the shower! I want a shower! And last night I smelled steak cooking.”

“I brought you spaghetti. And here’s some Hershey bars. Eat them and shut up. You should be thankful that I got you out before he found you. Thankful I’m taking the trouble to protect you. If I hadn’t found you, you’d be rotting dead up there on that mountain.”

“You could’ve taken me to the cops. Why didn’t you take me to the cops?”

“What would they do? Question you and take you home. And the minute you’re home, he’d have you. Your parents couldn’t protect you. You told me they don’t keep a gun. He breaks in, kills you all. Kills you first, Dillon. In front of them. Then kills your mother and father.”

“I don’t want to stay here! I want out!”

The sounds of a scuffle. Dillon yelped as if Crystal had hit her.“Leave me alone! And whatdoyou get out of this? Whatdoyou get for savingme?”

No answer.

“I want to call my mother. I’ll make her promise not to tell anyone.”

“The worst thing you could do. No mother would keep a promise like that; she’d hightail it right to the cops. And he’d find you. Now shut up. It won’t be much longer.”

“Much longer untilwhat}”

“Until I can set you free. Until the coast is clear and I can let you go.”

But in the shadows, Joe Grey had a different interpretation, one that made his skin crawl.

There was only one window in the garage, a small dirty glass high in the back wall, just below the ceiling. He had noticed it from the hill, but it did not lead into the house. He thought Dillon might squeeze through, if he could get her out. But she would need a ladder. He could see no ladder, nothing to stand on but the Mercedes, and it was too far from the window. Maybe Dillon could push the dryer across. All she’d have to do was unplug it, and the dryer would be lighter than the washer.

Right. And it would be noisy as hell-and first he had to open the locked door.

Crystal came out, ducking through the low door and sliding the bolt home with a hard clunk. Hurrying up the stairs, she slammed that door and slid the bolt across. The dissonant jazz music had ended long ago. From next door, the cowboy lament was filled with misery.

Leaping at the bolt, he found it immovable, hard and ungiving. He tried for some time; then, crossing the garage, he tried the lock on the pedestrian door, thinking he could go for help.

It, too, was beyond his strength. And he realized he was as much a captive as Dillon.

Looking up at the ceiling, he studied the automatic opener, then prowled the garage until he found the button to operate it, to the left of the washing machine. That would be easy enough to spring.

Right. And bring Crystal on the double.

He fought the bolt on Dillon’s door until his paws throbbed. His thudding battle must have terrified her. “Who is it? Who’s there?” Dillon’s voice was both frightened and hopeful. “Please,” she whispered, “who’s there?”

He was sorely tempted to speak to her.

Oh, right. And blow his cover forever, him and Dulcie both. Enough people knew about them. And a kid-even a kid as great as Dillon-was too likely to spill. In one trusting moment, tell someone.

He had started to search for a vent, to see if he could tear off its grid or screen and slip through, when the upstairs door opened yet again, the light spilling down around Crystal as she descended. Swinging into the Mercedes, she raised the garage door, and backed out, the big door rolling down again like a giant guillotine.

He could have streaked out beneath it, except his passage would have made it halt. He guessed he could have leaped over the electric beam, left it unbroken. But he didn’t want to leave Dillon, he was afraid for her, he had a gut feeling he shouldn’t leave her.

He was pacing the garage trying to think what to do when he heard a police radio. Light flared under the garage door as the unit pulled up the drive.

All right! Help was on the way.

But what had alerted the patrol? Was this only a routine neighborhood check?

He had to get their attention.

The car door opened, he heard hard shoes on the concrete, heard the officer walking along the front of the duplex, then hushing through the bushes.

Joe followed the sound as the officer walked around the building, all sound lost at the far end, then came back behind the building through the tall grass of the hill. Heard him try the pedestrian door, then cross the drive again, and double-time up the front steps.

The bell rang three times, then a key turned in the lock-or maybe some kind of pick; Joe could hear the metal against metal. He followed the hard-soled footsteps above him as the officer prowled the house.

That was the way it sounded. Like prowling, not just walking around. Joe heard him open the closet door, then the shower door. What-or who-was he looking for? Did he have a warrant? Not usual, even with a warrant, to come into an empty house. When he stopped beside the door leading down to the garage, Joe slid behind the washer, his heart pounding. Who was this, which officer, prowling Crystal’s apartment?

The bolt turned. The door at the top of the stair was opening when, out in the drive, a siren began to whoop and the light beneath the garage door turned pulsing red.Whoop, whoop, whoop. Flash, flash, flash.

The officer pounded across the room and down the front stairs, jerked open the car door. The siren stopped. Joe heard him walking the front yard as if looking for whoever had entered his vehicle. He left at last, slamming the door, burning rubber as he backed down the drive.

Collapsing against the washer, Joe felt as limp as a slaughtered rabbit. He was staring at Dillon’s door, trying to figure out how to get it open, when up the stairs the door swung wide and light spilled down-silhoutting a small tabby-striped figure, her tail lashing.

He reared up, watching her.“How did you know I was here? How did you get in?”

“Through the bathroom window,” she said, galloping down. “Same as you.” She smiled and nuzzled him. “You’re not the only one who can break and enter-or follow a trail of scent.” She sniffed at the door beneath the stair. “Dillon! Oh, Joe! Is she really there?” she whispered.

“Alive and well. Who was that, tramping the house?”

“Officer Wendell. He didn’t open a drawer or cupboard, but he checked everywhere a person might be hidden, the closet, even under the sinks and in the shower. Stood on a chair and pushed up the little door into the attic, swung his torch all around. He checked the food in the kitchen and the clothes in the closet.” She narrowed her green eyes. “Looking for little-girl clothes? And why did he come so secretly? This isn’t his beat-he’s on day watch, south side of the village.”

“Didyouset off the siren?”

Dulcie smiled.“I saw Crystal at Binnie’s Italian, saw her come out with two cartons of takeout. On a hunch, I nipped on over here. Caught your scent. Went on in. Then Wendell came snooping.”

“Nice,” Joe said, nipping her ear.

Together they tried the bolt, leaping and grabbing and twisting, but they couldn’t budge it. They daren’t speak beyond the faintest whisper. They could hear Dillon just inside, softly breathing, as if she was pressed against the door.

“When we get her out,” Dulcie whispered, “where can we take her? We can’t take heranywhere.We can’ttalk to her.”

Joe didn’t have an answer. “The first order of business is to get her out.”

She touched his paw.“The minute we set her free, she’ll run straight home. And that’s the first place Crystal will look. You can bet she’s armed, Joe. If she gets there before they call the station… Dillon’s parents are such-gentle types.”

“Only her father. Her mother has spunk.”

“But-”

“We’ll think of something. I don’t want to leave her here. If we knew how long Crystal will be gone…”

“She went to meet someone. She called him but didn’t use his name. Just, ‘I need to talk with you,’ then, ‘I can’t. Meet me the same place.’ “

“Wark?”

“I’m guessing it was Wark.”

Leaping across the garage, Joe toppled the broom with one swat, where it leaned against the wall. Pushing and pulling together, they got it across the floor and upended, angling it against the bolt. They were forcing the broom with teeth and claws, pushing it against the bolt, when a furry warmth thrust between them, trying to help.

“How did you get here, Kit?” Joe snapped.

“Followed Dulcie,” she whispered, pushing with all her might.

From beyond the door, Dillon’s muffled, frightened voice cried, “Who’s there? What are you doing? Crystal, is that you?” The cats imagined her cowering in the small, dark space while a stranger-quite possibly the killer-pried at the door to get at her.

They tried again, with the kit pushing too-she was stronger than she looked-but the bolt seemed frozen in place.

“We need help,” Dulcie said, licking her bruised paws, crouching to race up the stairs-flying to the kitchen, to knock the phone from its cradle.

21 [????????: pic_22.jpg]

CHARLIEWAS so scared she was almost sick. Parking around the corner from the duplex, she left the van’s streetside door open as she’d been instructed. She didn’t fear Crystal, she feared whoever had killed the Marners and would be looking for Dillon. Dulcie said that already Officer Wendell had come prowling, in a way that was more than suspicious.

Hurrying along the dark street, she looked warily into the black interiors of the scattered cars parked against the curb, ready to run if someone stepped out to grab her. But despite her fear, she had to smile. She felt like Alice Through the Looking Glass for sure, stumbling around in the night, following orders from a cat.

Quickly up Crystal’s drive into the shadows, she moved along the side of the garage until she found the pedestrian entrance, a black rectangle where the door stood open. She could see nothing within. Clutching the hammer that she had pulled from her toolbox, she wondered if she’d be quick enough to use it if someone grabbed her.

A voice from inside made her jump.“She’s across the garage,” Dulcie said. “Under the stairs. We couldn’t slide the bolt-we finally did loosen this one. Hurry. Crystal’s gone, you can use your flashlight. Oh, hurry.”

Flipping on her flashlight, softly pulling closed the door behind her, she fled across behind Dulcie, her light sweeping across washer and dryer and furnace, pausing on the door beneath the stairs.

She slid the bolt. The door flew open in her face, knocking her backward. Dillon hit her in a tackle that sent her sprawling, the girl’s shoulder in her stomach. She couldn’t get her breath.

“Get off, Dillon. It’s me-it’s Charlie.” For a thirteen-year-old, the kid was strong. Fighting for her life, she crouched over Charlie, punching, blind with fear. When Charlie grabbed her hands, Dillon kneed her in the stomach, broke her grip, and ran, taking the stairs two at a time. She was halfway across the apartment when Charlie caught her, grabbing Dillon’s red hair, upsetting the coffee table, nearly strangling the child before she got her stopped.

“Hold still! Be still! It’s allright.I’m getting you out of here. Away from here. I’ll hide you.”

“That’s whatshesaid.”

“Stop it! I’m Clyde’s friend-Harper’s friend-you know that!”

Dillon stared at her, didn’t know her well enough to trust her. Charlie wished she’d brought Wilma. “I’ll explain when we’re out of here. Explain as much as I know. We-I think there’s more than one person wanting to kill you.” She scanned the apartment, half expecting Crystal to appear.

“Just let me go. Let me go home.”

“I can’t.” Dragging the child, Charlie stepped to the windows.

The drive below was empty. There were no new cars on the street.“Come on.”

“Where? I don’t want-”

“My place. You can hide at my place.”

“Take me to the cops or I won’t go! Captain Harper will-”

Charlie held her shoulders, looking down at her.“Harper is under suspicion for your kidnapping. And for the murder of Ruthie and Helen Marner. We know he didn’t do it. It gets complicated. You’ll have to trust me. If you want to save yourself and help Harper, we need to get out of here.”

“Just take me to the station. Is that so hard? Take me to Max Harper.” The kid was incredibly stubborn, not nearly as mild-mannered as her parents. Had Harper taught her that, to stand up for what she wanted like that?

“Harper isn’t at the station. He’s taken administrative leave.Hecan’t hide you. How would it look if you turned up at his place, when some people think he kidnapped you?”

“He didn’t! Harper didn’t kidnap me!Hedidn’t kill them!”

“I know that. That’s why you’re in danger. That’s why Crystal kidnapped you. Because you’re the only witness.”

“But Crystal rescued me from that man.”

“What man? The killer? Who is he?”

“I didn’t know him. It was nearly dark. I thought at first it was Captain Harper. It wasn’t. It happened so fast.”

A car came up the street. Crystal’s black convertible, turning up the steep drive, its lights sweeping across the windows. Charlie pulled her away from the glass.

“Dillon, Crystal’s been in touch with the man we think killed them. We think she’s using you to blackmail him. That when she’s done with you, when you’re no use to her, she means to kill you.”

“I don’t-”

As the garage door rumbled open, Charlie pulled her out the front door, dragged her running down the steps as the overhead door closed again. Charlie couldn’t remember whether she’d shut the door under the stairs. They ran, Charlie holding Dillon’s arm, racing down the street and around the corner, falling into the van.

She didn’t switch on her lights; she hit the overhead for only a second, staring into the back among the ladders and cleaning equipment.

Three pairs of eyes shone back at her. She doused the light and took off, spinning a fast U-turn as Dillon crouched on the seat, her hand on the door handle. Charlie jerked her hand away.

“If you don’t trust me, you trust Wilma. I’ll take you there.”

Something furry brushed by Charlie’s cheek and landed in Dillon’s lap, purring.

“Dulcie!” She hugged Dulcie, stroking her, nicely distracted. “Why are the cats with you?”

“I’m cat-sitting.”

“You brought themwithyou? Into…?”

“They-followed me when I left, and I couldn’t take the time to get them back inside.”

Dillon looked at Charlie hard-eyed and skeptical.“How come you’re here? What made you come here? How did you know where I was?”

“I-you won’t believe this.”

“Try.”

She glanced over at Dillon.“I had a dream. I dreamed of you and Crystal and a locked door.” Charlie looked again at the child, trying for a gaze of wide-eyed innocence.

“No. I don’t believe that.”

Crystal sighed. Did the kid have to be so tough-minded? Charlie pulled up in front of Wilma’s darkened house.

“I’ll just get out,” Dillon said. “I’ll wake her.”

“In the dark? Alone?” She reached behind the child, and punched the lock. “With Crystal and the killer looking for you? I don’t think so.” She gave Dillon a steady look. “We think he’s been watching Wilma’s house for you. She’s seen a strange car cruising.”

Dillon hesitated, her eyes questioning, holding Dulcie tight in her arms the way a smaller child would hold a teddy bear.

Charlie looked at the black yard, at the looming bushes and trees.“How about we bring Wilma with us?” Charlie handed her the cell phone. “Call her, wake her up. Tell her we’re out here. See if she’ll come.”

Dillon just looked at her.

Charlie took the phone, dialed Wilma’s number.

Dillon’s brown eyes searched Charlie’s. Her red hair was lank, needed washing.

The phone kept ringing.

Dillon said,“I want to see Harper. That man was dressed like him. And he was riding Bucky. I thought-when he first came up the trail, came over the ridge, I thought-we all thought it was the captain. I waved to him and shouted, and he…”

Dillon stared at Charlie, her eyes wide and expressionless.

“Did he hurt you?”

“I got away. He was… So much blood. And their screams… I-Redwing got me away.” Dillon bent over Dulcie, hugging her so hard Dulcie couldn’t breathe.

Charlie sat idling the engine, letting the phone ring and ring, watching Wilma’s dark windows, and watching ahead and in her rearview mirror for car lights. Or for a car without lights creeping up the street. Why didn’t Wilma answer? She never stayed out this late. Charlie wanted to get out and bang on the door, look in the garage to see if her car was gone. But she wasn’t leaving Dillon.

She hung up at last. She was redialing when a black Mercedes came around the corner, no lights, heading straight for them.

Crystal was not alone. Beside her in the open car sat a tall man that Charlie didn’t know. As the car slid against the van, Crystal’s passenger leveled a large-caliber revolver at them, first picking out Dillon, then moving a quarter inch so his sights were on Charlie.

22 [????????: pic_23.jpg]

THE GUNaimed at Charlie’s face looked as big as a cannon. Had to be a.45 caliber. The man’s hands wrapped around it were thin and long. He had a thin face, dark eyes, short dark hair. Aiming at her, he kept both eyes open in the manner of an experienced shooter. Was this Lee Wark? Stubby Baker? Or someone she’d never heard of? She couldn’t stop looking at the gun. He waved the barrel, motioning for Dillon to get out. Dillon didn’t move. Dulcie had vanished, sliding to the back of the van. Charlie couldn’t help looking at the man’s long fingers overlapped around the revolver, at his one finger curved tight to the trigger.

“I want the girl! Now! Both of you-out of the van!”

Charlie stomped on the gas and jerked the wheel hard, crashing the van into the Mercedes in a metal-screeching sideswipe that threw the shooter off-balance and dropped Dillon to the floor. She took off, burning rubber.“Dial the cops! Dial them now! Nine-one-one. Do it!”

But Dillon was already dialing.

A yowl of protest rose from the backseat.

“Shut up,” Charlie snapped. “One more sound, Joe Grey, and I’ll pitch you out the window.”

She took the corner on two wheels, her rearview mirrors blazing with lights careening behind her.

“There’s static!” Dillon shouted. “I can’t make them understand. They can’t-Was that a tire? Did we blow a tire?”

“Duck!” Charlie shoved Dillon under the dash as another shot boomed. Four more explosions. Dillon hit the redial. Charlie took a corner so fast she thought she’d topple the van. They were in the middle of the village; she prayed no one was on the streets. She was heading for the police station when a siren screamed behind them. She gave it the gas, watching in the mirror as a black-and-white wedged the Mercedes against a parked truck.

“Give me the phone. Watch behind us. Tell me what’s happening!”

Shoving the phone at her, Dillon fled between the seats to the back of the van, where she could see.“It’s Officer Wendell. Alone in the patrol car. He hasn’t made them get out. My God, he’s just standing there talking to them. Justtalking!No, he’s getting back in his unit.Letting them go.Charlie, he’s letting them go. What kind of cop…?”

Charlie turned up Ocean fast, without lights.“Is Crystal coming after us?”

“No, she… Yes. Step on it, she’s coming.”

She made a fast right.“Where’s Wendell?”

“Turned left back there.”

Was Wendell trying to cut them off? Charlie swung another right, into the narrow, unlit alley behind Beckwhite Automotive. Parking in the blackest shadows, she punched a one-digit code into the phone, listened to it ring and ring. When finally Clyde answered, she was shouting, couldn’t make herself speak softly. She didn’t think her plan would work, but she didn’t know what else to do. She glanced up at Dillon.

“Stay here. Stay down.”

Keeping low, she moved out of the van to a wide, sliding door in the back of the building. Using her flashlight long enough to punch three numbers into its digital lock, she slid the door back. Why didn’t Clyde have an automatic door?

But why would he? This wasn’t the main garage, only the paint shop. She could smell the automotive enamel, sharp and unpleasant. Running out again, she fell into the van, and they roared into the dark building.

Three cars left the big garage. The first, an old green Plymouth running with only parking lights turned toward Ocean. Clyde drove slowly, slipping around the darkest corners until he saw Crystal’s Mercedes pull away from the curb where it had been parked with the lights out-as if watching for a car, any car, to come out of the dead-end alley. As Crystal settled in to follow, he concentrated on some fancy driving, as if seriously trying to lose her.

The other two vehicles left by a different route, running dark, heading east toward the hills. The dull, primer-coated BMW, reflecting no light, might have been only the ghost of a car. It turned northeast. Behind it, the black station wagon headed south.

Crossing above the Highway 1 tunnel, the BMW sped up into the hills, its driver and four passengers enjoying the luxury of the soft leather seats. Dillon and the kit were snuggled together next to the driver, in a warm blanket, Dillon half asleep, so tired that even fear couldn’t keep her awake. Joe and Dulcie prowled from front seat to back, peering out, watching for approaching vehicles.

Neither cat saw the black station wagon double back to follow them where it would not be seen.

Moving higher along the narrow winding road, soon they had gained the long, overgrown drive into the Pamillon estate. Charlie wiggled the car in between the detritus of tumbled walls and dead oak trees, parking behind a ragged mass of broom bushes. Only when she cut the engine did she hear another car directly behind them, the sound of its motor bringing her up, ready to take off again.

Then she saw it was Harper. She had already cocked the.38 Clyde had given her, when they switched cars at the shop. Easing the hammer down, she holstered it and nudged the sleeping child.“Come on, it’s Harper. Guess he decided to come with us-guess he lost Crystal. You okay? You remember how to get down there?”

Yawning, Dillon bundled out of the van and took Harper’s hand. “We have to go through the house.” The cats streaked out of the van behind her, pressing close to Charlie’s heels. When Harper saw them, he did such a classic double take that Joe almost laughed.

Charlie looked at Harper blankly.“They were in the van, I didn’t have time to get them out.”

“They changed cars with you fast enough.”

“I couldn’t leave them in the shop, Max. Those paint fumes would have killed them; cats can’t take that stuff.”

Harper scowled at her and didn’t point out that she could have let the cats out of the shop, that they’d been only a few blocks from home.

He looked down at Dillon.“What makes you so sure Crystal won’t think you’d come here?”

“She found me here. Down where we’re going. I was so scared, nearly in hysterics. So scared I couldn’t talk.”

“Then why…?”

Dillon looked up at him.“Later when I sassed her, she threatened to bring me back here-to leave me alone down there. I got hysterical. She thinks-I hope she thinks-I’d do anything to keep from coming here.”

Harper grinned.“Good girl. And you’re not scared to hide down there again?”

“Not with you here.”

Harper made a sound halfway between a grumble and a laugh. Charlie glanced at him, wishing she could see his face.

Moving deeper in through the fallen limbs and dense growth and heaps of adobe bricks, Harper used his torch sparingly, turning it to a thin, low beam that the night seemed to swallow. Listening for any sound behind them, Charlie and Harper kept Dillon close between them. The three cats padded very close, pushing against Charlie’s ankles, Joe and Dulcie peering into the grainy shadows, expecting to see yellow eyes flame suddenly in the torchlight. They might envy the king of cats, but they had no desire to be hors d’oeuvres. The kit, though staying close, seemed more fascinated than scared.

“Talk,” Harper said as they moved in between the fallen walls. “Talk loud and bold. If the big cat’s around, he won’t bother three big, loud humans. Walk tall, Dillon.”

Dillon stood straighter, holding tightly to Harper’s arm, reaching several times to direct his light.

“Is it the old bomb shelter?” Harper said. “Is that where we’re heading?”

“I guess that’s what it is. It has bunks, scraps of blanket the mice have chewed up, old cans of food all swollen like they’ll explode. It’s down beside the root and canning cellars. Part of the roof has caved in, but you can hide back underneath.”

“I know the place.” He didn’t sound thrilled.

“You’ve been down there,” Charlie said.

“Didn’t hang around. Those crumbling walls and stairs…” He shone his light among the standing walls of the house as if looking for an alternative place to hide Dillon.

This was not, Joe thought, an orthodox way for a chief of police to be rescuing a kidnapped child.

Which only pointed up mat he, Joe Grey, was not the only one who mistrusted Wendell.

He hated that, hated the thought of corruption among Harper’s cops-corruption aimed straight at the captain.

And, like Max Harper, Joe wondered if it was smart to take refuge in a confining cellar where they might have only one route of escape.

