Yes, the door was locked. But coming back along the hall she could swear she’d left the middle bedroom door closed. Now it was open. She peered in, then shut it, wondering what he, or that woman from the cat shelter, might have seen lying on the dresser. Crawling back into bed, trying to get comfortable, she wondered about that blonde throwing her money away on useless pens for stray cats.
She had never expected a new building to rise so close to the ruins, she didn’t like people so near. That’s why she’d kept her share of the Pamillon property separate from the family trusts. She’d figured they’d never be able to sell the estate, never do anything with the old place. And then that Kate Osborne buying the mansion and the whole acreage, her and her sharp attorney finding a way to untangle the trusts. That was a nasty shock, and then Kate trying to buy her five acres, too.
Well, she and Lena had put a stop to that. Her niece was just as hard-minded as Voletta herself, they weren’t selling to anyone. And then that woman contractor shows up, her and her carpenters. And the foreman, this Scott Flannery, who she’d heard was Ryan Flannery’s uncle.
At least he had been there to help her tonight. She supposed she should have been polite and thanked him, he might be useful again sometime. Maybe he was Kate Osborne’s lover, he was over there a lot. She didn’t care what they did but the arrangement complicated things for her. From up at that shelter they could see her whole property, she knew that from when she’d walked up there, looking around at the half-finished building. Who would build a “shelter” for cats? Cats got along fine by themselves.
Well, she’d picked up a good trowel and a hammer. They wouldn’t know where they lost them. Scowling, she got as comfortable in bed as she could and drifted off into a mildly drugged sleep. If she dreamed of her own plans, she floated down into them, smiling.
When Lucinda and Ryan had hung up, Pedric turned off the gas log and set the camping coffeepot off the heat. With the power off, the house was freezing. They were both up when Ryan had called, had been looking out into the night, calling Kit. Now, carrying the emergency battery light, they hurried back to their warm bed, Pedric silently giving thanks that Kit was safe and that she would follow Lucinda’s instructions—and Lucinda wondering if Kit would do as she was told. Wondering if she herself would now be able to sleep.
Lucinda did sleep, but she woke at first light. Maybe it was the silence that woke her: there was no wind beating at the windows.
When she tried the bedside lamp, there was still no power. The tall woman rose, brushed back her gray hair, pulled on her robe again, relit the fire, and put the coffeepot back on the flames. She supposed there would be trees down all over town. Beyond the windows the sky was heavy with clouds. One small streak of red glowed behind the eastern hills. Nearer the house, down in the hollow to the west, lay the torn branches of eucalyptus and acacias, and four fallen pine trees. The coffee started to perk. She heard the cat door flap open and she turned.
Kit sat on the dining table looking smug.
Her tangled fur was a wet mess covered with damp leaves. Lucinda grabbed the tortoiseshell up in her arms hugging her close, pressing her face against Kit’s cold little face, stroking litter from her flyaway fur—saying a silent prayer that she was safe. Never had they had such wind, not in the middle of summer. Never had she worried so over Kit as she had last night—well, almost never.
The sweet cat was purring so loud she drowned out the sound of the perking coffeepot. “I dreamed my tree house was all blown apart, but before I ever dreamed, that one tree did fall, Lucinda, the one that fell on Joe Grey’s tower and the windows are broken and it fell on a car, too, a stolen car and smashed it in the middle, I was following the man and he crawled out and ran but I didn’t follow I was so worried for Joe, but then Joe was all right and Ryan and Clyde, too, only I’d left Pan behind and Joe and I went to look for him and—”
Lucinda placed a soft hand over Kit’s mouth. “Slowly, Kit. Slowly, you’re making my head spin. You told me most of this last night.”
Kit had to tell it again but she tried to go slower. “And Pan was following another man but we found him—Pan—and he came home to Joe Grey’s and Ryan made breakfast and she called the Firettis and we called you and it was still dark and we all piled in bed and went to sleep and the police were down on the street at the wrecked car and I dreamed about my tree house blown away and when I woke up the wind was gone but when I slipped out on the roof there were no lights down in the village, no power anywhere, but I was careful of loose wires anyway and Pan went home to the Firettis, they need him, they were worried about him.”