Beside him, Dulcie was tense and watchful. But the kit padded along eagerly, listening to every tiniest sound, big-eyed with the thrill of adventure.

Charlie said,“I don’t like it that Wilma didn’t answer her phone.”

Harper didn’t seem concerned. “Maybe she unplugged it. She does that sometimes.”

Charlie glanced down at Dulcie. Dulcie blinked in agreement.

“Here,” Dillon said. “In the old kitchen, the stairs are here. They’re crumbly.”

As they started down, the cats caught the old, fading scent of puma. The stairway led down to a long, low-ceilinged cellar with thick adobe walls and heavy roof timbers, a chilly cavern that had been used for canning and root storage, in the days when families had to be self-sufficient. The human’s footsteps echoed. Joe didn’t like this descending into the earth; it made his paws sweat.

He’d never liked tight places, not since his San Francisco days of narrow, dead-end alleys where his only escape from mean-minded street kids was often down into some stinking cellar, with no idea whether the boys would follow him or not.

Dillon walked leaning against Charlie, nearly asleep on her feet, her head nodding, the blanket from the Mercedes that Charlie had wrapped around her half fallen off and slipping to the ground.

A door at the back of the long cellar led through a thick wall and down four more steps to the old World War II air raid shelter, its roof and one wall fallen in, open to the kitchen, above.

“When I hid here before,” Dillon said, “I thought maybe a cougar wouldn’t prowl so deep. That maybe he wouldn’t come down here?”

“No sensible beast would come down here,” Harper told her. “A cougar doesn’t use caves. They want to see around them.”

Right on,Joe thought, exchanging a look with Dulcie.No sensible beast, only humans. And cats stupid enough to follow humans.

But the kit padded ahead of them, all pricked ears and switching tail, looking about her bright-eyed at the mysterious and enchanting depths, her hunger for adventure and for deep, earthen places supplanting all caution.

The very tales that made Joe shiver, the old Celtic myths that spoke of wonders he didn’t care to know about, drew the kit. The old Irish tales of a land beneath the earth, and of cats who could change to humans. The kit thrived on those stories; she hungered for the kind of tales that made Joe Grey cross.

She’s young,Joe thought.Too young. Too trusting. Way too curious.Padding behind Harper’s beam into the black maw of the air raid shelter, he felt he was stepping into a gaping and hungry mouth.

The shelter had had two rooms. Where the first had caved in, they could see the ruins, above, and the clear night sky.

The door frame of the second, roofed portion still stood. The heavy plank door had been ripped off and lay on its side across the opening, barring the lower half. Behind it, someone had pulled a rusty set of shelves across, to further block the entrance. The shelves still held ancient cans of food, rusted tight to the metal surfaces.

Harper moved the shelf unit aside, glancing questioningly at Dillon.

“I pushed it there. Like a fence-it was all I had.”

He swept his light across the small concrete room.“I can’t believe these three cats have come down here with us. Sometimes they act more like dogs than cats.”

Joe and Dulcie exchanged a look. He wished he could give Harper an answer to that one.

Within the closed, damp room, they could smell the fresh scent of cougar, his trail coming down the earth slide, a track newly laid within the last few days. The kit backed away from the scent, her eyes huge, and patted at a lone pawprint in the loose earth.

Perhaps the young male had come here out of curiosity, had come down into the excavation to look and to mark, the way a cougar would investigate a new house under construction, stopping to spray the open, studded walls, to sniff at a hammer or at bent nails or at an empty beer can left behind by the building crew-leaving his pawprints for the carpenters to wonder and laugh over, and perhaps feel the cold sting of fear.

Joe, imagining the cougar padding down that insubstantial earth slide, didn’t know he was growling.

“What?” Charlie said, kneeling before him. “Has someone been here?”

Joe laid back his ears, giving her a toothy snarl.

“Cougar?” Charlie said, her eyes widening. “Has the cougar been here?”

Joe’s eyes on Charlie told her all he needed to say.

Charlie rose to face the door and the open pit beyond, her hand resting on the.38.

23 [????????: pic_24.jpg]

CHUNKS OF CONCRETE had fallen where one wall was crumbling, and rising from the debris stood a rusted, two-bunk bed with mouse-chewed mattresses. On the floor beside its iron legs were stacked more bulging cans of food, their labels presenting stained and faded pictures of tomatoes, beans, and corn-ruined cans ready to poison anyone foolish enough to sample their contents. Or, as Dillon had said, ready to explode in your face. Atop one can was a limp box of disintegrating matches and a grime-covered first-aid kit. The dozen gallon bottles of spring water against the wall ought, by this time, to be growing frogs. In the far corner lay a heap of animal bones and a strip of hide with short brown hair.“Deer,” Harper said, picking up a leg bone with hoof attached, and a jawbone that had long ago been licked clean.

“No puma would drag his kill down here. The deer might have been sick, stumbled and fallen, then foxes and racoons were at him.”

Joe wanted to tell Harper that a cougarhadbeen there, that his scent was fresh, that he had come prowling long after those bones were abandoned, and that this male might have a lay-up somewhere else among the ruins, maybe even in the standing portion of the house itself. That he might, scenting their fresh trail, return to have a look.

A curious cougar, if alarmed and cornered, could turn deadly.

Dillon yawned, looking longingly at the upper bunk. Tossing her blanket on top, she was about to climb up when Harper put his arm around her.

“Give us a minute. You’re so tired-if you lie down you’ll be gone. We need to talk. Come sit down, let me ask a few questions, get it on tape. Then you can sleep.”

Dillon sat down on the floor between Harper and Charlie, her back to the concrete wall, the three of them watching the cavernous opening that yawned beyond the frail barrier-though Joe would far rather see the cougar approaching than Crystal and her friend. Light from the flashlight bounced against the wall, brightening Charlie’s carrot-colored hair and Dillon’s darker, auburn bob. The tape recorder that Harper took from his pocket was no bigger than a can of cat food.

“Do you mind the tape?”

“No. We do tapes at school.”

“You hid here after the murder?”

“Yes, he was chasing me,” she said, yawning.

“Who was?”

“The man who killed Ruthie and Mrs. Marner. The same man who shot at us tonight. Crystal said his name was Stubby Baker.”

Harper raised an eyebrow.“Did you know a Stubby Baker?”

“No. I didn’t know that man.”

“The evening of the murder, did you see the killer’s face? Could you identify him if you saw him again?”

“His hat was pulled down and his coat collar turned up, but I got one good look. When his face was close to me. Thin face. Bony. Those eyes-black eyes. The same man as tonight, with the gun. And he was riding Bucky.”

“You’re sure it was my gelding?”

“Of course I’m sure. I know Bucky. Your horse, your saddle. Bucky’s bridle-that nice silver bit. The man’s hat and clothes looked like yours, too. When he rode up to us, with the hat pulled down, I thought it was you. I thought how strange you had your hat pulled down because the sun wasn’t in your eyes, it was behind you, real low in the sky. Then I saw-saw it wasn’t you.”

“You saw his face clearly.”

“At first, just his eyes. The sun was all dazzle behind him. But he looked right at me. Whispered, ‘Help. Help me,’ and he went limp over the saddle, limp down over the horn like he’d fainted or something. He grabbed at the horn and slid down, fell on the ground. Mrs… Mrs. Marner got off to help him. He… Do I have to tell more about it now?”

“We can talk about it later. How much did you see of his face? Tell me again, the general shape of his face. Was he clean-shaven?”

“He…” She looked at Harper, frowning. “His face was thin like yours. No beard or mustache. Smooth, no black stubble.” She held her hands to her own face, indicating where his hat was pulled down and his collar turned up. “Thin, long face, like yours,” Dillon said apologetically. “But no wrinkles. And-real high cheekbones. And black eyes.Notyou, Captain Harper. Not your eyes. Cold black eyes. And his mouth-a thin, hard mouth.”

Harper glanced at Charlie.“You don’t have paper or a pencil?”

“I don’t have my purse, only my keys.”

“Later, would you try a sketch?”

She nodded, as if etching Dillon’s description into memory.

“We’ll do a lineup,” he told Dillon. “When he grabbed Helen, how did you get away?”

“He hit her and cut-I saw him cut her throat.” Her voice shook, but she looked at him steadily. “Ruthie and I were kicking and hitting him, from our horses, trying to get him off Mrs. Marner. He grabbed Ruthie’s leg and pulled her off. It was all plunging horses and blood and screaming. I couldn’t… I hit and kicked, but when he grabbed for me I kicked Redwing, slapped my reins into his face, and whipped her.” Dillon looked at him desolately. “I ran away-I hung on to the saddle. He was pulling at me, I was nearly off. I kicked Redwing and hung on hard, kicked him and hit her, and Ruthie screaming and screaming behind me. I-I left them, Captain Harper. Left them there. I ran away.” She hid her face, crying. He put his arms around her, held her tight, letting her cry, looking over her head at Charlie, his face so filled with pain that the cats wanted to hold Harper safe, the way he washolding Dillon. And Charlie reached to touch his cheek.

But when Dillon could stop crying, Harper held her away.“Then what happened?”

“I kept going, as fast as Redwing could run. He came pounding behind me. When I looked back at him, I saw the other man back there. He had Ruthie, I could see her white blouse. He was hitting and hitting her. Then I ran into a branch, it nearly knocked me off. I had to lean low, kind of dizzy. Redwing was running full out. It hurt and I felt so dizzy I was scared I’d fall-or that she’d fall, stumble and fall. It was getting dark. He was getting closer. Bucky’s so big and fast, he was coming so fast, and the Marners’ horses were running after his horse, all wild, their reins and stirrups flapping.”

She blew her nose.

“And then?” Harper didn’t let up: he was going to have it all before he let her sleep.

“Then I was around the bend-that bend in the trail, by the ruins?” she said tiredly.

“Yes?”

“I knew he couldn’t see me there, it’s all trees. You know the place. I slid off and whacked Redwing hard; sent her flying, and I hid in the bushes.

“When he’d gone past, ducking low under the branches and beating Bucky, I doubled back and ran.

“I thought if Redwing kept running it would be awhile, under those trees, before he saw I wasn’t on her. I ran through the bushes and into the old house and upstairs so I could see if he came back.

“He did,” she said, swallowing. “I saw him coming. That was the worst time, when I saw him coming back. I was so scared I didn’t think I could move.

“I hid in the nursery, in that box beside the fireplace, under all those pieces of wall piled around it. I didn’t know where else to go. I knew I could get the box open without moving all the stuff, I’d looked in it once. You don’t really notice it-just looks like part of the junk.”

Dillon shivered.“I heard him coming up the stairs, heard him moving around the room. I was so scared. The box was like a coffin, and I’d trapped myself in there.

“I had the pocketknife Dad gave me, I had it open. Thinking, what good would that little knife do? He was bigger than me, he’d take it away from me.

“But I thought if he grabbed me and didn’t see it, if he pulled me up to his face the way he did Mrs. Marner, jerked her right up to his face, I’d jab it in his throat before he ever saw. I was trying to remember where the carotid artery is, exactly. I felt sick. I knew I had to try.”

Joe looked at Dulcie. Her eyes were wide with pain and with love for the child. Dillon clung to Harper, clutching his arm. She might be thirteen and nearly grown, but at that moment she seemed only a little child, wanting to be protected. And Dillon reached to Charlie, pulling her closer, hanging on to them both.

People talked about therapy, Joe thought. Talked about crisis counseling. What a child really needed was to be held tight and loved, and helped to talk it out.

Harper said,“You heard him leave the nursery?”

“I thought he left. I wasn’t sure-maybe he was waiting. I stayed still for a long time.”

Harper nodded.“How long do you think you stayed in the box?”

“I don’t know. Maybe an hour. It seemed like forever. When I came out it was really dark. I peeked out first. It was quiet, I couldn’t hear him. But I waited some more, until I had to pee, bad.

I didn’t hear anything but the crickets. When I came out, I crawled over to the edge where the floor ends and looked down.

“It was dark but the moon was coming up. I could see the pale garden walls, so if Bucky was there, I thought I’d see him-except if the man had hidden him, and was waiting for me. He killed Helen and Ruthie-or hurt Ruthie. I knew what he looked like. He’d have to kill me.

“Captain, Ruthie was only twentysomething, like my cousin. She was still in college.”

Harper nodded.

“I knew, when he chased me, I should have ridden fast down the hill for help. That I might have saved Ruthie. Except, that other man already had her. And going down the bare hills where I couldn’t hide, he would have caught me. I was sure they were dead. I knew Mrs. Marner was dead.”

She looked up at Harper.“But I feel so… I’m alive, Captain Harper. And they’re dead.”

He said nothing, he simply held her.

“I wanted to go home, but I was afraid he’d find me. And afraid of the mountain lion, afraid it would smell blood and come prowling. I was bleeding, my hand was cut.” She showed him the scar, with the dirty mark where a piece of tape had come off. “Crystal bandaged it.

“I didn’t see Bucky, but I could see a gleam of metal off through the trees like maybe a car, and that scared me. I thought it might be the man in black, so I came down here-down the broken back stairs and down the cellar stairs. I’d lost my barrette. I kept thinking if it was up there somewhere in the nursery, and one of them found it, they’d know I was there.

“I came down here and pushed that shelf thing across, and lay down on the top bunk, way at the back where he might not see me. I was so scared, I was like frozen.”

“I don’t think you were frozen,” Harper said. “I think you did very well. How long were you down here, do you think?”

“I don’t know. Until Crystal found me. It was still dark when she came. She called out to me, from that other cellar.”

Dillon looked at Harper.“She’d ridden with us so much, and she’s so beautiful, I trusted her.

“She had a gun, I was glad she had it, to protect me. We got in her car, with the top up, and went to her place. She made me some soup and a sandwich and bandaged my hand, and then-then, she said, to hide me, keep me safe, I had to stay in the basement, that she’d lock the door so no one could get in, to hurt me.”

Harper nodded and hugged her. The cats had never seen him so tender-as if his own predicament had stripped the cop veneer away for the moment, left him vulnerable.

“The second figure, Dillon. Could you identify the second man? The man in black? Did you recognize him?”

“No, just someone in black, hitting Ruthie. I never saw his face.

“But Crystal knew there were two men. Said she was hiding me from both.” She yawned, her eyes blinking closed. “When she locked me up, I knew I’d been stupid to come with her. But then it was too late.”

Harper turned off the tape recorder.“It won’t be long, we’ll get you home. You’re safe now. Climb in the bunk and get some rest.” He grinned at her. “You did good, Dillon. I’m proud of you. And whoever comes down those stairs, Charlie and I are armed.” He grinned. “And mean-tempered.”

Charlie helped Dillon up the rusty ladder and fixed her blanket over her. And the kit crept close, snuggling her head under Dillon’s chin. Dillon was gone at once, in deep, exhausted sleep.

Dulcie crouched near, on the foot of the bunk, idly swinging her tail, watching the sleeping child and the sleeping kit. Below her on the cold floor, Harper and Charlie sat close together, their backs to the wall, watching the black, empty root cellar and the open rim of the earthslide. They looked, Dulcie thought, as if they belonged together.

When Joe leaped up to stretch out beside Dulcie, across the mouse-chewed mattress, he lay with every sense alert, every muscle tense, watching and listening; and Dulcie, too, felt safe.

She was just drifting off when Harper said,“How did you find her, Charlie? I didn’t want to question her anymore. Did she manage to get to a phone? That brief version you gave me while we were switching cars didn’t make a lot of sense.”

“She was locked in that tiny room under the stairs, Max. Pitch dark, no windows. No light, no running water. A mattress on the floor. I’m surprised she’s in as good a shape as this. She’s a tough child.”

He looked hard at Charlie.“So now we’ve had a little diversion. How did you know she was there?”

“Max, you won’t believe this.”

The captain was quiet. Above them, Joe and Dulcie watched Charlie, ready to yowl and start a fight if she said too much. Would Charlie, in a heady moment of closeness with Max Harper, be tempted to betray them? Share secrets with Harper that later, with a clearer head, she would wish she could swallow back?

She won’t, Dulcie thought. Not Charlie, not ever.

But when she glanced at Joe, he didn’t look so sure.

“Max, I had a dream. It was so real I woke up sweating, terrified.”

Harper’s profile went rigid. That hard, ungiving cop look, that I-know-you’relying look that Joe Grey knew too well.

“It was like Dillon was right there, her face in my face, shouting in my face. We were in a dark, tiny room-all concrete. She was so frightened, was beating at the door-right in my face, beating and pounding on the door, shouting, ‘Let me out! Please, Crystal, let me out of here!’

“I’ve never had a dream like that, not so real.”

Harper’s profile didn’t change. He wasn’t buying this.

“I sat up. Knew I couldn’t go back to sleep. I thought of phoning Crystal, and knew I daren’t do that. I got up, threw on some clothes, and headed for Crystal’s. I knew it was crazy, but I couldn’t help going.

“Crystal left as I was coming around the corner, I saw her car pull out. I was scared she had Dillon with her.

“I had a hammer in my hand, from my toolbox. I went to the side door, under the house. I was going to smash the glass but it was unlocked, like she forgot to lock it.”

On the top bunk, Joe grinned at Dulcie. Charlie was doing it up right, she even hadhimbelieving. He was mighty glad he had, on the second try, managed to slide that bolt.

“I found the door under the stairs, Iknewshe was there. It was the place I’d dreamed of. All I could think was, get her out of there, get her away.”

She looked at Max, lifted her hand to touch his face.“I drove the bolt back, got her out, and we ran.”

Harper looked hard at Charlie. He said nothing.

“What, Max? She’s a very tough little girl.” She rose and stepped to the bunks, stood looking at the sleeping child, raised her eyes to the cats, and winked. Then turned back to sit beside Harper.

“This Dallas Garza, Max. What is he doing? Is he helping you? Is he honest? Does he talk to you? What does he tell you?”

“He’s doing his job, Charlie. He’s not supposed to keep me informed-though as a matter of fact, we had a talk yesterday.

“I asked him if Mr. Berndt had filed a report or tendered informal information regarding the case. Garza said not to his knowledge.”

Harper eased his back against the concrete wall.“When I was in the grocery yesterday, Mr. Berndt apologized for acting like an old woman about the groceries. I asked him what he meant.”

He reached for a cigarette, forgetting he’d quit, then dropped his hand. “Seems Berndt told Wendell, couple of days ago, that he’d noticed Crystal Ryder was suddenly buying a lot more groceries-peanut butter, kid cereal, a lot of kid food. That it made him curious. From what he’d observed, Crystal lives on salads, yogurt, and an occasional steak.

“Berndt had asked one of Crystal’s neighbors, a real talkative woman, if Crystal had a child visiting. Molly-Molly Gersten. Molly hadn’t seen a child. She can see the front of Crystal’s apartment, the front door and windows, from her kitchen.

“Berndt thought it was interesting enough to call the station. Wendell was on the desk, and Berndt gave him the information. Wendell told him he’d pass it on at once, to Detective Garza.

“Garza said he never got it.”

Charlie nodded.“Tonight, Wendell stopped Crystal when they were chasing and firing at us. But then he let them go. He had to have heard the shots. But he let them go.” She turned to look at him. “What are you going to do?”

“About Wendell?” Harper looked deeply at her. “Time, Charlie. Time, patience, and a cool head.”

“I’m not long on patience or a cool head.” She studied his face. “Who do you think killed them?”

“Maybe Baker. Maybe Lee Wark. Maybe Crystal.”

“Not Wendell.”

“Wendell is a follower, not a very bold type. Easily influenced. I inherited him on the force-should have sent him packing.”

“But who do you think attacked them-and almost killed Dillon?” she said softly.

“Charlie, you know I can’t make that kind of premature call. It muddies the waters. Makes a case harder to work.”

“But that’s the problem. You’re not working this case. Your own future is at stake and your hands are tied. You’re not allowed to dig out the facts.”

“And that is as it should be.”

“I wouldn’t be worth a damn as a cop. I’d be champing at the bit all the time, wanting to hurry up an investigation, get to the bottom line.”

Harper looked at her a long time, a look so intimate that Dulcie looked away, embarrassed.“You might,” Harper said, “make a good cop’s wife.”

Charlie’s face went totally red.

“Well,” he said gently, “you can cook and clean. Repair the roof and the plumbing, feed and care for the horses, even train a dog or two. In fact, come to that, you’re not a bad shot, either.” He reached to his belt. “I’ll try the radio, see if we can get a line on Clyde-though I doubt we’ll get much, this far underground.”

Charlie leaned forward to tie her shoe, as if getting control of herself.

Harper’s hand was on his radio when, atop the bunk, Joe Grey froze, watching the short stair and the black cellar beyond. A faint brushing sound, too faint for human ears. Hissing, unable to avoid a low growl, he took off up the steps and up the stairs beyond.

Behind him, Harper extinguished the light and palmed his automatic. Charlie moved to follow Joe, but Harper pulled her back, shoved her to a crouching position at the side of the fallen door. Only Dulcie followed him, racing into the night.

The two humans waited, frozen and silent, the shooters crouched and aiming. And Dillon and the kit slept innocent and unaware.

24 [????????: pic_25.jpg]

DRIVINGthe old green Plymouth, Clyde tried every evasive tactic he’d ever learned from Harper or from watching cop flicks, ducking into driveways, doubling back to slip down an alley, making sure the black convertible was there behind him. With both of them running dark, he prayed no late-hour pedestrian or innocent animal hurried into the street. Crossing Ocean, Crystal stepped on the gas, but at the next intersection she held back as if wary of the brighter streetlight. Glancing back, he lifted a bag of cleaning rags from the seat beside him, let it be seen through the windows as if a passenger had stuck her head up. When Crystal speeded up, narrowing the distance for a better look, he dropped the bag on the seat.

In his rearview mirror, he couldn’t see her passenger. Was he lying low or had he bailed out?

Maybe he’d picked up another car, would come slipping out of a side street to cut him off, thinking he had the child.

Or had Crystal’s passenger spotted Charlie and Dillon, and was on their tail? They’d be high in the hills now, driving alone on empty, lonely roads, winding toward the Pamillon place. Harper might be following them, or he might not. Clyde was glad he’d given Charlie a gun, glad for their evenings, after hamburgers or Mexican, when he’d taken her to the police range and taught her the proper use of the weapon-glad, he supposed, for Harper’s later training, on the nights Charlie went up there to work with the pups. He didn’t know how he felt about that.

His relationship with Charlie, though they’d had their moments, seemed to have settled from hot romance into an easy and comfortable friendship.

Was that his fault or hers? He took two more corners, Crystal still on his tail. She’d bolt when she saw where he was headed. Lifting the ragbag again, he dropped it as an oncoming car swerved toward him, its lights blazing on high, moving fast. He tramped the gas, did a hard peel across the intersection on two wheels and down the side street, his rearview mirrors catching the lights as the car screamed on his tail.

It sideswiped him hard, knocking him into the oncoming lane. He managed to spin a U. It hit him again, sent him over the curb and across the sidewalk. The police station loomed half a block ahead. He hit the gas hard. He thought the car was turning away when it spun and hit him broadside-sent the Plymouth sideways into the department’s plate-glass window, exploding glass. He threw open the door as a shot rang, and dove in a flying lunge toward the swinging glass doors and through them, nearly trampled as cops came boiling out. Two guys jumped over him where he sprawled. A young corporal stepped on his hand. Three more shots rang out,bing, bing, bing.A small-caliber rifle. He saw its flame blaze from an officer’s hands, aimed to stop the driver. When it didn’t stop him, two patrol cars took off, on his tail.

And two officers grabbed Clyde, jerking his arms behind him, slapping on cuffs. Those two new rookies. He shouted, but no one paid attention. The dispatcher was busy calling the sheriff for assistance. The whole force was in action. Detective Davis spun him around, took one look, looked disgusted, and unlocked the cuffs.

At least he was inside the station, out of the line of fire-maybe.

The offending car was gone, four squad cars scorching after it. He hadn’t seen what happened to Crystal; the black convertible had vanished. He sat down on the nearest desk, watching through the shattered window as Davis joined Hendricks, assessing the damage to the building. In a few minutes, two officers came up the street, marching a tall, good-looking guy beforethem, strong-arming him into the station. Baker. Stubby Baker. Clyde looked him over and went out to look at the Plymouth, his shoes crunching shattered glass.

Shoving through a crowd of onlookers, some in pajamas and robes, and several homeless with their backpacks, who seemed to greatly enjoy the entertainment, he scanned the street for Crystal’s convertible. But she’d be long gone. The left side of the Plymouth was totaled.

Moving back inside, he watched as Baker was booked and printed. The well-made, darkhaired man was wide-eyed with surprised innocence. Clyde prayed that Charlie and Harper and Dillon were safe, and he worried about the cats. He’d learned long ago not to argue with cats. Hardheaded and stubborn, they had bulled their way into Charlie’s BMW. He guessed, after rescuing Dillon, they had a right to be in on the action-but they were so small and easily hurt. If he let himself worry about them, it tied his belly in knots.

Detective Davis sat down on the desk beside him, her dark eyes appraising.“What’s going on, Damen? Why did he ram you? Why was he chasing you?”

He laid out as much of the scenario as he could reveal, told her that Charlie had found Dillon Thurwell in Crystal Baker’s apartment, that Dillon had been locked in a cellar, that when Charlie got her out, Baker and Crystal followed and pulled a gun on them. He described his and Charlie’s ploy to get Dillon away, their vehicular shell game. He didn’t mention Harper.

Davis pushed back her short, dark hair.“So where are they now?” Her brown eyes were unreadable. He saw Officer Wendell beyond her, quietly listening.

“I don’t know where Charlie took her. Maybe up the coast. Crystal was after them. Black Mercedes convertible. She was on my tail until Baker started ramming me.”

“And where’s Harper? He’s staying with you.”

“I-we started out together. He’s in another car.”

“Is Charlie carrying?”

He nodded. The department knew he’d had Charlie on the range.

Davis sighed.“If you know anything that you’re not telling us…”

He looked evenly at the solid, sensible woman.“I want Dillon safe, we need to find Dillon.”

“Can you tell me anything more?”

He glanced toward Wendell. Davis widened her eyes.

“I don’t know anything more, Juana. I want Dillon and Charlie and Harper safe.“Iwant the cats safe,he thought.I want Joe Grey back in one piece.

Joe was so enraged by this scam against Harper, that Clyde had no idea what the tomcat would do. He looked solemnly at Davis.“You going to arrest me?”

“What for, Damen?”

Clyde shrugged, and felt easier.

He’d heard the dispatcher call Garza; the detective was on his way in. Clyde didn’t quite trust Garza, after what Joe had told him; he was wary of how Garza would handle tonight’s events.

If Garza was in on framing Harper, likely Stubby Baker would be out before midnight, free to go on searching for Dillon.

He turned when he heard Garza’s voice, watched the tall, broad-shouldered Latino out on the street, talking with portly Lieutenant Brennan, assessing the damage to the building. In a few minutes they came into the station, and Garza nodded to Davis. She glanced at Clyde, jerking her thumb toward the video in the far corner of the squad room. “We’re going to question Baker. You want to watch?”

He sat before the screen watching Garza and Davis, in the interrogation room, grilling Stubby Baker, their exchange fed to him through a camera mounted high on the interrogation room wall. Garza let Davis do most of the talking.

“You were with Crystal Ryder tonight in her apartment?”

“No. I was not.”

“When were you last in her apartment?”

“I don’t remember.”

“When were you last within a block of her apartment?”

“Tonight. I followed Harper there. I saw Captain Harper go into her apartment.”

“Did she let him in?”

“I don’t think so. Looked to me like he used some kind of lock pick. You know? Fiddling around with the lock.”

“Did he see you?”

“Don’t think so. I’d got out of my car, left it around the corner. I was-ah, in the bushes.”

“What time was this?”

“Maybe ten.”

“Why did you follow him?”

“I thought he’d be looking for the kid. To do her, you know?”

“Why would he want to do her?”

“Because she saw him kill those women.”

“What made you think the child was at Crystal’s?”

“I’d been watching.”

“Watching what?”

“Watching Crystal come and go. I thought she had someone staying there.”

“Why did you think that?”

“She was bringing home a lot of groceries.”

“What did you do when Harper went in her apartment?”

“I sat down in the bushes and watched.”

“Was Crystal there?”

“The garage door was shut. I didn’t see her at the windows.”

“Was Crystal there?”

“I guess. She came out later, drove off fast after Harper, after he took the kid.”

“How long were you there?”

“Until Harper went off with the kid. When Harper took off, I followed. Afraid he would kill her.”

“What time was this?”

“I guess about an hour ago.”

“Why did Crystal have her there?”

He looked surprised. Looked right into the camera.“To save her-keep Harper from doing her.”

“And what was your interest in the matter?”

“She’s just a little kid. I read the papers, I watch the news. A cop gone bad is a terrible thing.”

Detective Davis snorted. Garza’s expression didn’t change. Clyde was glad he wasn’t in the room; it would be hard to hold his temper.

“And so you followed Harper?” Davis said.

“I followed him, then that other car came. That old Plymouth. Harper pulled up beside it and got out, and they talked.”

“And?”

“There was a lot of moving around, doors opening and closing. I thought he put the kid in the Plymouth.”

“Go on.”

“I followed it. Driver kept dodging me. I tried to head it over here, toward the station. You know? To get help.”

Baker gave Davis that boyish smile.“Well, guess I did get some help. But then I didn’t see the kid. Plymouth rammed the station. Well, you saw. And I didn’t see the kid. Did you get the kid? Is she safe?”

Talk about chutzpah. Clyde’s fists were balled, itching to punch Baker. He waited for Baker to finish, then went back to a conference room with Garza and Davis, and gave his own statement, sipping coffee that tasted like burnt shoes.

“Harper’s staying with me, he was there all night, playing poker. We went to bed around ten. Harper snores so loud he rocks the guest room-no way he could have slipped out, even if he’d do such a thing.

“Phone rang, woke me up. It was Charlie. Said she had Dillon. That she was just south of Wilma’s house, and Crystal and Baker were shooting at them. Said to meet her at the shop, if she could give them the slip. The back door, up the alley. That maybe we could switch cars and get Dillon away. Iwoke Harper and we took off.”

Davis was recording it all. Somewhere down the line she’d type it up and expect him to sign it.

“I kept wondering, when you questioned Baker, if he and Crystal were the only ones involved. Or if there could be a second man. A man still out there, riding with Crystal, following Harper and Charlie and Dillon.”

Davis turned a dark brown, Latin stare on him.“It’s possible. Six cars are out looking. Where are they?”

“Try the Pamillon place.”

Davis dialed the dispatcher, gave the instructions, then fixed again on Clyde.“I asked you earlier where they were. You didn’t know.”

“Didn’t want to talk in front of Wendell. I don’t trust Wendell.”

Her response was noncommittal. Garza didn’t blink, sat unmoving, watching Clyde. The interview was soon terminated, Clyde none the wiser about what the officers thought. He was heading for the door when a call that stopped him came in. Harper’s voice, crackling with static. He moved toward the dispatcher’s desk to hear better.

“Code two. I have Dillon Thurwell. The old…” Harper went silent, and they heard three shots pop. Clyde didn’t wait; he ran for his car, then remembered it was wrecked. Garza was behind him, and Davis. He swung into the backseat of a black-and-white, Garza behind the wheel. The detective spun a U and headed up Ocean, the siren blasting. Clyde was cold with fear for Harper and Charlie and Dillon-but weak, thinking of the cats up there in the middle of the confusion and gunfire, three small cats soon to be surrounded by wheeling squad cars and running officers-three little cats who had saved Dillon Thurwell and now were in danger for their own lives.

And no one knew to care. No one but Charlie would think of protecting them; no one knew how special they were.

25 [????????: pic_26.jpg]

IN THE TIDES and eddies of night, among the broken walls and fallen trees, a figure dressed in dark clothes moved silently and quick, pausing to investigate the two cars parked among the rubble, then slipping toward the ruined house, seeming to know well the layout of the gardens and the abandoned mansion. The time was 5 A.M., some four and a half hours after the three cars left the back door of the automotive shop; the winter night was still black.

Beneath the estate’s sprawling trees, no faint gleam shone across the figure’s chin or hair, no glint of light fingered the gun that nestled in a furtive hand, nor could one hear the smallest hush of a footstep. The prowler was as silent as the hunter who followed behind on stealthy paws watching with curiosity every move, sniffing at the rank human smell.

As the figure moved into the derelict house through the open parlor and toward the kitchen and stairs, the feline hunter padded closer. Only the cougar was aware of a second two-leg, standing behind them out by the road at the edge of the overgrown gardens. The big cat did not feel threatened. Cocking an ear, he listened behind him, then honed his attention again on the thin figure approaching the stairwell, the black cave down into the earth.

When another hunter entered the scene, slipping up from the earthen caverns below, the cougar caught the scent without interest. The small domestic cat didn’t distract him. All his attention was on the two-leg, where it wandered with its back to him, a position that excited him and drew him ever closer-that retreating back enticed him beyond curiosity, to a desire to grab and kill.

Beside the cave-hole, the two-leg paused and seemed to be listening. The cougar paused. And from deep in the shadows, Joe Grey watched the little drama. The four players were positioned as in a game of chess, but this game was played by scent and sound, as rook and knights and king pursued their opposing objectives.

And only one among the players understood the worlds of both his four-footed and two-footed opponents. Only one had the keener senses of the big, four-footed cat, yet the sophisticated mental skills of the two-legs.

Crouched beneath a massy bush of Mexican sage, some fifty feet from the stairs that led down to the cellar, Joe Grey watched the puma slide through the ruined house, stalking the dark-dressed figure, the big cat relaxed and easy, strolling along as if he owned the Pamillon estate. And certainly in his cougar mind, he did own it.

Joe didn’t know whether the dark-clad figure the big cat followed was male or female until that player paused at the head of the stairs, and Joe caught the glint of honey-colored hair. Crystal? He couldn’t smell her over the garden scents and the stink of the puma. She stood looking around her, listening.

And out on the road, the watcher shifted position, his black clothes darker than the night. Stubby Baker? Had Baker slipped away from Clyde and followed Crystal? Joe wanted to go have a look-but daren’t leave Crystal to slip down the steps and take Harper and Charlie by surprise; none of these players had made a sound; Harper would have no reason for sudden alarm. He and Charlie would still be sitting on the floor of the cellar, alert but caught in idle conversation.

Joe didn’t know if Crystal was armed. He didn’tthinkshe would hurt Dillon, but who knew? He thought she had held Dillon as security, to blackmail the killer. He figured Crystal as the go-between, liaison between the killer and whoever at San Quentin had done the hiring.

If Crystal was the banker, the mastermind at Quentin fully trusted her.

How ironic that the money to buy Helen Marner’s duplex was money Crystal earned by having Helen murdered.

Moving closer behind the cougar through the rubble of the kitchen, Joe leaped atop a tinder heap of rotting kitchen cabinets. The cougar twitched an ear, but remained intent on Crystal. And in a moment, Joe slipped wide around the big cat, positioning himself to scorch down past Crystal and warn Harper.

But the other figure had slipped nearer, entering the parlor, looming black against the graying sky. It was a man, Joe saw clearly now.

The cougar turned, watching the intruder, the tip of his tail twitching. The black-robed figure didn’t see him; he cut through the parlor running. Grabbing Crystal, he shoved a gun in her face. The cougar wheeled, leaping away twenty feet to the top of a broken wall, crouching to watch, his tail lashing.

Unaware, the man shook Crystal and hit her.“Where is she? Where is the girl?” His voice was raspy, whining, icing Joe Grey’s blood.

“I don’t have her.” Fear sharpened Crystal’s voice. “Why would I have her?”

Wark hit Crystal again.“Where?”

She pounded him and kneed him. He stumbled, beating her. Above them the cougar crouched. Fighting, the two fell writhing to the ground. The cougar was on them in a hot surge of power, snatching Crystal by the neck, knocking Wark against the wall.

Three shots rang out.

The cougar turned, snarling. Harper fired again into the sky. The big cat dropped Crystal and crouched facing Harper, poised between springing at him and running. His paw still held Crystal. He glanced at her once, licking blood from his whiskers. In that instant, Lee Wark spun away, running. Harper shouted and fired after him-Harper knew better than to run. Nor would he leave Crystal. The gunfire and shout decided the cougar. He fled up the hill into the black forest.

And Lee Wark, too, was gone. Harper looked after him for a moment, then knelt over Crystal, his gun on her as he spoke into his radio. The air stank of gunpowder and blood. Joe could see where the puma had torn her shoulder and arm. He backed away, fading into the shadows-and found Dulcie beside him, pressing close.

And when the two cats looked up the hill above the ruins, the cougar stood watching, sleek and powerful against the silver dawn. The big cat screamed once, wheeled, and vanished toward the wild mountains. They looked after him, shivering.

“Oh,” whispered a small voice behind them. “Oh, so beautiful.” And the kit pushed between them, her dark little face and round yellow eyes filled with yearning, her furry ears sharp forward as if waiting for another wild scream.

Joe couldn’t speak for the kit, but that golden image left him feeling as small and insignificant as a fly speck.

But then Dulcie brushed her whiskers against his, purring, and pressed close to him, and he felt fine and strong again, the boldest and most elegant of tomcats.

And Max Harper turned from his cuffed prisoner, where she lay curled into a fetal position, her head on Harper’s folded jacket. Harper had managed to stop some of the bleeding, using pressure. They could hear the ambulance screaming up the hills, and soon they could see its whirling red light and the lights of two squad cars.

As the cats came out from the shadows, Max Harper knelt and, in a rare gesture, reached to stroke Joe Grey.“Thanks, tomcat. With all that hissing and taking off up the stairs, you kept Crystal from slipping down on us. Maybe you stopped the cougar, too.” Harper grinned. “Maybe Clyde’s right, maybe catsaregood for something.”

26 [????????: pic_27.jpg]

DRIVINGUP the coast with Hanni, Kate couldn’t keep her mind off Lee Wark. She leaned back in the soft leather of Hanni’s SUV, meaning to enjoy the morning, and spent the entire drive staring into every car they passed, with the paranoid notion that she would see Wark.

The sun was bright, the air just cool enough to be fresh, their windows cracked to an ocean breeze, the sea on their left thundering with sufficient wildness to both beckon and repel. And all she could think of was Lee Wark.

Stubby Baker was in jail, this morning. And that was good news. And Crystal Ryder was under arrest, in the emergency wing of Molena Point Hospital. But Lee Wark was still free, and Dallas had reason to believe that Wark had killed Ruthie Marner.

What an amazing thing, that Crystal had been attacked by the cougar. What a strange end to Crystal’s part in a bizarre crime.

Certainly nothing had changed in the threat that she, Kate, felt from Wark. She was obsessed with the idea that he was near. When Hanni turned off the freeway into the city, just before noon, she was tense with nerves.

And alone again in her apartment, before she must return to work the next morning, she felt the afternoon stretching ahead, peculiarly unsettling.

She needed to lay to rest her fears-at least those surrounding the Cat Museum. That fear, she had come to realize, was in part fear of the museum itself. Fear of what she might learn there, as well as her unease that Wark would find her there and hurt her.

She wasn’t home half an hour, glancing through her mail that had been shoved through the door onto the rug, before she grabbed her jacket, locked the door behind her, and headed for the Iron Horse. She’d have a quick lunch, then call a cab. Wark wouldn’t be in the city.

He would be too busy, with the Marner murders hanging over him, too busy running from the police to think about her. To think about her possible connection to what she believed was a whole, traceable line of individuals possessed of the spirits of both cat and human. Certainly Wark would not be interested in her search for a man who might have been her grandfather.

Hurrying into the restaurant, heading for her usual table-praying that Ramon wouldn’t start about the cat killer-she greeted him with an unusual reserve.

“Buenos dias, senora.”

“Good afternoon, Ramon.”

She felt guilty at his puzzled look, that she hadn’t spoken in their usual joking Spanish. Why had she come in here, only to be rude to him?

“It’s good to see you, Ramon.”

“You have been away. Did you enjoy your village? Molena Point,verdad?”

Kate laughed, telling herself she should be pleased that he would remember.“It was nice to be home in the village, yes.” He was such a shy, kind person. There was no need to be rude to him. He was only very curious-and so easy to hurt, easy to rebuff, backing away if he felt unwanted.

There was a reluctant, almost stray quality about Ramon. He was a loner. A shy, needy person and a loner. She gave him a smile.“It’s nice to be back in the city. Very nice to see you.”

Her friendliness eased him. When he had taken her order and brought her sandwich, he fetched his own cup of coffee and sat down opposite her, glancing at her diffidently.

“You were all right when you were in your village, senora? You had a happy time?”

“Oh, yes, Ramon. Quite happy.” What was he getting at? He couldn’t know that she had left the city frightened, had been frightened, in a painful undercurrent, the entire time she was at home, and was still scared.

She said,“There have been-no more terrible incidents?”

Why had she said that? She hadn’t meant to mention the cat killer, she didn’t want to hear about him. It came out before she thought.

“No, senora. No incidents. Maybe that man went away. Except…” He glanced out at the street, his white skin going paler, the rust-colored scar on his cheek seeming to darken.

“Except, maybe an hour ago when I took out the trash, I saw three cats running, very frightened, into the alley as if something was chasing them.”

“City cats, Ramon. They run from cars, from dogs, from small children.”

“I suppose.” Ramon finished his coffee and rose. She wanted to ask if he’d gone into the alley where the cats had run. Had he seen anyone chasing them?

But she didn’t ask. She was so foolishly obsessed. At least she could keep her fears to herself.

She ate quickly, irritated with herself, paid her bill, and left; she looked back once, to see him standing in the window watching her. He had turned theopensign around to readclosed,and had pulled the sheer white curtain across the lower half of the glass. She supposed he had an errand; he did that sometimes, left after the noon rush, returned in time to prepare for the dinner hour.

Heading up Stockton, she decided not to look for a cab. The sun felt good on her shoulders. She liked watching the clouds racing overhead trailing their shadows swift as birds across the pale hillside houses. She swung along until soon, above her at the crest of Russian Hill, the white walls and red tile roofs of the museum glowed beneath their dark, twisted oaks. Hurrying up the hill, only once did she glance behind her.

Seeing the street empty, she slowed her pace. She entered through the iron gate slowly, taking her time, enjoying the welcoming ambiance of the bright gardens.

The museum’s cats were everywhere, sunning on the walks, rolling over, smiling lazily as they watched her, cats as sleek as the marble felines that gleamed on the sculpture stands. Cats peered out at her from the geraniums, looked down from atop the stone walls and out through the gallery windows. She had such a sense of oneness with them, almost as if she could read their thoughts-of sun on their backs, of the warm sidewalk, the taste of water in a bowl.

But then suddenly the cats turned wary, slipping away into the bushes.

Afraid of her? Was her two-sided nature so apparent? And did that frighten them?

Were none of them like Joe Grey and Dulcie, so they could understand her?

Soon only one cat remained, watching her unafraid. A sleek torn as white as alabaster. He looked at her for a long time, then he, too, vanished, just where sunlight struck through the leaves. He’d had dirt on his face, or some sort of rust-colored marking.

Approaching the main door, she paused to read the quotations inscribed on clay tablets along the garden wall.

Some claim that the cat came to us from the vanished continent of Atlantis.

Our companion the cat is the warm, furry, whiskered, and purring reminder of a lost paradise.

That one made her smile. She recognized that quotation, she thought from some French artist.

But the next inscription stopped her.

Dark the cat walks, his pacing shadow small.

Dark the cat walks, his shadow explodes tall,

Fearsome wide and tall.

Ramon’s words. That was what Ramon had said, the day he brought the newspaper that had so upset her.

Backing away from the plaque, she sat down on a bench, her hands trembling.His shadow explodes tall, fearsome wide and tall.

Ramon couldn’t know what those words meant. To Ramon, they would be no more than a poetic image. She read the lines again, trying to put down her unease.

A movement at the corner of her vision made her look up. Ice filled her veins.

The man in the black overcoat stood out by the street. Dense black against the clear colors of the garden.

He stood looking at her, his face in shadow, then turned slowly away, moved casually down the hill to disappear between the houses.

She thought to run after him and get a good look-grab his shoulders and swing him around, get a look at his eyes.

But she didn’t have the nerve. She hurried inside through the mullioned glass door to the safety of the galleries.

Losing herself among the rich oils and watercolors, she found some ink drawings by Alice Kitchen, then discovered a Miro and two delightful Van Goghs. And a Picasso she didn’t care for. Too stark and impersonal. She stopped to admire the primitive portrait of a black Manx playing with a mouse, the mouse so real she could almost feel the silkiness of its fur and the prick of its little claws.

Moving slowly through the gallery to the visitors’ desk, she slipped her billfold from her pocket to pay the admission fee. The attendant was a stocky, dull-haired woman rather like a box with thick legs. She watched Kate sullenly, looking her up and down.

Why must short, meaty women bristle at her simply because she was slim and tall? She couldn’t help how she looked. It embarrassed her when people saw her only from the outside, and didn’t care to discover what she was like within.

Andthatthought almost sent her into nervous and uncontrolled laughter.

Even the attendant’s eyes were dull, her expression discontented. Maybe she had an unhappy home life. Maybe she longed for a fortune’s worth of plastic surgery and cosmetic rejuvenation.

Icanbe catty, Kate thought, amused.

She gave the woman a hesitant smile and laid her hand gently on the marble counter in a gesture of friendship.“It’s a lovely museum, the work is magnificent. And the cats look so happy, so many beautiful cats.”

“Certainly we have cats.” As if she’d heard that same remark more times than she cared to count.

“They’re lucky to live in such beautiful gardens.” Did she have to add another inanity?

The woman sighed.“They were all strays. Cats who found their way here hungry and lost. Or cats that were dumped by some uncaring person.” As she spoke of the cats, a warmth crept into her voice, and she returned Kate’s smile. “The cats are our welcoming committee. People seem to slow their pace, watching and petting them, and so take more time to enjoy the galleries.”

Kate nodded.“I understand you have a library in the museum? I’m doing research for a magazine article,” she lied. “On the history of the smaller museums in northern California. But this museum-this one is special. I just moved to San Francisco. I’d like to learn more about the museum, I’d like verymuch to join.” She opened her checkbook.

The woman handed her a membership form.“I will hold your dues until your application is approved. Are you looking for something in particular?”

“Some diaries. A man who lived in San Francisco in the fifties, a building contractor. I understand Mr. McCabe was a close friend of Alice Kitchen. I’m interested in her drawings, I’m planning a rather long article about Kitchen’s work. I understand that Mr. McCabe knew her as a little girl, that he encouraged her talent-and that he designed and built the museum? I’ve never heard his first name.”

“We do not know his first name. He called himself simply McCabe. That was the way he signed his articles for theChronicle.”

“And his diaries?”

“They are locked in the vault, very valuable, very special to us. Once your application has been accepted, we can share them with you.” The woman bent, reaching beneath the counter as if to retrieve an application form. As she did, Kate saw beyond her, out the window, the black-coated man slipping through the shadows into a pergola of wisteria.

The sight of him there in the gardens made her blood run cold. She looked and looked. She was nearly sure it was Wark. As he moved away behind the wisteria vines, the white cat stepped out of the bushes, warily following him.

“We will process the application quickly,” the woman was saying. “Meanwhile, the museum publishes two books, one on the collection, and the other a short biography of McCabe. Both are for sale.”

Frightened and edgy, she bought the biography and dropped it in her shoulder bag. She would not run. This time she would not run from him. She would sensibly use the phone, call the police.

Butwasit Wark? How embarrassing, to summon the police if that man was not Lee Wark.

She needed to see for herself.

There was no one around, no one to stop him if he attacked her, only this little woman.

She thought how brave Charlie had been, getting Dillon out of Crystal’s garage, getting her away while Stubby Baker was shooting at them. Charlie, too, had been afraid.

Well, she could just go out there into the gardens, get a look at him. If it was Wark, she could dodge him, run back inside, and grab the phone. She had to do this, or she would never be free of him-and he would be free to hurt others.

Slipping out the side door, warily she approached the pergola.

Nothing moved around her. She could see no cats; not a cat was visible.

Had they all gone? Or were they hiding?

Heart pounding, she moved into the pergola, staring into the shadows. The wisteria vines brushed her cheek, startling her.

Wark stood under the vines, his cold eyes full on her. She backed away. He lunged, grabbed her, twisting her arm. What had made her think she could escape him?

“Jimmie still wants you dead, missy. That divorce made Jimmie real mad. Jimmie still means to pay for you dead. And I plan to collect.”

He began to whisper; she didn’t want to hear him. As he spoke, she had a sense of being watched. When she felt his hands on her throat she fought him, biting and hitting him. He twisted her arm; hot pain shot through her.

But suddenly the cats were there, springing at him, leaping down from the trellis, appearing out of the vines, launching themselves at him, so many cats, dozens of cats. The white cat exploded out, flying at his face, biting and raking him; cats swarmed over him, snarling and clawing. Kate felt nothing for Wark. She stood frozen, watching him cower and cover his face, and she could think only of the poor animals he had hurt.

But then suddenly she’d had enough, she didn’t want to see this, didn’t want this to be happening.

“Stop,” she whispered. “Stop. Let him go.”

The cats stopped and looked at her. In that instant, Wark ran, cats dropping off, leaping away.

She watched him disappear down Russian Hill. She had started inside to call the police, when she knew she couldn’t do that.

Covered with bleeding scratches, Wark must not be reported from the phone in the museum. Let Wark get as far away as his running feet could take him.

She fled the garden in a cab, got out at Stockton Street to use a pay phone. Then she hurried home, running past the Iron Horse with theclosedsign in its window and up her own steps, into her apartment to bolt the door.

She spent the rest of the afternoon huddled on her couch, wrapped in a blanket, sipping hot tea, mindlessly watching her locked windows and bolted front door. Wondering if the police had found Wark. She had not given the dispatcher her name. She was heating a can of soup, watching the little TV in the kitchen, when the local news came on.

Wark’s picture filled the screen.

“The first of the three escapees from San Quentin was apprehended this afternoon at Fisherman’s Wharf.” The anchorwoman was darkhaired, her black-lashed blue eyes looking as if every item she ever broadcast touched her deeply. “Lee Wark, serving a life sentence for murder, was found in themen’s room of a Fisherman’s Wharf restaurant by a restaurant patron who called the police. Wark had fainted, apparently from loss of blood, from what police describe as hundreds of scratch wounds. Neither police nor hospital authorities have offered an opinion as to what caused his injuries.”

The picture on the screen did not show the scratches; the station had used the same mug shot they had been broadcasting since the three men escaped.

“Lee Wark was serving a multiple sentence in San Quentin for murder and attempted murder and for car theft and counterfeiting. He escaped from prison over four weeks ago, along with James Hartner and Ronnie Cush, who are still at large, wanted by state police. During their escape, the three men seriously wounded a guard. Anyone having information about the two escapees, or about Wark’s present injuries, is asked to contact San Francisco police or prison authorities at San Quentin. They will have full assurance of anonymity.”

The relief that flooded Kate was more than she would have dreamed. Wark’s capture swept away an unimaginable weight. She felt, for the first time since she’d learned of her dual nature, no unease, no fear. If she harbored the nature of a cat within herself, she was what she was. Now, with Wark locked up again, there would be no one to hate her and want to harm her-her private nature would be her own secret.

But she had to smile. She bet the museum’s feline population had vanished. She bet no cat would be seen in those gardens until this news was old and stale. Certainly the white cat would have vanished.

She was eating her soup when the phone rang.

“Kate, are you okay? Have you seen the news? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Clyde. Yes, I saw the news.” She put her hand over the phone, feeling giddy. “I’m fine. Where are you?”

“At home. Drinking a beer and watching the San Francisco channel. Joe and Dulcie are doing flips, they’re so happy. Were you… How did Wark…?”

“Leave it alone, Clyde.”

“All right, Kate. If you say so. I’ve ordered in fillets to celebrate. Wish you were here. When are you coming back? We miss you.”

“I just left.”

“Imiss you.”

She didn’t answer.

“Kate?”

“I thought you were dating Charlie.”

“Charlie and Max are up at his place, celebrating his return to the department. I think the chief needs her, Elate. And I think Max is what she needs, not a bumbling auto mechanic.”

“And you, Clyde?”

“You make me laugh, Kate. You always have. When are you coming home?”

27 [????????: pic_28.jpg]

PACING HIS CELL, Stubby Baker looked mad enough to chomp the metal bars, with the sort of rage that made men trash hotel rooms and beat their wives. Baker might be a handsome, boyish-looking fellow, Dulcie thought, with a smile to charm the ladies, but none of that was apparent at the moment. The two cats, looking down at Baker from the high open window, watched Baker’s attorney leave the cell and the guard slam and lock the door.

Bars and wire mesh covered the window. The wire-reinforced glass had been cranked open to the warm afternoon. On the sill, Joe and Dulcie crouched beneath the higher branches of the oak tree that sheltered the dead-end alley, the back door of the police station, and the jail. The tree was their highway, their path to all manner of case-related information. It was huge, with rough bark, sprawling twisted limbs bigger around than a cat, and dark prickly leaves. One had only to leap from its sturdy branches to the broad sill to observe the daily lives of the duly incarcerated. A cat could eavesdrop on any conversation that might occur among the residents or between an offender and his jailer or lawyer. The discussion that had just terminated between Baker and his portly attorney had been strictly confidential. The cats grinned at each other, amply rewarded for their three-hour wait atop the hard concrete sill.

Baker was enraged that he’d been picked out of the lineup. Was furious that Crystal had double-crossed him, that she had been hiding Dillon all along. He was mad that Kendrick Mahl and Jimmie Osborne had instructed Crystal to pay him only half the agreed amount, claiming that Wark, not he, had done Ruthie Marner. He saidWark had not been part of the deal, that Wark’s escape from Quentin didn’t mean he had a right to horn in on a private business arrangement. The attorney, scratching his pale, stubbled cheek, couldn’t have agreed more; but he reminded Baker that hehadbeen picked out of the lineup, that morning. When the potbellied, bearded lawyer said he was considering how to deal with that little setback, Joe glanced at Dulcie and nearly yowled out a bawdy cat laugh.

The lineup, in which Dillon fingered Baker as Helen’s killer, had, in the cats’ opinion, been a highly entertaining occasion.

Garza had gathered seven tall, thin people into one of the station’s conference rooms, all dressed alike in worn Levi’s, western shirts, and boots, their identical western hats pulled low over their faces, and the collars of their jeans jackets pulled up. The subjects had included Stubby Baker, Max Harper, Crystal Ryder sans makeup and with her hair pulled upunder her hat, and four strangers whom Dillon wasn’t likely to know. Dillon’s parents had wanted to be with the child, but Dillon had opted to view the group alone, with only Detective Garza and two attending officers present.

She had not deliberated for more than a moment.

The cats, sneaking into the station during the change of watch, slipping under officers’ desks and back through the squad room, had managed to stay out of sight until they were safely concealed beneath the last row of chairs in the appointed conference room. They had peered out at the lineup fascinated. The tall figures, all dressed like the killer, were alarmingly alike, their arms hidden by the long sleeves of their jackets, only small portions of their lean faces visible beneath the broad-brimmed hats. It was hard to tell which was Max Harper-until they looked at the eyes.

The killer’s eyes spoke to Dillon, too, the dark, mesmerizing eyes of Stubby Baker. Dillon rose from her chair and drew close, looking up at Baker, then stepped back quickly, swallowing.

“That man. It was that man who killed Helen Marner.”

“Are you sure?” Garza asked her.

“Yes. That man, riding the captain’s horse.” She had gone pale, looking at Baker. Baker’s eyes on Dillon burned with such rage that Joe Grey feared for the child. And as he was led away, he cut a look at Harper, standing in the lineup, a fierce and promising stare that chilled Joe.

But Baker would be locked up now, where he couldn’t reach Harper or Dillon. And before anyone left the room, the cats had slipped out and raced down the hall, and out to the courthouse lawn, to roll over, purring.

They had contributed in a major way to Max Harper’s exoneration. They had discovered Crystal’s purchase of Helen’s duplex and had found Crystal’s phone tapes and gotten them to Garza. The kit had found the barrette, by which Officer Wendell helped to incriminate himself when he didn’t report it. They had, most important of all, found Dillon and called in the troops, who had gotten her to safety.

“And,” Dulcie whispered, “you very likely prevented Crystal from sneaking down into the Pamillon cellar-from surprising Harper and Charlie.

“You were wonderful,” she said. “I was so worried when you left the cellar. But if Crystal had come down there, who knows what might have happened?” She rubbed her whiskers against his. “If Harper hadn’t seen you streaking up the steps, he wouldn’t have been there to fire those shots and scare away the cougar.”

Joe Grey smiled. He felt pretty good about life. And he would far rather see Crystal stand trial than see the puma kill her, if only for the sake of her testimony.

But also, because a cougar who kills a human is in deep trouble. And while he feared the big cat, Joe respected him.

The cats had visited Crystal, over in the women’s wing, before settling down to spy on Baker. She’d been in a worse mood than Baker. And she looked like hell, Dulcie had observed with satisfaction.

The bandages on her shoulder and arm were clearly visible now under her loose prison smock, her honey-colored hair was limp and oily, her dimpled smile replaced by a scowl. Her orange prison jumpsuit made her skin sallow. While they watched her, she spoke to none of her neighbors in the adjoining cells, and no one came to see her. They had grown bored at last and headed for Baker’s cell, but they were not the only eavesdroppers.

Attached to the cell window, in a position where it could not be spotted by the inmate, was a tiny tape recorder, the smallest model Joe had ever seen. Property of Molena Point PD, it had been in position when they arrived on the windowsill. It appeared to be the kind of machine activated by sound, that would stop recording during periods of silence. The grid for its microphone was directed downward toward the cell. The recorder smelled of hand lotion, the brand worn by Detective Kathleen Ray. Joe was shocked at Kathleen, and highly amused.

There was nothing illegal about a police department installing such a recorder on its own premises. Once a citizen was arrested, the privilege of privacy ceased to exist. The cops had every right-except for the present meeting.

Conversations between a client and his attorney were privileged information-could not legally be recorded.

Kathleen had to know that, Joe had thought, studying the small machine.

But he needn’t have worried about Detective Ray’s intentions. The conversation between Baker and his attorney was not recorded; the machine didn’t activate. Joe thought Kathleen Ray must have been watching for the attorney, and must have a remote control in the station. When the lawyer left, Joe hissed into the machine, and the tape started rolling. It stopped when he stopped. He wondered what Kathleenhadtaped, what would be added to Dallas Garza’s report.

Baker had been formally charged with murder, and Crystal Ryder with three counts of conspiracy to commit murder, and with kidnapping.

Lee Wark was languishing once again in San Quentin, nursing his wounds-about which Joe and Dulcie had done considerable speculation. Wark was facing, as well as the state’s charge of escape, a charge of murder in the first degree. Wark’s blood had been found on Ruthie Marner, and fibers from his sweater on her clothes.

And Joe Grey felt warm and smug. Three no-goods were about to receive the benefits of the American legal system, the system they had tried to manipulate.

The cats had come to the jail directly from the courthouse, from a gathering in Lowell Gedding’s office in which they had again assumed the roles of unseen observers, behind the curtain of the bay window.

The city attorney had called the small group together to ease tension among those involved, to clear the air and set matters to rights before the trial began. Those present had included Molena Point Chief of Police Max Harper, duly reinstated; his officers and detectives; San Francisco detective Dallas Garza; Dillon Thurwell and her parents and a few of their close friends; four members of the Marner family; the mayor and five members of the city council; and Clyde Damen, Charlie Getz, and Wilma Getz, who had sat with their backs to the bay window, effectively blocking any chance glimpse of its occupants.

Gedding had made no accusations as to possible collusion among the city council and the offenders. No innuendos slipped into his statement, yet the cats observed a coolness on Gedding’s part, as if perhaps in the next election he might do some heavy campaigning against certain council members. Joe Grey had watched the proceedings with a morethan-relieved air.

The night before, he’d had a nightmare that left him mewling like a terrified kitten. He’d dreamed he was in Judge Wesley’s courtroom, that Max Harper stood before the bench facing the judge not as a police officer called to testify, but to be sentenced himself for first-degree murder. The nightmare had been so real that Joe had waked fighting the blanket, growling and hissing with rage.

“Stop it, Joe! What’s wrong?” Clyde had poked him hard. “What’s the matter with you!”

He’d awakened fully, to find himself lashing out at Clyde. Shocked, he’d stared confused at Clyde’s lacerated hand.

“Wake up, you idiot cat!Areyou awake? Are you having a fit? You clawed me! What’s wrong with you!”

From the angle of the moonlight seeping in under the window shade, he’d guessed the time at about 2:30. Rising up among the rumpled blankets, he was still seeing the Molena Point courtroom, watching Max Harper sentenced to life in prison.

A dream.

It had been only a dream.

He’d tried to explain to Clyde how real the vision had been. His distress must have gotten to Clyde, because Clyde got up, went down the hall to the kitchen, and fixed him a bowl of warm milk. Carrying it back to the bedroom, Clyde let him drink it on the Persian throw rug, one of the few really nice furnishings in their rough-hewn bachelor pad.

“That was very nice,” Joe had said, licking his whiskers and yawning.

“You didn’t spill on the rug?”

“I didn’t spill on the rug,” he snapped. “Why can’t you ever do anything nice without hassling me?”

“Because you spill, Joe. You slop your food, and I have to clean it up. Shut up and come back to bed. Go to sleep. And don’t dream anymore-you don’t need bad dreams. Harper’s been cleared. He’s back home, back at work, and all is well with the world. Go to sleep.”

“The trial hasn’t started yet. How do you know-”

“Go to sleep. With the amount of evidence the department has, what’s to worry? Much of that evidence,” Clyde said, reaching to lightly cuff him, “thanks to you and Dulcie and the kit.”

That compliment had so pleased and surprised him that he’d curled up, purring, and drifted right off to sleep.

But then, all through the meeting in Gedding’s office, which amounted mostly to friendly handshakes and smiles, and then later hearing practically a confession from Stubby Baker, he still found it hard to shake off the fear-hard to shake the feeling that this was not a good world with some bad people in it, but a world where any decency was temporal. Where any goodness was as ephemeral and short-lived as cat spit on the wind.

In the cell below them, the lawyer had left, and Joe was prodding Dulcie to do the same when Officer Wendell came along the hall, pausing at Baker’s bars.

Wendell looked like he’d slept in his uniform. He spoke so softly that the cats had to strain to hear. Joe glanced at the tape. It was running.

“Mahl called,” Wendell said.

“So?” Baker snarled.

“So if you involve him in this, you’re dead meat. Said he has people out and around. If you make a slip, you’re history.”

“Oh, right. And what about you?”

“There’s nothing to pin on me.”

Baker smiled.

“What?”

Baker lay back on his bunk looking patently pleased with himself. Wendell turned a shade paler-making Joe and Dulcie smile.

Dallas Garza had plenty of evidence to tie Wendell to the murders and to the attempt to frame Harper: Wendell did not file Betty Eastman’s report that she had seen Captain Harper the afternoon of the murder. Wendell did not file Mr. Berndt’s report about Crystal’s grocery-buying habits, and he did not put Dillon’s barrette into evidence until Garza asked him about it. And no one even knew, yet, that Wendell had been in Crystal’s apartment looking for Dillon the night that she escaped.

If there was anything Joe Grey hated, it was a cop gone bad.

But now, he thought, glancing at Kathleen’s little tape recorder, now the department had additional evidence against Officer Wendell.

“Very nice,” he whispered, winking at Dulcie. And they leaped into the tree and down, and went to hunt rabbits.

28 [????????: pic_29.jpg]

IT WASLATE that afternoon that the cougar returned to the Pamillon mansion, prowling among the broken furniture and rampant vines, flehmening at the smell of dried human blood. Investigating where he had downed and bitten the two-legs and where the loud noises had chased him away, he watched down the hill, too, where a small cat crouched, looking up at him, thinking she was hidden among the bushes. It was not magnanimity that kept him from dropping down the hill in one long leap and snatching the kit and crunching her. He was sated with deer meat; he had killed and gorged, and buried the carcass under the moldering sofa. At the moment, his thoughts were on a light nap on the sun-warmed tiles of the patio.

Earlier, before he hunted, prowling farther down the hills, he had sat for some time watching the gathering of two-legs around the fences and buildings of the ranch yard, fascinated by their strange behavior. The sounds they made were different than he had heard before from the two-legs, noises that hurt his ears. He had watched the gathering until he grew hungry. He had studied the horses in the pasture, but they would give him a hard battle, and the two-legs were too close. Trotting away higher into the hills where the deer were easy takings, he had killed and fed.

Now, leaving the carcass buried in the parlor, and glancing a last time where the small cat thought itself invisible, he strolled onto the Pamillon patio and stretched out in the sun.

The kit watched the cougar as he arrogantly put his head down and closed his eyes. She watched until he seemed to sleep deeply. When she was certain his breathing had slowed, she crept up the hill, closer.

Peering out from the tall grass, she wondered.

Could she touch the golden beast? Could she reach out a paw and touch him, and reach out her nose to sniff his sleek fur?

But no, she wouldn’t be so foolish. No sensible cat would approach a sleeping cougar.

And yet she was drawn closer, and closer still, was drawn right up the hill to the boulders that edged the patio.

From behind a boulder she looked at him for a long time.

And she stepped out on the tiles.

She lifted her paw. The cougar seemed deeply asleep. Dare she approach closer? Hunching down as if stalking a bird, making herself small and invisible, she crept forward step by silent step.

Claws grabbed her from behind and jerked her around, deep and painful in her tender skin. A pair of blazing amber eyes met her eyes-and a terrible fear filled the kit.

“Go down, Kit! Go down now, away from here! Away from the lion! Down the hills at once!” Joe hissed. He belted her hard, boxed her little ears. “Go away through the bushes. Stay in the bushes.Don’t run-sneak away slowly.”

The kit slipped away without a word, Joe Grey behind her, the cats keeping to the heavy growth, listening for the lion-and knowing he would make no sound. Sensible fear drove Joe Grey. Terror and guilt drove the kit.

When they were far away, they ran. Down and down the hills they flew, and under the pasture fence, which the cougar could leap like a twig. And across the pasture into the hay shed, two streaks flying up the piled bales.

High up, beneath the tin roof, they looked back across the pasture.

Just beyond the fence, the cougar stood on a boulder looking across the green expanse straight up into the hay shed, staring straight at them.

The kit began to shiver.

The cougar started down along the fence, watching and watching them.

But the cats and cougar were not alone. Jazz music started up again, from the party in the ranch yard. The lion stopped, watching the crowd. The cats saw him flehmen, tasting the strange smells. He laid back his ears at the smells and the loud talk and laughing and the jazz music; he stood only a moment, puzzled and uneasy. Then he wheeled and was gone again, up the hills into the forest.

He left behind a strange emptiness. One moment he had glowed against the hill huge and golden. The next moment, nothing was there.

The kit looked and looked, unblinking.

Joe Grey nudged her.“Did you want to be eaten?”

“I didn’t. He is the king, he wouldn’t eat me.”

“He would eat you in one bite. Crunch and swallow you whole. First course in a nice supper.”

“The first course,” Dulcie said, leaping up the hay bales. “And all your roaming ways and yearning for another world would end. You and your dreams would be gone, Kit. Swallowed up the way you swallow a butterfly.”

The kit sat down on the hay, looking at the two older cats. She was indeed very quiet. She looked at Joe’s sleek, pewter-colored face, at the white strip down his face, wrinkled now into an angry frown. She looked into Dulcie’s blazing green eyes, and she lifted a paw to pat Dulcie’s striped face and peach-tinted nose.

The bigger cats were silent.

She turned away to look down at the stableyard, at the tables and chairs all set about, at the long table covered with food and wonderful smells rising up, at all the people gathered talking and laughing and at the banners whipping in the breeze.

WELCOME HOME, MAX

HAIL TO THE CHIEF, MAY HE REIGN FOREVER

THE FORCE IS WITH YOU

Everyone looked so happy and sounded happy. Someone shouted,“Open another keg,” and the kit watched it all, forgetting her fear and shame, and filling up with delight. What a fine thing was this human world, what a fine thing to be part of human life. She wanted to be a part of everything. She wanted to be down there. She wanted to try all the exciting food. She wanted to be petted and admired. She licked Dulcie’s ear, forgetting that she was in trouble, and leaped away down the hay and into the middle of the celebration.

Joe and Dulcie looked at each other and shook their heads, and followed her, launching themselves into the party, begging handouts as shamelessly as the kit and the two big hounds. The kit moved among the crowd like a little dancer, galloping, leaping, accepting a morsel here, cadging a bite there until she spotted Dillon.

She went to the child at once, leaped to the bench beside her, patted at Dillon’s red hair, then settled down in her lap, purring. Dillon stroked and cuddled her, sharing a closeness that thrilled the child. Dillon had never had a pet. She loved the kit; she had no notion that the kit was far more than anyone’s pet.

These two, child and kit, had slept through all the excitement at the Pamillon house, slept curled together on the musty bunk in the cellar, so exhausted that even Harper’s three shots to scare away the cougar had hardly waked them-only enough to sigh and roll over. Now Joe and Dulcie watched them tenderly.

But it was not until hours later, as evening fell and Harper’s officers and most of his friends drifted away, that there was a truly quiet time again, for the cats and those they held dear.

As the line of cars wound away down the hills, Harper and Clyde and Charlie and Wilma moved inside to Harper’s big kitchen table, to drink leftover coffee and to unwind. In the kitchen’s bay window, the three cats snuggled together among the cushions, purring so loudly that Harper glanced at them, amused.

“Never heard them purr like that. They sound like a 747.”

“Full of shrimp,” Clyde said, “and crab salad and cold cuts.”

To emphasize the truth of Clyde’s remark, Joe belched loudly.

Harper stared at him and burst out laughing-the captain laughed until he had tears. Charlie began to laugh. Clyde and Wilma doubled over, convulsed with merriment. Joe had had no idea he was such a comedian.

“Nerves,” Dulcie whispered, pretending to lick his ear. “Crazy with nerves, all four of them.”

“Nerves? Or too much beer?”

The kit looked from one cat to the other, her eyes huge. Sometimes she didn’t know what to make of humans.

“So,” Charlie said to her aunt when they’d calmed, “are you going to tell me why you didn’t answer your phone? Where were you the night Dillon and I sat out there in the van, with the phone ringing and ringing, and that thug firing at us?”

“I’m truly sorry. I wonder how it would have turned out if I’d been there?”

“Where were you?”

Wilma smoothed her gray hair, which she had wound into a chignon for the occasion of Harper’s party. She was wearing a long flowered dress and sandals, one of the few times the cats had ever seen her in a dress. “That night-would you believe I’d unplugged the phone to get a good night’s sleep?”

“No,” Charlie said. “You only do that when Dulcie is safe in the house, when she’s not out running the streets.”

Dulcie gawked, but Joe nudged her.

Wilma shrugged.“I had dinner with Susan Brittain, at The Patio. During dessert, she felt faint. We thought I’d better drive her home. She refused to go to the hospital, said it was her medication, that she got like that sometimes. I spent the night on her couch, checking on her every little while-her daughter’s out of town.”

Joe and Dulcie looked at each other.

Charlie raised an eyebrow.

“It’s the truth. You think, at my age, I’m off on some hot affair?”

“Why not? I wouldn’t put it past you.”

“Speaking of affairs…” Clyde said, looking at Charlie and Harper.

The cats came to sharp attention. Charlie blushed pink beneath her freckles. Harper looked embarrassed.

Clyde grinned.“Could I use your phone?”

Harper nodded uncomfortably.“You know where they are, take your choice.”

Clyde moved down the hall and into Harper’s study, unaware of Joe trotting along behind him; didn’t see the tomcat slip under the desk, he was too busy dialing.

In the kitchen, Wilma rose to clean up the paper plates and rinse the silverware, leaving Harper and Charlie alone at the table. They hardly knew she’d left, there might be no one else in the room; they were completely engrossed in each other, their conversation ordinary but their looks so intimate that Dulcie turned her gaze away.

“What about this William Green?” Charlie was saying, looking deeply at Harper. “This witness who said-who lied that he saw you following the Marners?”

“He’s in custody.” Harper’s hand on the table eased against hers. “He’ll have to testify for the prosecution.” His words were totally removed from the way he was looking at her.

“Green’s testimony will be another nail in Crystal’s coffin,” Harper said, leaning closer. “If he cooperates with Gedding, he might get off with a fine for perjury and no time served.”

Dulcie lay pretending sleep as Charlie and Harper discussed Baker’s land scam, accomplished with Baker’s carefully forged documents-and discussed Baker’s victims, who were hot to prosecute and to get their money back. Soon Harper and Charlie moved out to the yard to pick up the last few paper plates, and fold up the tables and chairs. Clyde began to help Wilma, drying the silver and platters. He didn’t mention his phone call. The cats moved to the back porch to wash their paws and enjoy the cool evening.

“Clyde spotted me under the desk,” Joe said. “Told me to get lost. He can be so touchy. He and Kate seem to be an item.”

“And Harper and Charlie, too.” Dulcie glanced up as Wilma came out to sit on the steps beside them.

“I think both couples are cozy,” Wilma said softly. “This might be promising, all around.”

“Maybe,” said Joe Grey, knowing how fickle Clyde could be.

“Maybe,” said Dulcie uncertainly. Things had moved a bit fast, for her taste.

The kit, waking alone in the kitchen, leaped from the window seat and pushed out through the screen door, her yellow eyes so dreamy that Dulcie fixed on her uneasily. That faraway look meant trouble.“What are you thinking, now, Kit? Not of dark far places?”

“And not,” Joe Grey said, “of petting lions!”

“Maybe not,” said the kit, still half asleep. “Maybe I’m thinking of justbeing.“She looked up innocently at them. “Don’t humans know that? That no matter how ugly things get, it’s lovely just tobe?”

Wilma grinned and took the kit into her lap.“Sometimes humans don’t remember that, Kit. Sometimes it takes a little cat to tell them.”

6.5. CAT ON THE MONEY

Chapter One

The village of Molena Point lay cupped between sea and hills and blessed by sunshine, its cottages and shops shaded beneath ancient oaks. A perfect place for a cat-feline hunter or couch potato. Or for a cat of added, and more unusual, talents.

It was dawn, 6:02, when sirens screamed through the village. Above on the grassy hills, the gray tomcat pricked his ears and reared up. Watching the squad car far below, small as an ant, careen through the empty streets, immediately he left his kill, heading down as eagerly as any ambulance chaser. Village crime, to Joe Grey, was far more interesting than the remains of a dead rat.

6:20 a.m. Police Captain Max Harper stood among the ruffled curtains and potted ferns of Otter Pine Inn?s tearoom preparing to photograph the corpse. The tearoom, with its wicker furniture, flowered wallpaper and fine crystal and china, was among the most charming settings in the village, a chamber used exclusively for formal afternoon tea, no other meal served there.

The body lay as if sleeping, a lovely, blond woman dressed in black leotards. She had no apparent wound. There was no sign of violence. She appeared to have died from a sudden massive heart attack but she was young for that, maybe thirty. Harper had smelled nothing on her breath to suggest certain drugs or poison. Her face was not flushed and there was no sign that she had struggled, as with some violent seizure. The coroner was on his way. Harper hadn?t sent a detective on the case; the village was small, the inn?s owner a close friend. Beyond the leaded windows, the morning was foggy and chill. The body had been discovered at 6:00, when janitors entered the tearoom to clean.

Harper was a tall man, thin, his lined face leathery from the sun, his brown eyes tired. He was not in uniform but dressed in faded jeans and sweat shirt. Among the chintz and delicate furniture, he felt awkward-as out of place as the big gray tomcat who appeared suddenly, shouldering in through the open door, his yellow eyes wide with interest. Harper wasn?t pleased. ?Get out of here, Joe Grey. We don?t need cats contaminating the evidence.?

Joe looked at Harper, amused. Licking the taste of rat from his whiskers, he considered the corpse, observing the body as intently as the captain had done. At first he thought the dead woman was Patty Rose herself, the inn?s famous owner-big Hollywood name in the forties. But though she looked like Patty, she was far younger-a slim lady, her hair falling into short, honey colored waves, her pretty hands well cared for. He could smell the scent of brine, and her black shoes were wet as if from the sea, water puddling around her, into the carpet. Something black lay tangled under her tawny hair. A mask?

Yes, a black mask. He could make out its pointed ears and cat?s face-a costume for the coming festival.

February was the only month when Molena Point?s hotels had to work to keep their rooms full. The rest of the year, the village attracted wall-to-wall tourists. Early this year, some wag had thought to have a cat festival. Really a bit much, the tomcat thought, coupled with the usual jazz festival, art exhibits, wine tastings and little theater and with Otter Pine Inn?s own competition.

Joe Grey sauntered closer, studying the young woman?s face.

?Simms, get that cat out of here. That?s Clyde Damen?s cat. Why does he always turn up at a crime scene!?

The officer hurried in, reaching for Joe. Joe raised an armored paw. You touch me, Simms, you?ll be wanting the emergency ward -but the tomcat said no word aloud.

Only four people knew Joe Grey?s command of the English language, knew that he could out-argue any politician and out-shout an Irish cop, knew that the gray tomcat read the Molena Point Gazette over breakfast, and followed local channel news; only four people were privileged to converse with Joe Grey. Max Harper wasn?t among them.

When Simms tried to throw his jacket over him, Joe ripped the sleeve, then lay down beneath the yellow police tape. Harper looked at the two of them.?I?ll deal with him. Go find the Mannings-or Jim Manning. The third floor penthouse. If this is his wife, he?ll need to ID her.?

The Mannings had been enjoying a luxurious two-week vacation, in the inn?s bridal suite, first prize for Alice Manning in the Patty Rose look-alike contest. A week of pampering, gourmet meals, and daily sessions with photographers and PR people, the event affording maximum publicity for the inn, handled as only Patty Rose knew how to orchestrate. How shocking for their exciting holiday to end in this manner.

Slipping closer to the body, Joe Grey sniffed deeply, thinking to detect, with his superior feline nose, some substance that might have killed quickly, without violent reaction. Perhaps a trace of bitter almond?

But he could smell only sea brine and the waxy sweet scent of the dead woman?s lipstick. When he looked around for a glass or cup that might have held a lethal drink, he saw Harper doing the same, checking behind flower pots and decorative cookie tins as he photographed the surround, the captain so intent on the evidence that he soon forgot the tomcat.

The lattice-fronted cupboards at one end of the tearoom were filled with fine crystal. If the woman had died from poison, each glass would have to be checked, as would the glasses in the far pantry. Joe wondered about those in the kitchen, where he could hear the clatter of breakfast preparations. Thinking of the tedious police work ahead, he was glad he wasn?t human, glad he could run an investigation in his own way, without all the bells and whistles.

Certainly his methods worked-Joe Grey and his tabby lady had a nice string of successes, over a dozen murders and robberies solved; and they?d been responsible for just as many convictions, passing vital information to the law anonymously-evidence that, in many cases, no cop could have found.

Trotting beneath the wicker tables, he entered the tearoom?s pantry where the fancy sandwiches and cakes were brought from the main kitchen. Sniffing along the cabinets, he started when, beyond the open window, a black shape leaped into an oak tree then out of sight. The scent of the huge black tomcat was unmistakable, stirring in Joe a rumbling growl-hehadn?t expected to see that cat again, Azrael who could open any skylight or window, his paws as clever as those of a monkey; Azrael who could gain access to any shop then open the door from within for his human partner, the old man to strip the cash register and break open the safe before the pair vanished. And it wasn?t only the tom?s thieving ways that enraged Joe. The thought of that cat near his true love, beautiful tabby Dulcie, brought him to full alert.

Following Azrael?s scent across the pantry and into the restaurant office, he smelled brine as well, around a carved screen that stood behind the desk. Leaping to the blotter, Joe pawed at the screen until he?d levered a panel back-revealing a wall safe.

It was closed and apparently locked. How like Patty Rose, he thought, amused, the image-conscious movie star, hiding her valuables behind a rosewood and ivory screen.

Nothing else in the room seemed amiss, the papers on the desk and books on the shelf neatly arranged. Pushing the screen back, he returned to the tearoom behind Harper?s back and onto the window seat, slipping under its fancy cushions. Looking out from beneath a velvet pillow, warm and purring, he wondered why he hadn?t smelled the tomcat?s human partner, that thieving, wrinkled old man. Where was Greeley?

Across the room, the medical examiner, a thin, gray suited man, stood conferring with Captain Harper. He had pulled a sheet over the body. Beyond the tearoom door in the patio and garden, a crowd had gathered, held in check by yellow police tape and two officers. The onlookers were forced apart suddenly as a man came running, a handsome, tanned guy in denim shorts and T-shirt, shouting and pushing through.? Alice! Alice!?

Shouldering past Harper, he knelt beside the dead woman pulling the sheet away from her face, pulling her into his arms, shaking her, trying to wake her.? Alice!?

He froze, staring at her, staring up at Harper.?This isn?t Alice!? He cradled the woman?s face in his hands. ?My God, she looks like Alice.? Then he saw the black leotards. ?Not Alice. Not her clothes!? He rose, grabbing Harper. ?Where?s my wife? Where?s Alice??

So, Joe thought, their vacation wasn?t such a disaster after all. But what was going on, here? The death of movie star Patty Rose?s look-alike wearing a cat costume, her feet briny from the sea. The inn?s safe burglarized. And the untimely return of Azrael, a cat with the same unique talents as Joe himself, but those skills irreparably corrupted-disparate matters indeed pricking Joe Grey?s curiosity, alerting every sly, sleuthing instinct.

Chapter Two

Joe Grey sat hidden among the cushions of the window seat, his sleek fur blending with the velvet, his yellow eyes slitted in speculation as he peered out at the crowd that had gathered around the door of the tearoom. Locals and tourists, held back by yellow crime tape and by two uniformed officers, observed the pretty young victim and speculated on the cause of her death. She lay across the tiles, covered by a sheet that had been pulled back to reveal her familiar face and bright blond hair and the top of her black leotard. A man stood over her shouting at Police Captain Harper and ineffectually trying to shake Harper; a handsome young man, tanned, dressed in T-shirt and denim shorts.

?That woman isn?t Alice. Where?s Alice? That officer came to get me, said Alice was dead. Where is she? What?s happened to my wife! Where is Alice??

Harper held him at arms length.?If this isn?t your wife, Manning, cool down. Get hold of yourself.?

Manning stared at Harper, anger and fear twisting his face.

?When did you last see your wife, Manning??

?I was asleep when she left the room this morning. She likes to walk the beach early. She?? The young man straightened, staring past Harper as a blond woman dressed in khaki shirt and shorts entered the tearoom-short golden hair, a turned up nose and blue eyes-an exact double for the corpse.

She stared down at the dead woman, her eyes widening, and she went very pale. Her husband grabbed her, pulling her close.?They told me you were dead. I thought? Where were you??

?Walking the beach, you knew that. Who? What happened??

?We don?t know yet,? Harper said. ?Mrs. Manning, would you join me in the pantry where we can talk? I?ll need to ask you some questions. Alone, please.?

She took Harper?s arm, leaning on him, looking back at the corpse and at her husband.

Joe Grey followed them, trotting swiftly beneath the tables, his short, docked tail straight out behind him like a pointer tracking its prey.

Joe hadn?t had much of a tail since he was a kitten, when a drunk stepped on his tail and broke it. He was rescued from the gutter by Clyde Damen, who had the hurt part removed. He?d hardly missed his tail, he was so glad to find a caring human. They?d been together ever since. Now, following CaptainHarper, he paused only when he sensed another cat behind him.

He looked back at his tabby lady, her green eyes filled with questions.

?I heard the sirens,? Dulcie said softly.

?Don?t know what killed her,? Joe said. ?No mark on her. They don?t know who she is, yet.?

Otter Pine Inn, three days before, had hosted a bevy of look-alikes of the inn?s owner, Patty Rose. Lovely ladies who could double for Patty as she had appeared in her old movies, made in the thirties and forties. The winner, Alice Manning, had received two luxurious weeks in the bridal suite, with her husband. An elegant second honeymoon, Alice had told the press.

After the contest, four of the finalists had remained in the village for vacations. And why not? They had paid for gas or plane tickets, so why not take advantage? The most vocal of the four was Gail Gantry, who had gotten the other three women to join her in a simple dance routine for the village cat festival. Two of them were wouldbe entertainers, and Gail had done some little theater. Joe and Dulcie thought that must be the kind of person who entered these contests, someone who wanted the exposure, wanted to further their career. The four ladies had sold their act to the cat festival committee, not for money, but for sponsorship by local shops in exchange for using their photographs in newspaper ads: four Patty Rose look-alikes, dressed in black leotards for their number as dancing cats.

And now one of them is dead, Dulcie thought. It must have been terrifying for Alice Manning, to see the body of her double lying there.

Slipping into the pantry, behind a serving cart, the cats listened to Harper question Alice Manning then question her husband, each separately.

The couple?s answers matched-responses so bland and untutored that surely they were telling the truth. They did not know which young woman this was, who had been killed. They had not socialized with any of the finalists, or seen much of them after Alice won the contest, except for some photograph sessions.?We assumed,? Alice told Harper, ?that they all went home.?

Harper did not point out that a person could hardly walk through the village without falling over one or the other of the look-alikes, whose faces appeared daily in the Molena Point Gazette. The Mannings seemed hardly aware of this, as if the young couple had spent the last days in a little world totally their own.

When they?d gone, Harper sent an officer for the restaurant manager, a thin, darkhaired man with a high forehead and a neatly clipped goatee.

Harper examined the smaller man.?I?d like to see the restaurant safe, Mr. Demmons.?

?The safe? Oh, my?? Demmons swallowed. ?You think there was a burglary, too? Come this way, then. First, let me call Ms. Rose?s secretary.? He smiled up at Harper. ?No one?s notified Patty Rose yet. She likes to sleep late.? Demmons picked up the pantry phone.

As he made his call, the cats slipped through the shadows to the manager?s office. Leaping atop a carved armoire, they peered over, Dulcie studying the handsome room, the intricately carved desk and book shelves, the rich and fragile antique rug. ?Lovely,? she whispered. As the two men entered, they crouched lower.

Watching Demmons move the rosewood and ivory screen and spin the dial of the safe, Joe could feel Dulcie?s heart pounding against him and her tail twitching. Her green eyes burned with interest, as predatory as any cop.

There had been nine burglaries in the seaside village in the past week, all in bars or exclusive shops, their safes or cash registers opened and emptied, and small, expensive items taken. The money stolen was some sixteen thousand dollars, but the merchandise was valued at far more. There were no marks on the safes, and no prints. The only sign of entry would be a second story window or a skylight, left undamaged but unlocked.

Peering into the safe, the manager looked sadly at Captain Harper. The interior loomed black and empty. Not so much as a dust speck.

Wiping at his goatee, Demmons opened the top drawer of the desk, retrieved a slip of paper, and handed it to Harper.?Four thousand, four hundred and nineteen dollars. That?s the amount we locked up with last night, from the bar and restaurant. I??

Voices rose from the tearoom, a woman?s angry voice-and Patty Rose swept into the office, pulling an embroidered dressing gown around her, making the grand entrance. She stared at the safe. ?One of the look-alikes stole? Came here for the contest, then stole from me??

She looked at Harper.?But who killed her? And how did they get in??

But as Harper tried to console her, Dulcie stiffened, staring beyond them to the window.

Behind Harper, a cat peered in. A big cat, black as soot.

?Azrael,? Dulcie breathed, so softly no human could hear. ?It can?t be, he?s three thousand miles away, playing at voodoo in Central America.?

?Afraid not,? Joe said. ?His scent is all over the safe.?

Dulcie?s ears went back, and her voice was a hiss. ?That explains the thefts, the high windows left unlocked. Where?s his light-fingered partner??

Last summer, the cats had watched Azrael and his human pal at their midnight work, Azrael opening a vulnerable window and slipping inside to unlock the shop door. They had watched the old man clean out cash registers, watched him drill a safe. It distressed them that one of their own kind, with their own special talents, had fallen to the level of a human thief.

For Joe Grey and Dulcie, their dual natures were a source of wonder. Their command of human speech, their human perceptions and understanding, coupled with their keen hearing and noses and night vision, and with their ability to get into small places, provided superior crime solving skills. They had the best of both worlds, and they put it to the best use they knew.

But those same talents, in ebony coated Azrael, added up to an underhanded feline crime spree.

And there he was outside the window, eyeing the empty safe with smug satisfaction.

?And I not only smelled Azrael around the safe,? Joe said, ?I smelled brine. Same as on the corpse.?

?You?re saying Azrael killed that woman. Oh, I don?t think??

?No. I?m saying she was in here. Or someone with the scent of the sea on them. The carpet wasn?t damp, and no smell there. Just around the safe. I don?t understand yet what happened.? He looked at Dulcie, his yellow eyes burning with challenge. ?But we?ll find out.?

Chapter Three

The evening paper lay on the front porch of the white Cape Cod cottage, blocking Joe Grey?s cat door. Trotting up the steps, he glanced around to see if any neighbors were looking, then pawed the Gazette open to the front page, leaving damp paw marks across the newsprint.

ACTRESS DEAD IN TEAROOM, MONEY MISSING.

Pretending to pat at a bug, Joe read quickly:

Little theater actress Frances Farrow, a resident of Phoenix, was found dead this morning in the tearoom of Otter Pine Inn, possibly from a heart attack. When officers searched the premises, they found over four thousand dollars missing from the safe. A connection has not been established. Miss Farrow did not work at Otter Pine Inn nor was she a guest. She was one of four women who remained in the village after competing as finalists in the Patty Rose look-alike contest. The only wound she sustained was a shallow abrasion and cut on the left side of the chest, where Miss Farrow apparently received a blow.

In rare cases, Coroner John Bern told reporters, a blow in that area can jolt the electrical circuit of nerves in the heart that control contractions, and the heart stops. In such an occurrence, called commotio cordis, there is no evidence of damage to the heart. Police?

Joe hadn?t finished reading when Clyde ?s yellow antique roadster pulled into the carport. Joe?s housemate swung out, took one look at his cat reading the paper on the front porch, and double-timed across the lawn, snatching the offending newsprint from under Joe in a blatant show of rudeness. ?What are you doing reading in front of the neighbors!?

Hissing, Joe lightly clawed Clyde?s hand.

?Stop it! Now look! Blood all over the cuff of my lab coat.?

?One drop of blood. You already have grease on your sleeve.?

There was no argument that Clyde, mentor to the village?s most expensive imported cars, was a fine master mechanic, but in Joe?s opinion, that lab coat was a gross affectation.

?To say nothing,? Clyde continued, ?of muddy pawprints trashing the front page!? He stared at the headline, then at Joe.

?I see.? He read quickly. ?Some woman has a heart attack, and in your insane feline mind, you decide it?s murder.?

?She was thirty-some years old.?

?It happens.?

?Coroner doesn?t think that?s what happened,? Joe said. ?Thinks it could have been a blow to the chest. Finish reading. The coroner??

Clyde read a few lines, then fixed Joe with a hard look.?The coroner says that kind of freak accident?s possible, and the newspaper blows it all out of proportion. Why can?t you???

?And what about the empty safe? You have a handy explanation for that? What was she doing in there? She had to have broken in.? Glaring at Clyde, Joe pushed in through his cat door and leaped into his own tattered, overstuffed chair that no human wanted to touch. Curling up and closing his eyes, he ignored Clyde until he smelled dinner cooking. Then he beat it into the kitchen to sit on the table, watching Clyde make clam pasta.

?Put in plenty of clams, I need my protein.?

?Why? So you can track down some supposed killer??

?One of the contest finalists is dead. Four thousand dollars is missing from the inn?s safe, and the winner of the contest and her husband were scared out of their wits by the event. And you think I?m paranoid? And all of it mixed up with this stupid cat festival.?

?The festival has no connection to the look-alike contest or to??

?It doesn?t? The four losers got involved in the cat festival-for the publicity and the perks. That?s a connection.? Joe Grey twitched a whisker. ?Apparently all wanting to hit it big in show biz-and maybe one of them wants to hit it big at the bank, without bothering with show biz.?

The back door rattled, the dog door swung in, and old Rube, the black Lab, shouldered through followed by the three family cats, wanting their suppers. As Clyde set the clam sauce on the back of the stove and began to open cans, Rube looked up at Joe wagging and grinning. Joe patted his nose with a soft paw. The cats smiled at Joe but kept their distance. Ever since he?d discovered he could speak, they hadn?t really trusted him.

Neither Joe nor Dulcie knew why they were different. There were cats like them mentioned in obscure passages of Irish history, and in Celtic myth. And they were not alone. Azrael had likely sprung from the same ancestry-a fact that did not please Joe Grey.

?He?s back,? he told Clyde. ?The black tomcat. Lurking around the inn this morning before they took the body away.?

?Azrael? Come on. Greeley and that cat are in Panama. Some black cat wanders by, and you??

?Dulcie saw him. And I smelled his stinking scent around the safe.?

Clyde stopped dishing dog food, to look at Joe.

?Ten safes emptied in the past week,? Joe reminded him.

?You think Azrael and Greeley did those?? Clyde set the animal?s food on the floor. Washing his hands, he drained the spaghetti and dished up their dinners. Joe leaped onto the table. But they ate not speaking, Clyde reading the front page, Joe slurping up pasta as he went over the facts, tryingout possible scenarios.

All five finalists had spent a weekend at Otter Pine Inn for the judging. Say the ladies were in and out of the dining room and tearoom, and passing the office. One of them figures there?s a safe there, maybe moves the screen and spots it. Or maybe sees the manager come out with a money tray for the restaurant.

She stays in the village after Alice wins the contest, gets involved in the cat festival gig-and hears about the other burglaries. Decides to ride on someone?s coat tails, use the festival as cover. Who knows what hidden talents those young women have besides song and dance? A little skill with the tumblers? She slips back into Otter Pine Inn to empty the safe.

But Greeley and Azrael are already there, the old man dumping the cash into a paper bag. What happens after that, Joe thought, is up for grabs. No one knows for sure, yet, how that woman died.

Wrong, Joe thought. Likely, by this time, the coroner has made a diagnosis, and Max Harper knows. And the tomcat smiled. Tonight was poker night. Even if Harper was on a case, he usually managed a short break. Harper said a few hands of poker helped him sort things out.

And Joe was right. An hour later, Max Harper sat down at the table, looking tired.?If I never see another hotel employee, I?ll be happy.?

Clyde cut the cards. Joe Grey hopped onto the table and lay down out of the way.

Harper gave him a look, but said nothing.?Interviewing all day. Every one of them afraid they might say something to get crosswise with Patty Rose, or get her in trouble. Hard to ease them into talking. And the cause of death is still vague.?

?Medical examiner came up with nothing??

?She was wearing a flat silver pendant, under her leotard. It was dented, and marked with her blood. Apparently this caused the abrasion-a hard blow to the chest. A few internal blood vessels broken. You saw the paper-maybe commotio cordis, maybe not.?

Harper cut the cards and shoved them toward Clyde.?One of the gardeners, Larry Cruz, says he saw Alice Manning run out of the tearoom just before six this morning, before the janitors opened up. Says she hurried out, ran out of the inn into the street.?

?Strange behavior for the contest winner. You believe him??

Harper shrugged.?I?ll take two cards. Cruz didn?t tell me he?s been dating one of the finalists, Gail Gantry, since she arrived. Patty Rose told me that.?

?Gail?s the one who organized that song and dance routine? Got them connected with the festival committee??

?Right. Free publicity, free room at the Wanderer in return for using their photograph in the motel ads. She came around the station, asking for police support, which of course we wouldn?t give her.

?She?s hyper,? Harper said, tossing in a chip. ?Very wound up. Doesn?t seem to be on drugs, just a go-getter. Pushy.?

Listening, Joe Grey wanted to be moving, checking out these ladies-and checking out the gardener. He lay raggedly purring, playing with a poker chip. Who knew what he might overhear from this Larry Cruz? People would say anything, in front of a simple cat.

Chapter Four

The evening was cool as Joe Grey crossed the village, trotting though the shops? little front gardens and beneath the twisted oaks that shaded Molena Point?s cottages. Heading for the Wanderer Motel where the three women were staying, he saw Police Captain Max Harper parked at the curb in one of the department?s battered surveillance cars, dressed in civilian clothes, his western hat pulled down as if napping.

Keeping to the shadows, Joe slipped into the motel patio, rolling on the warm brick paving as casually as any village tomcat out for an evening?s ramble. Then, padding into the bushes, he leaped to one windowsill and then the next, concealed by the flowering foliage, looking in beneath blinds and around curtains.

Where female voices came from a lighted room, he peered through a crack beside the drapes and through the open window, to see one of the look-alikes pulling on a sweater. All three pretty, blond contestants were there, in various stages of dress, all such striking doubles for movie star Patty Rose that he might have been watching three vintage movies running on adjacent screens.

The room was a mess, clothes dropped and flung on every surface, open suitcases on the floor. Of the three women, Gail Gantry was the most animated, flushed and outgoing-she looked, as Harper had said, like a go-getter. Dressed in jeans and a bra, she sat barefoot on one of the three beds, painting her toenails.?You?re wrong, Dorothy.? She glanced over at her virtual twin with the dark nail polish and thinner eyebrows. ?I say, with Frances dead, Patty Rose won?t be part of the parade. Won?t have anything to do with us; we?re bad PR.?

Dorothy picked up a wadded towel and began to wipe her sandals. She wore gray tights and a gray sweatshirt. Her voice was harsher than Gail?s. ?Oh, she?ll be there. She?ll make the publicity work for her.?

The third look-alike, Beverly Barker, watched them from where she sat at the desk putting on makeup. She seemed the only one who wasn?t a natural blonde-Joe could see the dark roots. She was dressed in a pale pink pants suit. ?I don?t see how you two can act so offhand, with Frances dead. She was one of us-and she might have been murdered. I don?t see how you can go on with this cat festival, or even stay here.?

?We have to stay,? Gail said coldly. ?Last thing the cops said-stay in the village. Anyway, it?s all good exposure.?

Beverly looked at Gail.?That?s so cold. And what if she was murdered??

?That?s silly. How could she have been? You read the paper. Anyway, if you?re serious about being an entertainer??

?We are entertainers,? Dorothy interrupted. ?But this gig is a drag. And I don?t see it getting any better.?

?It isn?t a gig, yet,? Gail said. ?And it won?t be, Dorothy, if you take that attitude.?

Dorothy tossed her towel into the corner, then rummaged in a suitcase balanced on the night stand just beneath the window where Joe Grey was crouched. He could see, beneath a silk slip among a clutter of what appeared to be bottles, the shape of a handgun. No other object he could think of would have that same configuration.

Well, but Frances Farrow hadn?t been shot. The police weren?t looking for a gun. And there was no law that prevented Dorothy from having one, if she wasn?t a felon-there was only a law against how she was storing it. After all, she had driven down alone from Seattle. Maybe the gun made her feel safer.

Or was Dorothy, too, involved in the thefts? Were there two sets of thieves at work, stealing from Molena Point?s small businesses, each hoping the other would be blamed for all the crimes?

Or maybe Greeley and the black tomcat had set up these women to look guilty? Azrael and that old man would stoop to any low deed.

Beverly smoothed the crease of her pants suit.?I think the cat festival is a sweet idea, with all the toy cats and cat-printed Tshirts in the windows, and the animal shelter bringing kitties to adopt. Just think of the cats that will find homes.?

?Right,? Dorothy said sourly. ?Patty Rose isn?t going to turn down a cause like that, she?ll be right up there on the lead float, handing out kitty treats.?

The phone rang, and Gail picked up.?Yes?? Then her voice went soft. Turning away from her roommates, she laughed, and glanced at her watch. ?Yes, that?s perfect. See you then. Me, too, honey.?

She hung up, looking smug, tested her toenail polish and slipped on her sandals. Snatching a blue sweatshirt from the open suitcase on the floor of the closet, she pulled it on.?You ladies ready for dinner? I?m having a nice, buttery lobster.?

?Why doesn?t your date buy you dinner?? Dorothy snapped. ?That beach-bum too cheap to spring for a meal??

?For your information, I don?t have a date.?

?Oh. I thought, the way you looked at your watch??

?Tomorrow night,? Gail said. ?If it?s any of your business. I?m hungry. You coming??

And the three headed out the door like the best of friends, leaving Joe Grey alone on the windowsill, considering their empty room.

He was sorely tempted. Who knew what he?d find in there, besides possibly a handgun?

But who knew what he?d miss of the ladies? various evening activities?

Abandoning his urge to claw the screen open, he galloped out through the garden and along the sidewalk, dodging the feet of wandering tourists, shying away from reaching hands and from little cries of, Ooh, look at the beautiful cat. His coat is just like gray satin. Where do you suppose he?s going in such a hurry?

When the three women turned in to the Shrimp Bowl, Joe swarmed up the trunk of an oak tree by the front window and settled among its branches, his color blending into the oak?s bark, only his white paws and nose visible. He?d barely gotten settled among the leaves when, across the street, Captain Harper?s surveillance car pulled up, out of sight of the cafe. Interesting, Joe thought, that Harper hadn?t turned this kind of duty over to one of his two detectives.

Watching the women order, he considered slipping inside. The restaurant tables were close together, the room crowded. Who would notice a swift shadow among a room full of feet? He was about to drop out of the tree when he saw, half a block away, a black cat leap across the rooftops and vanish among the peaks. Azrael?

Scanning the street, he did not see Azrael?s human partner. Maybe the tomcat was staking out a mark, meaning to return later with the old man. Joe was still looking for Greeley when he realized that the three women were having a heated argument.

They argued all through dinner. What a shame, when they should be enjoying the fine lobster and broiled salmon. They were barely finished eating when Gail and Dorothy rose, both tossing some money on the table.

They parted at the door, not speaking, swinging away in opposite directions, abandoning Beverly with the remains of her salmon and a hurt look. For roommates rehearsing a song and dance number together, these three didn?t get along too well.

Dropping from the tree, Joe followed Gail, gliding smoothly among the tourists? hard shoes, a twitch of excitement biting at his belly-the adrenaline rush of the hunter. Glancing back, he watched Dorothy, too, wishing Dulcie were on her trail. But no, Dulcie had been stubbornly set on hanging around Otter Pine Inn to spy on Alice Manning, a project about as productive, in Joe?s opinion, as staking out an abandoned mouse hole.

Crossing the street behind Gail, he went up a pine tree to the roofs, his claws scrabbling bark down onto tourists? heads. He didn?t see Harper?s car. He was trotting along the metal gutter above Gail, watching her saunter casually along below him when, from the corner of his eye, he saw a black tail and black haunches disappear through the window of a second floor office. Joe paused for only a moment.

There was only one reason for the black tomcat to enter a building at night from the rooftops. He pictured old Greeley waiting somewhere on the street, out of sight, hunched up in his wrinkled leather jacket, his lock picks and drill ready to rip off another Molena Point shop. Abandoning Gail, Joe Grey headed for the open window, his ears back, his claws ready to rout the two thieves.

Chapter Five

Racing across a maze of village rooftops toward the window where the black tail had disappeared, Joe Grey slipped under the screen and paused, crouching on the sill. He was in the upstairs office of Charles, Ltd., Men?s Clothier. Their logo shone at him from a stack of the store?s printed boxes. Dropping to the desk, he scanned the cluttered room. He did not see Azrael.

Most of these second floor offices led down by a narrow stair to a back stockroom that opened to the shop. In some, in locked fire files or safes, the owner kept cash on hand.

Strange that he did not smell Azrael, smelled only the aroma of an elderly female cat. She sat on a shelf in the far corner watching him belligerently, her black tail switching-the fat black shop cat, sour-natured and reclusive, seldom venturing out of doors.

Was that the black tail he had followed, and not Azrael?

The old female hissed at him, leaped to the nearest desk and sprayed the wall, defiantly marking her territory. Now he could smell nothing else.

Jumping to the floor, Joe sniffed around the stairs. He could not detect the tomcat and he heard nothing from the store below, although when Azrael and old Greeley broke into a shop they weren?t quiet-they argued in loud whispers, the old man as hardheaded as the black tomcat.

Padding down the stairs, he circled the shop, brushing against expensive wool suits and nosing behind counters. He could detect no scent of the pair; the stink of the old lady upstairs still filled his nostrils. He found nothing disturbed around the cash register, nothing out of place, no one in the storeroom. Angry at his mistake, he fled upstairs again and out the window to pad along the edge of the roofs, looking over them, wishing he hadn?t lost Gail.

He searched for the look-alikes for some time, then headed again for their motel-passing Alice Manning, who stood below him in the shadows near the Shrimp Bowl. He guessed this was Alice, dressed in khaki shirt and skirt. Gail and Dorothy had been wearing jeans, Beverly a pants suit. Trying to sort out the four look-alikes was enough give any cat fits. He could see, through the restaurant window, that Beverly Barker had left. A waiter was clearing the table.

Making his way over tarpaper and shingles to the Wanderer, he dropped down into its patio just as the courthouse clock struck nine. The women?s motel room was still dark, the window still open, and there was no sound-but someone had opened the drapery.

Quietly working the screen free with his claws, he took a good look around, then slipped inside.

The soft lights from the patio bathed the room, picking out the open, half-empty suitcases and scattered clothes. Still no sound, no movement. He could not sort one woman?s scent from the other. Their mix of perfumes and lotions filled every space, making his nose burn.

In Gail?s open suitcase, under her robe, lay a black cat mask, a black leotard, black, soft boots and a pair of black suede gloves, thin and pliable-and smelling of brine.

Digging deeper, he found only jeans and underwear. The bottom of the suitcase was fitted with a zippered pocket, locked with one of those little combination locks designed to secure luggage that could be easily slit open with any sharp instrument-but not with a cat?s claws. It would take a lot of raking to tear that dense nylon. Dragging a paw across the pocket, he thought it might contain a few papers, certainly nothing thicker. He returned the clothes as neatly as he could, pawing everything back, and stood a moment looking at a jacket that hung over a chair by the door, studying its primitive, multi-colored designs. Latin American. How interesting.

But then, leaping to the dresser, nosing through a pile of papers, he unearthed a motel note pad where someone had written, Festival rehearsal Wednesday, 7 p.m.

This was Friday. Frances Farrow had died Thursday morning, the day after the rehearsal.

That night, after the three women rehearsed their number, had they gone somewhere for a late supper, maybe a few drinks? In the small hours, had Frances Farrow gone off alone, perhaps walked along the sea, getting her feet wet? Before dawn, alone, had she wandered into the patio of Otter Pine Inn? Maybe saw the tearoom door ajar and went inside-blundering into the burglary in progress?

And ended up dead.

Maybe she had grabbed for the thief, meaning to stop him or her, and the thief hit her-accidentally killed her?

Conjecture. All conjecture. Too many possibilities-as frustrating as hunting invisible mice in a glass house.

Returning to Gail?s suitcase, he sniffed at the gloves again, at the scent of brine, then retrieved a plastic bag from the wastebasket. Lifting each glove by its edge, he dropped them in.

He tossed the rest of the room as methodically as he could, going through suitcases and makeup bags. Standing beside Dorothy?s suitcase, he pawed her silk slip aside to reveal a small automatic, with the clip in. Maybe a.22 or.25 caliber, a little, ladies? gun that would fit nicely into pocket or purse.

The brine-scented gloves were Gail?s, the gun was Dorothy?s. And then, standing in the sink pawing through a flowered cosmetic kit on the bathroom shelf, he found a small, zippered makeup bag that felt like it contained bullets. Attempting to slide the zipper, he got it on the fifth pull, nearly tearing out a claw.

Bullets. Soft nosed. Maybe.38s. Certainly a larger caliber than the automatic. He?d watched often enough when Max Harper and Clyde Damen cleaned their guns after going to the firing range to know the difference.

Well, there was no law against having bullets or a gun, even in California, if one followed the state?s intricate rules. But two armed women? What did that add up to?

Or did Dorothy have two guns? He had, with the reek of perfume and hair spray numbing his nose, no notion whose cosmetic bag this was-he felt helpless. He had temporarily lost his most valuable skill.

Well, he hadn?t really expected to find the stolen money from the inn-but he was disappointed that he didn?t. Out of sorts, growling softly, he was fighting to open a drawer of the night stand when a click at the door sent him across the room and out the window, dragging the gloves in their plastic bag.

Crouching under the bushes, he could see nothing. He heard someone step inside, heard the door close. The windows remained dark. He could hear them moving around, pulling out drawers, apparently searching just as he had himself searched, by the soft light from the patio.

Leaving the plastic bag among the leaves and dirt, he eased up onto the sill again, trying to remain within the rhododendron bush, out of sight-looking in at Alice Manning. Same khaki skirt and shirt, same rope sandals. Where had she gotten a key?

But that would be easy enough. Stop in the motel office, say she?d lost hers. She looked exactly like the three occupants; who would know?

She knelt beside the open suitcase from which he had taken the gloves, her back to him, her tight khaki skirt hiked above her knees. Lifting out the leotard and boots and the cat mask, she removed the clothes beneath. He couldn?t see what she was doing, with her back to him, but she worked at something for a few moments then he heard the click of the lock and the zipper sliding. He couldn?t tell whether she was putting something into the bag or taking something out. He heard a faint rustling, like paper. He was so interested he nearly pushed on inside to have a look. And why not? Just a little friendly session of pet the kitty.

Except, with Azrael mixed up in this gig, he wasn?t sure who knew about the talents of certain cats. He could walk right into trouble.

And, was this really Alice Manning? He could detect no human scent at all, over the m?lange of lotions and perfumes. Before he could move, she zipped up the compartment again. As the lock clicked, four blocks away the courthouse clock struck 9:30. Patiently, Joe waited for her to leave.

She didn?t leave. She moved idly around the room as if preoccupied, glancing at the strewn clothes and into the open suitcases, but touching nothing else. When she turned toward the window Joe lost his nerve and dropped down again into the bushes, crouching beside the gloves, puzzled. She stood just abovehim, looking out, then slid the window closed. As she pulled the curtains, Joe took the evidence bag in his teeth-he hoped the gloves turned out to be evidence-and headed across the village for the back door of the Molena Point PD, looking, he supposed, like he was hauling a pair of dead rats all done up in plastic for the home freezer.

Chapter Six

Joe Grey, carrying the plastic bag in his teeth, trotted through the patio?s flower beds, heading for the Molena Point PD. If the police lab found fibers from the dead woman?s leotard clinging to the gloves, Captain Harper would have his killer-accidental death, maybe. Or a clever murder? And even if murder couldn?t be proved, Harper would likely have his thief.

The night was dark, the moon thin. Climbing a jasmine vine beside the Chinese restaurant, Joe made his way across the roofs hauling the bag like a mother cat dragging a large and unwieldy kitten. Crossing the streets on the branches of the twisted oaks, trying not to trip on his slick plastic burden, he was soon on the roof of the jail.

He backed down a tree, his claws in the bark, the bag dangling over his shoulder as if he were a homeless wanderer with a see-through pack. The police parking lot was well lighted, with the area walled on one side by the police station, on the other two sides by the jail and the courthouse; the fourth perimeter was open to the street. He crossed beneath the squad cars?

He was nearly to the steps, looking up at the heavy metal door of the station, when a car turned in-Captain Harper?s surveillance car. Joe scutched into the shadows beside the steps, crouching over his burden. He didn?t need Harper to find him here with vital evidence. Harper already had too many suspicions about the ?phantom snitch.?

The car door opened and the tap of Harper?s boots approached across the concrete; Joe?s heart was quivering like a cornered rat. Harper climbed the steps inches from his nose and unlocked the metal door. Before it could slam, Joe was through behind his heels, hauling the plastic bag, flinching when the door banged shut. As Harper moved quickly up the hall into the squad room, Joe fled for the nearest conference room dragging the bag-a demented retriever unwilling to let go.

He collapsed beneath a chair, panting. Sometimes the stress of such moments got to him. He could use a quick pick-me-up, just now. A ham sandwich or a nice fresh rat. Or some of George Jolly?s imported gourmet treats. He was dreaming of Jolly?s Deli, of smoked salmon and fine cheeses, when Harper came running down the hall again, his boots thundering and three officers pounding behind him. Joe peered out as the back door banged open; they disappeared through it, and he heard threecars roar away.

Dragging the bag, he fled for the squad room where he could hear the police radio. Crouching under Harper?s desk, he heard the dispatcher repeat her call. Commercial burglary at Charles, Ltd.

Had they been robbed before he, himself, entered? Or after he left? Or had Greeley and the black tomcat been in there after all, maybe hiding in one of the dressing rooms? That made him feel really stupid.

Harper and his men had left without sirens. Joe knew they?d patrol quietly for anyone fleeing the scene, then would enter the shop in silence.

Slipping up onto Harper?s desk chair, he dropped the bagged gloves on the blotter, meaning to take off after the law. The big squad room was nearly empty, a couple of guys at their desks writing reports, the dispatcher behind her counter. He was about to make a dash for the front door, see if he could leap up unseen, push the release button on the wall and ease the door open, when he felt a draft coming from the back of the building.

There were no windows in the back, and he hadn?t heard that door open. The only other door was to the courthouse, and it was kept locked at night. Dropping down to take a look, he heard a brushing sound in the hall. Crouched for fight or flight, he peered around the corner-and was face to face with Dulcie.

His tabby lady looked back at him, her green eyes wide with amusement.?I followed you. Come on, Joe, get out of the hall. The janitor will close the door in a minute, he?ll see us.?

They slipped back into the squad room, under Harper?s desk. ?Janitor?s cleaning the courthouse,? Dulcie said. ?He propped the hall door open, into the station. He?s not supposed to do that-if Harper knew, he?d get him fired. I got into the courthouse when he went out to put some buckets on the steps.?

?Great security. So how did you find me??

?I saw you from the tower; I was following Larry Cruz. He and Gail-I think it was Gail-went in that bar on the next street.?

?I thought you were watching Alice Manning.?

?I was on the roof beside their window. She and her husband had a cozy dinner for two, in their room, in front of the fire, then snuggled up watching an old movie. It was nice,? she said, purring. ?She wears pink satin pajamas.?

?What time was that??

?I got there about 8:30, left an hour later.?

?I saw Alice outside the Shrimp Bowl, about then-or did I? I thought it was Alice. Khaki skirt and blouse. Could you see her the whole time? Could she have gone out later??

?She pulled the curtains about nine. I left at 9:30; the tower clock had just struck the half hour. I couldn?t see in any more, but the movie was still playing, I could hear it and could see the lights moving across the curtains. I guess she could have gone out.

?After she pulled the curtains, I was ready to give it up and drop off the roof, when I saw Larry Cruz standing across the street looking up, watching the Mannings? windows. Dark clothes, standing in the shadows. I don?t know how long he?d been there. I guess he could see right in, before they pulled the drapes, it?s only the third floor, and they were right by the window. When he turned away, I followed him over the roofs.

?He stopped in the deli, got a sandwich, ate it walking around. He was all over the village. He met Gail near the courthouse, she was waiting for him-I guess it was Gail,? Dulcie said, her green eyes widening. ?She was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. She gave him a package, he tucked it in his shirt, under his jacket, and they went in the bar.?

Joe said,?Charles, Ltd. was robbed tonight. I was in there, I thought I followed Azrael in, but I couldn?t smell him. It might have been the shop cat. Found no one downstairs, and nothing looked disturbed. No sign of Greeley.?

?Don?t you think it?s strange that we haven?t seen him??

He sat looking at her.?You saw Alice in her room from 8:30 to 9:00. After that, you thought she was there. At 9:30 you left, and followed Larry. He meets Gail-you think it was Gail-about 10:00. They go in the bar.? Joe frowned, his ears back, his yellow eyes narrowing. ?Say Larry has partnered up with Greeley, planning to lay the blame on Alice. Say he was watching Alice ?s room to be sure there were no witnesses to where she was, when the burglary came down.?

?But??

?I wonder if room service saw her when they delivered their dinner. They could testify she was there, not ripping off the men?s store.?

?Dinner was in paper bags,? Dulcie said. ?Takeout Chinese. Smelled good.? She licked her whiskers. ?Maybe they got tired of fancy hotel food. So there was no room service. Manning picked up their order himself, was coming in when I got there.?

Dulcie rolled over, her tabby stripes blending with the shadows.?And there?s something else. This afternoon, on the inn?s patio, I was waiting for Larry. I thought I might learn something, the way you said. He came in from his car, that red Acura, carrying a black duffel bag, like divers use for their wet suits and equipment, and he smelled of the sea. His shoes were sandy, and when I sniffed around his tires they smelled of little dead sea creatures and tar, and there was sand in the treads.?

?So, the guy?s a diver.?

?And the corpse?s feet were wet from the sea.?

?What are you saying? We should take up diving, slip on a couple of wet suits and??

Dulcie pressed against him, warm and sleek and purring.?I think we should follow him next time he goes to dive. Who knows what we?ll find??

Chapter Seven

In Moreno?s Grill, beneath the table in a shadowed corner booth, the two cats pressed as far away from the shoes of Joe Grey?s human housemate, and of police chief Max Harper, as they could squeeze. The carpet smelled of stale French fries. It was the afternoon after the burglary at Charles, Ltd.

Harper and Clyde Damen liked to wind down at Moreno?s after work, isolated in the far corner of the quiet bar where they could speak privately, no nosy idlers to overhear. Clyde was the only civilian with whom the police chief talked freely. The two men, having grown up together, were as close as brothers.

?Burglar alarm was disconnected,? Harper said. ?No one knew about the breakin until Chuck Connover went back to the store that night, some time before 10, to pick up some papers he?d meant to work on. He started to turn off the alarm, then saw that it was off. Found the cash register open and empty. Went on into the back room, which was foolish. Said he was relieved when he found the safe locked. He didn?t open it until we got there, didn?t know until then that it had been cleaned out. The burglary could have happened anywhere between 8, when he left the store, and 10. We found no prints.?

?You pick up any fibers or hairs, or anything dropped??

?The usual dust and lint, sent off to the lab. Found some hairs on the desk beside the safe-black animal hairs. Likely from Chuck?s old cat, she?s all over the shop.?

Under the table, Joe and Dulcie looked at each other. Chuck Connover?s old cat? Or Azrael? But bigger puzzles than the identity of a black cat filled their thoughts.

They had spent the early dawn on the rocky cliffs south of the village, watching Larry Cruz suit up beside the tailgate of his red Acura. Larry had met no one, and had hardly spoken to the other divers. Watching him pull on his flippers and back into the water, they could see him for a while through the clear blue swells before he vanished, where the sea went black along the cliffs. He came out an hour later, and did not have any fish or shellfish. But he seemed to have done nothing different than any of the other divers.

Above their heads, Harper said,?I don?t like to lay this stuff on you, Clyde. You?re the only one I?d tell how uneasy it makes me. I laugh about it, in the squad room.?

?What stuff??

?The phantom snitch is back. The messenger who leaves evidence in my car and at the back door of the station. Same guy who tipped us where the weapon was hidden that killed Samuel Beckwhite, and has been phoning me ever since. Same voice, same turns of speech.?

Beneath the table, Clyde shifted his feet with unease.?You told me it was a man and a woman. And that their information is reliable,? he said testily.

?A hundred percent,? Harper said. ?But still they make me nervous. Last night, someone left a plastic bag on my desk, at about the time the commercial burglary report came in. Bag contained a pair of woman?s gloves. Black suede. Sent them to the lab this morning.?

The men were silent. Someone set down his glass.?I can?t discount these tips,? Harper said. ?They?ve helped us in past cases. But they?re mighty hard to explain to the court-I?ve never seen these two, I have no information about them. Usually, I know my snitches.?

?The gloves had something to do with the burglary?? Clyde asked innocently. ?Or maybe with the death of Frances Farrow? But you keep the station doors locked at night, keep that back door locked all the time. It would have to be one of your own people, to leave evidence there on your desk.?

?Don?t you think I asked!?

In the shadows, Dulcie?s green eyes shone with amusement. Clyde said nothing more, and soon, when Harper turned the conversation to his horses, Joe nudged Dulcie and they moved swiftly through the shadows beneath the tables, streaked past the bar and through the kitchen and out the screen door, into the narrow alley.

?There?s something I didn?t tell you,? Joe said, crouching beside the garbage cans. ?Something that might explain why we haven?t seen old Greeley with the black tomcat. Come on.? And, ignoring the heady scent of raw fish and meat wrappers, he headed fast up Ocean Avenue, dodging around the feet of tourists.

?What? Where are we going?? Dulcie hissed, galloping beside him.

He didn?t answer, but lowered his head and ran, swerving down a side street-stopping suddenly when a black cat loomed out of the shadows, blocking their path.

Azrael, black as sin, his tail lashing, his amber eyes narrowed and cold. He drew himself taller, bowing his neck, looking down at Joe.?So, little gray kitty. You are still following me? Still playing detective? What, you poor creature, do you imagine I?ve done now??

Joe Grey smiled, his yellow eyes assessing Azrael, his sleek gray coat rippling over hard muscle.?I had no thought of following you, you pitiful mouser. Though I see you are still playing at your mindless games, stealing money that only your whiskey-sodden partner can make use of.?

Azrael laughed.?Not any more. That old fake is long gone-this tomcat works alone.?

?And where did you leave him??

?Walking the streets of Panama, if it?s any of your business. Rolling drunk. Maybe dead by now, mugged in some alley.?

?And you stowed away on your own, back to the states,? Joe said indulgently.

Azrael laughed.?I have my contacts. That was a nice take, by the way, from Charles, Ltd.?

?No cat on this earth, you poor, worm-ridden beast, can manipulate the dial of a safe. No cat can turn that little wheel with the required precision.?

But Joe wondered. If a cat could turn a doorknob, as Joe and Dulcie and Azrael all could do, what might Azrael have taught himself, with sufficient practice? Was the dial of a safe beyond a clever cat?s talents? With a cat?s keen hearing, could not the tumblers tell him all he needed to know?

Joe looked the tomcat over.?Who brought you back from Panama? What gullible human did you con into a plane ride?? Though if Joe?s suspicion was right, the idea that had sent him hurrying from Moreno ?s Grill, Azrael?s arrival was easily enough explained. ?Who did you con into taking you aboard in a little wire cage? Ordid you spend 12 hours in the luggage hold, freezing your sorry tail??

The black tom leaped on Joe, all teeth and claws, the two raking each other in a whirlwind of hard, furry bodies, thumping against concrete and against the brick wall, a war of pent-up rage that ceased only when the third party threw her weight into the battle, slashing both toms and screaming at them until they broke apart to stare at her.

She stood between them, holding Azrael?s gaze until the two toms moved far enough apart to formally end the battle. But she was shivering with fear. What she wanted to do was bolt. She?d always been afraid of Azrael, even when once, long ago, he had charmed her. His look at her now was deadly-an evil smile, the smile of a black sharkheaving up from the darkest seas.

And then he turned and sauntered away, lashing his long black tail.

?Why did you do that?? Joe growled. ?Why didn?t you let me finish him? You made me look a fool.?

?Not at all. You would have killed each other. Look at you. Your ear?s torn, blood running down your face-your shoulder torn. Although you sent him away with as much blood,? she said softly, licking his ravaged ear. She watched Azrael, a black speck far in the distance, disappearing down an alley.

?I think I know how he got here,? Joe said, ?and who our burglar is.? He led Dulcie beneath the oak trees, in the gathering dusk, to her favorite shop.

Standing close together, rearing up on their hind paws, they looked into the show window at the feast of bright colors and intricate patterns.?Here?s the link,? Joe said, ?between Azrael and one of the look-alikes-maybe the best connection we have yet to the death of Frances Farrow.?

Chapter Eight

Dulcie reared up, looking into the brightly lighted display window, her tabby paws against the glass, her green eyes glowing; she never tired of the shop?s imports, the brilliantly colored Guatemalan jackets and weavings, the San Blas appliqu?s, the painted Mexican figures. Close beside her, Joe Grey watched her tenderly, always moved by his lady?s passion for the beautiful and exotic.

They had met the shop?s owner, Ms. Sue Marble, at about the same time they met Azrael and old Greeley. The cats had been greatly amused when the lonely, white-haired lady and Greeley became an item and took off to Central America together, Sue on another buying trip, Greeley returning to his home-with Azrael in his carrier, of course. Sue knew nothing about the black cat?s hidden talents.

Now the couple had been gone for nearly a year, and Azrael was back in the village with no sign of either Greeley or Sue-and the mysterious burglaries had resumed.

?That jacket in the window,? Joe said, pawing at the glass. ?The red one, woven with birds and animals. Where does that come from??

? Ecuador, I think. Or maybe Peru. Why??

?I saw one like it last night, when I tossed the motel room of the look-alikes.?

?Maybe one of them bought, it here. They could??

?It was worn, Dulcie. Faded, not new.?

Dulcie sat down on the sidewalk, the concrete still warm from the vanished sun.?So what are you saying??

?I?m wondering if one of those three women has been in South America.?

She smiled, her whiskers twitching.?You?re thinking one of them has been in Panama, and that?s how Azrael got back?? She licked her paw. ?That?s reaching for it. What ever???

?There were cat hairs on the jacket. Black cat hairs.?

?You are maddening. Why didn?t you say so!?

Joe smiled.

?Could you smell his scent??

?Not in that motel room. Enough perfume and lotions in there to deaden the nose of an elephant.?

?In Sue?s last letter to Wilma, she said she and Greeley were getting married. She said nothing about coming back. She seems very happy, making her buying trips out of Panama to Peru and Guatemala and shipping the purchases back here, to her shop manager.?

Dulcie frowned, her ears going flat.?She did say she wasn?t happy about Greeley ?s cat, that he?d turned out to be a problem. Remember how, in the beginning, she called him a dear, handsome fellow! She thought he was so regal. Maybe Greeley and the tomcat were burglarizing shops in Panama, maybe she found out. Maybe she threwAzrael out of the house.?

?That wouldn?t explain how he got here. Greeley has no friends in the village to send Azrael to, only his sister. And Mavity hates that cat.?

?But maybe Greeley is here,? Dulcie said. ?He?d be staying with Mavity. Let?s have a look.? And beneath the darkening evening sky, the cats headed for the marsh and Mavity?s little fishing shack. East three blocks through the village, and over seven to the marshy shore of the bay, then alongthrough the cattails and sea grass, the mud cold beneath their paws and smelling of dead fish, to a long row of houses standing on mud-blackened stilts.

Scenting around the pilings and around the tires of Mavity?s old VW bug, they found no hint of Greeley. But the tomcat had definitely been there. His day-old aroma was on the steps, and on a rusty porch chair as if he might have slept there.

The kitchen window that Azrael had once used as a private door was tightly closed. A light burned within. Leaping to the sill, Joe could not smell Azrael along the edge of the window, could smell only the ham and beans that must have been Mavity?s supper. A single clean bowl stood in the drain basket, with one knife, fork and spoon. He could see Mavity, beyond the open kitchen; the small, elderly woman curled up on the couch with a book, a blanket over her feet and a stack of romances on the table beside her. He watched her for a moment,purring, then dropped down again to where Dulcie sat on the cold, damp ground among the tarred posts.

?No sign of Greeley,? Joe said. ?If Azrael?s alone, maybe he sleeps here for a few hours-Mavity would never know.?

?Do you suppose he?s lonely? Comes here to feel at home??

Joe Grey snorted.?More likely cold, after the heat of Panama. And looking to see if he can rip off Mavity in some way.?

As they headed back to the village, the first star gleamed above them. Trotting through the darkening gardens, brushing among geraniums whose scent they would carry on their fur for hours, they were headed for Joe?s house when they saw Larry Cruz?s red car turning the corner toward Otter Pine Inn.

Quickly following him, they watched him park and saunter onto the patio. But when they trotted in past the stink of exhaust and hot rubber, he had vanished.

Beyond the mullioned windows of the tearoom, a soft light burned, and they could hear women?s voices. Teatime was long past. Padding to the stained glass door, the cats listened.

?It?s Patty Rose and Alice,? Dulcie whispered, nosing at the slightly open door.

Slipping in behind the baker?s rack with its potted ferns-where, so recently, Frances Farrow had lain dead-they watched the two women, sitting at a small wicker table with their drinks, deep in conversation. A generation apart, they looked more alike than most mothers and daughters, Alice blond and fresh and exactly as Pattyhad looked in her old movies. Patty was still a looker, too, her hair skillfully cut and colored, her figure still slim. Despite her wrinkles, Patty was still a beautiful woman.

?Then you hadn?t seen Larry Cruz since you left Santa Monica?? Patty was saying.

?No. And I certainty didn?t expect to see him here. That makes me so angry, that he?d follow me here.?

?Maybe it wasn?t you he followed. Had you thought about that? When you learned to dive from him, were all your lessons alone??

?Yes. I didn?t get very good. But? that?s how I became involved with him. So foolish. I can never make that up to my husband.? Alice sighed. ?I couldn?t help but tell Jim. I don?t keep secrets well,? she said softly.

?Before you left Santa Monica, you never met Gail or saw her??

Alice spilled her drink, grabbed some paper napkins and bent to wipe it up.

Patty Rose watched her with interest.?I know Santa Monica is only part of the LA sprawl, but you both lived near the beach. She must have been there for two or three months before you moved away. Strange that you or one of your friends weren?t aware of a woman who looks exactly like you.?

?You?d think so.? Alice shook her head. ?I never saw her, never heard of her.?

?Did you ever suspect, when you were seeing Larry, that he was into any kind of trouble??

The question seemed difficult for Alice.?No, but? I?m not surprised, the way, after we broke up, that he kept bothering me, kept coming around, wouldn?t leave me alone. I asked the police what I could do, but they were busy and there wasn?t much. Larry was one of the reasons we moved.?

?Maybe he discovered Gail after you left. It?s possible he followed her up here, pestering her the way he pestered you. The way he pestered me last year.?

?As if he has some kind of fixation about the women in your old films?? Alice said, as if the idea had just occurred to her. ?When I saw him with Gail, I thought, good for her. Good riddance. I never-I don?t think I ever saw him with any of the others. But Patty, if he was such a bother to you,why did you hire him??

?I didn?t think he was dangerous. And I thought it was better to have him where I could see him. And I must confess, I hoped that when the contest rolled around, he might take up with one of the contestants. I never dreamed that it would end like this,? Patty whispered. ?In such an ugly way.?

Patty drained her glass.?Will you lead the parade with me, Alice, in my car? I think it will take all of us together to help get over this nightmare.?

Alice hesitated.?I?d rather not. I guess I?m more frightened of Larry? more frightened by Frances ?s death than I knew.?

Patty nodded.?If you change your mind?? She got up, pushing back her chair. Before she turned, the cats slipped out onto the patio and around the corner? nearly under the feet of Larry Cruz where he stood hidden among the oleanders, against the wall of the tearoom. Listening. Scowling, as Alice walked away.

Chapter Nine

Patty Rose?s antique Rolls Royce led the parade, its top down, its white paint polished and gleaming, its brass fittings as bright as the afternoon sun that hung just above the sea. Patty, dressed in white satin, sat on the back of the front seat, looming above her liveried driver, smiling and waving. Dorothy Daniels had been right when she said Patty wouldn?t miss being queen of the festival, wouldn?t miss the publicity-though she wasn?t throwing kitty treats.

On the warm, shingled roof high above the crowd, Joe Grey and Dulcie had the best seats in the village, their only competition a dozen scolding grackles-the dark, pushy birds sensibly keeping their distance from lethal claws. Behind Patty?s Rolls Royce came the Molena Point high school marching band, then a team of mounted riders dressed in white Western wear. Then the lead float, done in many colors of crepe paper and carrying the three look-alikes clad in black cat costumes, their cat masks seeming to smile as they performed little dance steps-teasers for their act to come on the stage that had been set up at the edge of the beach. On their float behind the three blondes were two rows of kennel cages, each with a clean, pretty cat cozied down on a blanket. The animal shelter must have chosen their most laid-back charges. All the cats seemed comfortable, unperturbed by the noise and the crowd. The float?s banners proclaimed:

A HOUSE IS NOT A HOME WITHOUT KITTY.

SAVE A LIFE AND BRIGHTEN YOUR LIFE.

Behind the float came more riders, then seven more antique cars, including the yellow Chevy roadster belonging to Joe Grey?s housemate. Clyde Damen was all decked out in a clean white turtleneck and sport coat. Beside him rode his redheaded girlfriend, Charlie Getz. When she spotted the cats on the roof above, she waved to them with a secret smile.

Following Clyde and Charlie came another marching band, then three more floats carrying village children dressed in cat costumes. All along the length of Ocean Avenue, the shops were decorated with cat banners, cat flags and cat kites. Stuffed toy cats were featured in the windows among displays of women?s wear, sweaters embroidered with cats, and cat jewelry. Although many shops were closed for the occasion, they had provided handsome decorations.

The book store had an exhibit of cat books and a three-foot-tall Puss-in-boots made of crepe paper. One of the nicest women?s stores was hosting a cat-princess puppet show. And on every corner, Molena Point Animal Shelter had placed adoption booths with comfortably caged cats and charming young attendants.

That aspect didn?t charm Dulcie. ?I hope people don?t take kittens on a whim, like they would a toy, then not care for them.?

?Do you always have to look for sand in the milk dish??

?I don?t always. But you?ve seen kittens? Oh, never mind.? And she turned away crossly.

But Joe licked her ear.?They?re handing out brochures, Dulcie. And the volunteers are talking to people who want to adopt-they?re screening them and explaining the basics. Telling them what a little cat needs to be healthy and safe. I listened to one. She sounded like she knew what she was doing.?

?I hope so,? Dulcie said dourly. ?I don?t? Look. Is that Azrael slipping along the roof above the gift shop??

They watched the black tom disappear within the shadows above the Mink Collar, a jewelry and leather boutique. At the same moment, on the sidewalk below them, Alice Manning came along behind the gathered onlookers; she was dressed in denim shorts and a white pullover. This had to be Alice; the other three were on the float.

But it was Azrael who held Joe and Dulcie?s attention, who sent them racing across the roofs to the end of the block, dropping down to the balcony of the Mink Collar.

Pushing through the open window where Azrael had disappeared, where they could smell his scent, they explored the storage room then trotted down the stairs into the shop, searching beneath the display cases and in the cupboards-then followed his trail to a door that would open to the alley.

It was bolted from within, but a black cat hair clung to the metal. Nothing else in the store seemed to have been touched. The cash drawer beneath the computer was locked.

?Maybe he was casing the place for later,? Joe said. ?Maybe he saw us and left while we were crossing the street.?

Dulcie said nothing, stood looking around, lashing her tail with irritation.

They returned to the roofs, silhouetted now against the sinking sun. Below them the parade was ending, the floats gathering at the edge of the beach where the stage had been built and lights strung from poles. The three masked blondes sat on the edge of their float, bantering with the crowd. Some distance away, Alice Manning stood on the sand with her husband, the two of them eating hot dogs. Joe and Dulcie could see, beyond the parade route, several squad cars drifting along the quiet streets. They watched the performers gather, watched families spread out blankets on the sand in front of the stage, their backs to the setting sun and to the crowd that milled around behind them. Soon the entire shore was filled, people shouting the songs from Cats and cheering the black-cat dancers. Joe and Dulcie?s ears rang with the lyrics.

When the look-alikes? numbers were finished, the three performers stepped down to mix with the audience. One of them headed for the outdoor ladies? room, carrying a black duffel bag that must have been tucked out of sight on the float.

?Probably went to change clothes,? Dulcie said. ?Those leotards look hot.?

But she came out still dressed in skin-fitting black, still carrying the bag. The three women were separated now; as night fell and the jazz band began to play, they were hard to keep track of. Folks began to dance on the blacktop at edge of the beach, and one black-clad blonde moved away through the crowd toward a stand of cypress trees.

?Stay here, Dulcie. Watch the others.? And Joe Grey was gone, following her.

The entertainment was long, with readings, more jazz numbers, and an announcement by a representative of Molena Point Animal Shelter that 27 cats and kittens had been adopted. Dulcie, watching for Joe, began to fidget. Soon she was pacing the shingles, her ears back, her tail twitching, staring away toward the cypress trees and the sea cliffs. It was during a jazz instrumental number that she heard a sharp thunk somewhere behind her, as if the branch of a tree had broken. Nervously she searched the beach and the line of tall cypress that loomed dark in the gathering night. No sign of Joe, no telltale white chest and paws gleaming in the darkness.

As the number ended and a jazz guitarist came on stage, Dulcie saw, five blocks away, two squad cars take off fast, moving south, their lights flashing but no sirens.

Crouched on the shingles, she felt her heart thunder. What had happened? And where was Joe Grey? A siren screamed down the street behind her, and she spun around to see a rescue vehicle careen across Ocean, turning toward the beach. She took off fast across the rooftops. Joe was out there, he had followed that woman exactly where the police were headed. Galloping across ancient mossy shingles and through a half-built second story addition between studs and sawhorses, racing over the slick tile roofs of expensive oceanfront homes, she followed two more police cars to where the emergency vehicle had screamed to a stop.

A black-clad body lay on the sand, sleek in its tight suit, the face very pale. A perfect replay of the corpse at Otter Pine Inn.

Except this victim was a man.

Larry Cruz lay surrounded by police, the paramedics bending over him. His diving fins and mask, his hood and weights lay scattered across the sand. There was a bullet hole in his chest. The medics were doing their best to stop the bleeding and bring him back. As they worked on Larry, Max Harper?s car arrived. Dulcie ducked down, watching the captain step out with Detective Juana Davis, and the familiar routine began. The yellow tape, officers urging people back out of the way. Davis with her camera, her dark, short hair falling over her cheek. Soon the coroner was there to do his chilling work. Dulcie hardly paid attention to the investigation, as she searched beyond the gathering crowd, looking through the darkness for a small speck out on the sand-and for the black-clad woman he had followed.

Chapter Ten

On the rooftop of the oceanfront cottage, Dulcie was hardly visible, so well did her dark tabby coat blend in with the shingles. Nervously, she watched the police below her working the scene, the curious onlookers-and the black-clad corpse so reminiscent of the corpse in the tearoom.

The coroner knelt over Larry Cruz?s body, studying the bullet hole through the dead man?s diving suit and searching for additional wounds; although the single shot through Larry?s heart must have killed him. Dr. Bern was a thin, button-nosed man; he served as both coroner and medical examiner for the Molena Point PD. She?dheard him say there was no indication of drowning, that the victim had not been hauled out of the sea dead and then shot.

Detective Juana Davis knelt beside him, fingerprinting the dry areas of Larry?s diving mask and fins, and searching the pocket that had been built into his diving suit-an unusual addition, Dulcie thought. Davis found it empty. Dulcie puzzled only briefly over what it might have carried, but her thoughts were on Joe Grey. Shifting from paw to paw, she peered away into the night where Joe had disappeared, perhaps following the killer, and she could not be still.

Dropping from the roof to the top of a fence and then to the sand, she trotted through the forest of human legs and out toward the sea, doubling back and forth until she found a single line of shoe prints broken by a narrow row of pawprints, both tracks so fresh that the sand was still trickling in. Dulcie?s own paws sank deep. The smell of iodine and dead sea creatures filled her nostrils. The double trail led straight for the rocky sea cliff, some quarter mile away. Hurrying, slogging through sand and increasingly worried for Joe, she arrived at the cliff, panting.

Joe?s prints ended where the rocky cliff rose up. The human prints led along a narrow strip of sand between cliff and sea. No breakers surged tonight, only an oily churning as the tide rose.

Racing up the sharp promontory of jutting stone, Dulcie searched the dark escarpment, softly calling Joe?s name. There was no answer, no sound but sea. The bleak stone hill was empty. Padding to the edge, she looked down on the black and roiling sea and on the thin sliver of beach. A woman stood there, a black-clad figure, her face and hair as pale as a winter moon.

Quickly Dulcie doubled back, scenting along the rocks, cold with fear for Joe. But then at last she found his trail, descending the cliff along a four-inch-wide shelf, one of a dozen accordion-like ledges tilting toward the water-ridges that had likely formed eons past as the earth heaved up in some catastrophic quake. Padding down the narrow incline, Dulcie shivered, not from the cold.

She liked the sea from a distance, she loved listening to the ocean?s pounding heartbeat, which always comforted her. But to venture upon the windy cliffs at night, with the water heaving close beneath her and the tide rising, was another matter.

Where was Joe? Where was Joe Grey?

Beneath her sweating paws she could feel the earth trembling, too, from the pounding of the swells that broke at last against the cliff and that seemed to surge within the cliff, a hollow surging like water crashing into a hidden cave. Yes, there was a cave, it could be seen from another neck of land when the tide was out. Now it would be mostly underwater. Descending the four-inch ledge, she stopped suddenly.

Joe Grey stood below her as if he had materialized from the rock itself, his white face looking up at her, white chest and paws gleaming in the night, his black eyes intense. They spoke no word. Joe turned to look below them.

Down on the beach, the woman was pulling on a black hood over her blond hair. They watched her position a diving mask.

Padding down the narrow ledge, Dulcie pressed against Joe, licking his face and purring. He gave her a whisker kiss and a soft purr. It was all right, when they were together. They watched the woman pull on fins, accompanied by a little ratcheting sound as she tightened the straps. She secured a pale stick to her leg, too, then backed down the sand into the sea. Diving beneath the oily dark water, she was gone, vanished among the swells.

They saw her once, a dark underwater shape hardly visible, moving beneath the cliff and in where the sea hushed hollowly-and suddenly Joe Grey, too, was gone, slipping back into the hole from which he had emerged.

Dulcie followed him through a crack in the stone, a six-inch-wide fissure, as if the cliff had split at some time or perhaps prehistoric tides had washed out a softer part of the rock. She didn?t like creeping into the blackness between stone walls that pressed against her shoulders and zinged alarms through her whiskers. The floor of the hole was wet and slick, and as they pushed into the hollowness, the sea?s surging came louder. Then, abruptly, the right-hand wall ended and the narrow shelf fell away, straight down to the sea.

Dulcie?s paws were sweating. She fixed on Joe?s white feet moving away ahead of her, following him blindly until the ledge widened. Then suddenly below them a bright light moved beneath the dark, roiling water like the single fiery eye of a sea monster burning up at them.

Splash. The diver surfaced, her light exploding up, bathing the cliff as they fled away from the edge. Crouching against the wet stone wall, they kept their eyes slitted so as not to reflect the light back at her.

A black hand and arm reached up holding the pale stick, which had been lengthened. It had some kind of pincer at the end, maybe operated by a squeeze handle, Dulcie thought, like a stick for catching snakes, the kind used on TV nature programs. The woman dragged it along the shelf, feeling and poking and tapping, the stick reaching blindly toward them. They kept moving out of its way, backing deeper in-until Dulcie stumbled and nearly fell over something wet and slick.

A package lay on the wet stone shelf, a hard bundle as big as a book, wrapped in shiny black plastic. Joe slid his paw over it.?The money?? he said softly. ?The stolen jewelry??

Below them, the woman hung in the sea looking up, her light exploding the darkness. Could she see them? Crouched just out of the stick?s reach, they dragged the package deeper into the tunnel.

The diver, growing impatient, began making little leaps out of the sea, so she could angle the stick higher. With every jump her light came higher, too.

Taking one end of the package in his mouth, Joe backed along the ledge toward the mouth of the tunnel, the stick hitting and scraping beside him. Dulcie carried the other end, the two of them forcing it into the tunnel, fighting to pull it through. The light followed them, but not the stick. Had she glimpsed them when she leaped up? The way seemed twice as far now, the hollow pounding twice as annoying. But at last they were out, dragging the bundle up the narrow ridge, trying to keep it from sliding over the side. It seemed forever until they got it atop the cliff and lay panting beside it, their hearts pounding, the sea wind prodding cold fingers into their wet fur. The night was very bright, after the black cave.

?I?m never moving again,? Dulcie said.

?We?d better move, she?ll be up here.?

?Did she see us??

Rising, Joe began to tear at the package, ripping the plastic until he could slip a paw in-and his soft cat laugh filled the night.

When he pulled out a paper bundle, beneath his white paw, held securely from the wind, was a stack of hundred dollar bills.

?She?s coming,? Dulcie hissed. A dislodged pebble rolled down the cliff, then the squinching sound of the woman?s wet diving suit. Shoving the packet beneath loose stones, the cats fought to claw rocks over it-stones too heavy to be moved easily by paw.

?She?ll have a gun,? Dulcie whispered. ?Larry Cruz was murdered-shot.?

?I know,? Joe said. ?I saw her kill him.?

Dulcie raised her head, looking at him; she felt very small, the two of them alone on the cliff in the night. Far away, down the beach, the whirling red light and police spotlights shone bright and safe. They were frantically digging and pushing at the package when the woman appeared above the edge of the cliff. She was coming straight for them, her fins and gloves dangling in her hand, her blond hair whipping across her face.

Chapter Eleven

The night wind scoured across the black cliff, whipping at the cats, and the sea hushed and sucked below them as if it wanted to snatch them away. Quickly the dark figure approached, climbing. She had extinguished the light that was strapped to her forehead. Reaching the crest, she paused to strip off her hood and diving suit, packing them into the duffel bag with her fins. She gave no sign that she had seen them. They watched her remove, from the bag?s zippered side pocket, a snub-nosed revolver. The starlight caught its gleam.

Wrapping the gun in a pale cloth and then in a piece of plastic, she took a small, folding shovel from the bag. She knelt almost where they had buried the black plastic package of hundred dollar bills, and began to move rocks aside. Clearing a space not a foot away from where the cats crouched among the rocks, she began to dig. They couldn?t let her find the money and be off with it-they crouched, ready to spring at her, hardly breathing.

But she didn?t find the package. When the hole was a foot deep, she laid the gun in and covered it, patting the earth down, then stood looking up the beach toward the police cars, toward the moving spotlights where she had shot Larry Cruz. The cats could not see her expression. She turned away at last, and they watched her descend the cliff and cross the sand, heading away from the murder scene, watched her enter the village well to the south, among the quiet cottages, disappearing in the shadows.

?Why didn?t she throw the gun in the sea?? Dulcie said, pawing at where it was buried.

?Things wash back up. She?d have to go far out, maybe didn?t want to take the time. Maybe she means to dig it up later.? And Joe Grey smiled. ?Max Harper will have it before she does.?

?If we?re quick, he will,? Dulcie said, pawing sand from her whiskers. ?I wonder what she thought happened to the money, when she couldn?t find it? I thought sure she saw us.?

Joe licked his own whiskers, spitting out grit.?She and Larry fought. Larry said she was holding back, said they were supposed to hide everything, the money, the jewelry, the credit card slips, and split it all later. She said she only held back enough cash for expenses-she accused him of taking the money from her room. Larry said she was crazy. She shouted that he was double crossing her, and just like that she shot him. I didn?t even see the gun. She must have had it in her hand all the time.

Joe Grey?s eyes were sad. ?Maybe she planned to kill him all along. Come on, Dulcie, let?s get the money off this cliff. We can?t leave it here.?

?But who would find???

?Azrael. If he comes looking for her, if he catches our scent, he?ll find it.?

?You think she?s his partner? But this evening, Azrael went into the Mink Collar just before she slipped away from the crowd and you followed her. She wouldn?t have had time to go in and take anything. Anyway, he left the door locked.?

?He could have opened it any time. That shop was closed all day. She could have sneaked in before the floats lined up, then Azrael could have gone back later, during the parade, and locked it from inside.?

Pulling away stones with their claws, they freed the black plastic package and dragged it between them down the cliff and across the deep sand. They were both panting when they reached easier going beneath the cypress trees. The package was so heavy they were sure it contained more than paper money, though it couldn?t hold all the small items that had vanished, the fine purses and billfolds and silver. Hurrying along over a mat of dry leaves, beneath drooping cypress branches, they headed for Joe?s house. They stopped only once, near the murder scene, where the antique cars were parked.

Leaving Joe to guard the money, Dulcie slipped among the feet of the crowd and up into Clyde?s open yellow roadster. Crouching on the floor, she punched in the message code on Clyde ?s cell phone. Her voice was soft. ?Go home now, Clyde. We have the money. Please, hurry!?

Hitting end call, wondering if he would check his messages, she slipped up onto the back of the seat for a moment to watch the crowd.

She spotted Alice Manning, with her husband. Then a blonde in a black leotard. Then, some distance away, her twin. But no. There were three. One over by the hot dog stand-all three were there. The diver had returned. Talk about nerve.

She hurried back to Joe.?She?s stashed her duffel somewhere and come back to mingle, as if she never left. They?re so exactly alike! Who would know??

Dragging the package through the dark streets for what seemed miles, they covered a distance that ordinarily would be a hop and a playful gallop. Reaching Joe?s street at last, and his white Cape Cod cottage, they hauled their burden up the steps.

?This isn?t going to fit through your cat door.?

?Push, Dulcie. If we can get one edge under the flap??

?It isn?t going to go, not even catty-corner.?

They got it stuck twice, then Joe ripped the plastic open.

?Hurry,? she said. ?The whole neighborhood will see us, with the porch light on. Why did he leave the light on!?

Tearing with claws and teeth, they shoved one pack of hundred dollar bills through, then another, littering Clyde?s living room with enough cash to keep every cat in the village in caviar for the rest of its natural life. Beneath the money lay a dozen small plastic freezer bags filled with jewelry. Pushing it all through, they carried each bag and packet across the room, drooling some on the money, and stuffed them under the cushion of Joe Grey?s personal and ratty overstuffed chair-its cushions so lumpy that who could tell if there was a fortune crammed down atop the springs.

?Very nice,? purred a rasping voice behind them.

They spun, crouching, teeth bared, ears back.

?You two little kitties work very well together,? the black tom said. He stood in the dark dining room, his amber eyes mirroring light from the front window. ?You?ve brought it all out from the cave for us. How thoughtful. Come have a look, my dear.?

A woman stepped from the kitchen, her blond hair tangled. She wore a blue sweater over her black leotard; she smelled strongly of the sea. Joe wondered where Rube was; he prayed they hadn?t hurt the old black Labrador. Normally Rube would be growling and barking. There was not a sound, and that worried Joe. Rube was growing frail, getting on in years.

The woman looked at Joe?s chair, where Azrael was clawing the cushion aside. ?So, we have the contents of our package. Very nice.? She smiled coldly. ?And these are the other two with your talents, old tomcat! How good of them to help us.? Striding across the room, she tossed the chair cushion away and began toscoopthe money and jewelry into a canvas bag. Her voice was not Dorothy?s harsh tones, nor Beverly ?s sweet ones.

Gail Gantry. Bending over Joe?s chair, filling the bag with money.

Crouching, Joe Grey leaped, clawing and biting her, unwilling to abandon what they had worked to retrieve. Azrael sprang at Joe-and Dulcie hit Azrael hard in an explosion of claws and teeth. Gail was in the middle, striking at cats and shouting when from the kitchen a black cyclone exploded barking and jumping at her.

Rube had her arm in his mouth. She jerked away, kicking him hard. Ducking away, Rube turned on Azrael. As the black tom sprang to the top of the CD player, Gail plunged through the door running, clutching the bag. Azrael flew out with her, just ahead of Rube?s teeth. The cats leaped to the back of Joe?s chair, watching through the window as Gail roared away in a green compact and Azrael disappeared across the rooftops-and as Clyde?s roadster shot around the corner, into the drive.

Clyde ran for the house. Bursting in, he looked at the handful of scattered hundred dollar bills that had spilled to the rug. He looked at Joe and Dulcie.

?Come on!? Joe shouted. ?She has the money. She shot Larry Cruz? Come on, Clyde!?

Chapter Twelve

She?ll head for Santa Monica, Joe Grey thought as he leaped into Clyde ?s roadster and they took off after Gail?s green compact. As he drove, Clyde snatched the phone from its cradle and punched in 911. Joe stood with his paws on the dash, watching Gail slip along ahead of them just at the 50-mile limit so not to attract attention, moving south down the coast highway among light traffic, with the stolen money and jewelry tucked safely beside her.

Clyde said,?You sure she shot Larry Cruz??

?I saw her shoot him,? Joe said patiently. ?Dulcie and I followed her to the cliff. The money was hidden in that cave. She had to dive, to get in. She buried the gun on top the cliff.

?They?re coming,? Clyde snapped, looking in his rearview mirror. ?Two black-and-whites. Get down, Joe! Now!?

Joe dropped to the seat beside Dulcie. Clyde could be so bossy. Clyde slowed as the squad cars passed them.

The officers were on Gail before they hit the sirens and started the red lights spinning. As they pulled her over, Clyde parked some way behind. She didn?t resist, didn?t try to outrun them as Joe had guessed she might. They watched her step out and assume the position, face to the car, hands on the roof. Watched as she was searched and handcuffed, and her car was searched. Apparently she had no other gun. She seemed very demure now, the picture of surprised innocence. For a second, Dulcie felt sorry for her; the little tabby had that pitying look in her green eyes until Joe nudged her. Then she straightened, watching with satisfaction as the blonde was locked into the back of a squad car-this woman who had killed Larry Cruz for no reasonother than greed.

Police Captain Max Harper sat among the ruffled curtains and potted ferns of Otter Pine Inn?s tearoom, dressed in full uniform, the thin, leathered man looking totally out of place surrounded by delicate white wicker and Patty Rose?s fine china and fancy tea cakes-looking far more out of place than Joe Grey himself felt, cozied down on the window seat eating smoked salmon from a flowered plate. It took a certain polish, the tomcat thought, to make himself at home in any surroundings, from garbage cans to silk cushions.

From atop the baker?s rack, Dulcie watched, amused. Seeing Clyde and Max Harper at a fancy tea was a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

But how could the two have refused? Patty Rose?s requests were as imperative as a presidential summons-her purpose in this little gathering was to bid Alice and Jim Manning goodbye after their two week stay and to apologize for the ugly events surrounding the contest-not that she?d had any control over such matters.

Dorothy Daniels and Beverly Barker had been invited, but both women had gone home, deeply distressed by the shooting. Very likely, Joe thought, resolved never to be involved in another such contest. The way Joe had it worked out, Gail had been diving the morning of the tearoom breakin, because there had been another burglary just after the tryouts for the cat festival. He was guessing that Gail had gone, that morning before dawn, to stash the money. Or maybe she had waited on the beach while Larry dove.

Assume that Frances Farrow was suspicious of Gail and had followed her down the beach, Joe thought, getting her own shoes wet. Frances follows her to the tearoom, sees Gail walk in through the unlocked door-which Azrael had seen to some time during the night.

Frances sees Gail open the safe, wearing her gloves with that smell of the sea. Gail takes the money, locks the safe, is leaving when Frances appears and confronts her. Gail tells her it?s none of her business and to get out of the way. Frances refuses. Gail shoves her, hits her in a vital spot, denting the silver pendant and causing the unexpected reaction of commotio cordis-jolting the electrical circuit that controls her heart. Frances falls dead.

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.