Lucinda hushed her again, picked up the phone, and dialed the Firettis.
“Did Pan get home?” Pan had been staying with the Firettis much of the time since Pan’s father died. The doctor and Mary mourned Misto so, he had been very special to them. Misto passed away shortly before Joe and Dulcie’s kittens were born. Now his headstone and little grave graced Mary’s flower garden; and Pan had moved in to fill the empty place in their lonely household, to ease their grieving. Though late after midnight he still prowled the rooftops with Kit, or dreamed away the small hours in her tree house.
“Pan just got here,” Mary said. “And Kit? Is she all right?”
“She’s home, she’s telling me all the details. Did you have much damage?”
“John’s been over at the clinic most of the night. Everything seems fine.” They talked for a few moments as, outside, the dark sky began to bloom with thin red streaks. As Lucinda hung up, Pedric woke, came out to the kitchen and was treated to another long dialogue before Kit devoured a lovely breakfast of pancakes and leftover salmon.
At Dulcie’s house, Wilma, too, had been up and down all night, checking the windows with a flashlight as the blow increased, checking the cage in the kitchen making sure the babies weren’t upset by the rattling wind. But they, tucked down in the blankets warm against Dulcie, had slept right through; what sturdy kittens they were. Dulcie looked up at her and purred and curled down deeper among them. The house was so cold, with no power, but the kittens’ bed was warm. Taking her cue from them, Wilma went back to her own bed.
Wilma was asleep, her long gray-white hair spilled across the pillow, when the wind ceased; the silence woke her, and the kittens’ mewling and hissing in play from the kitchen. They, having slept all night, were wild with energy. Wilma pulled the pillow over her head and closed her eyes, hoping to doze again.
In the kitchen, Dulcie played with them, tussling and wrestling, up over table and chairs and counters, atop the refrigerator and down again, running and leaping until she was worn out, but she hadn’t worn them out. She hadn’t slept much, the night wind had made her feel trapped, as if she were its prisoner.
Ever since the kittens grew older she had gotten these locked-in feelings every few days, hungering to be out of the house, yearning for a wild run under the open sky unencumbered by demanding youngsters. She loved her babies dearly—but did all mother cats feel this way? The kittens were big enough to be left in their pen, with Wilma to watch over them, but they made such a fuss when Dulcie left them. And now, this morning, her housemate needed sleep.
She wouldn’t take the kittens outside with her, they were still too small, with hawks in the sky and an occasional loose dog roaming. She had resumed batting and chasing them across the linoleum, trying to wear them out, when the two-sided bolt of her cat door slid open with an impatient paw, the plastic door flew up, and Joe Grey pushed inside.
The kittens hadn’t figured out the latch yet, but it wouldn’t be long. Joe Grey nuzzled Dulcie for only a moment then was mobbed by their babies, all three climbing Joe’s sleek gray sides, biting his ears and nipping his paws. He pressed Striker down with a big paw, then looked tenderly at Dulcie. “You look battered.” He licked her ear. “Go run, the wind’s gone. Be careful of the wires and . . .” But Dulcie was already out the cat door and up an oak tree onto the roofs running, running . . .
; “Run safe,” Joe said to thin air. He pawed open the cage door and settled inside, the kittens following him. With sharp claws he pulled closed the top of the cage to keep them from climbing out and tearing up the house. The kitchen curtains were glowing with the first touch of dawn.
Out on the roofs Dulcie ran, she did flying leaps, she dodged loose wires and broken trees; the village below was dark, not a light burned anywhere. Racing across the tops of the neighbors’ houses between thin, rising paths of wood smoke, she watched the dawn come flaming and then fading to peach, the color of her ears and nose. She ran until she was winded, until the last twitches of constricted nerves had eased, until her heart pounded with freedom instead of frustration—until, in her wildness, the world was hers again. She passed a man below walking the neighborhood looking at the damage, the fallen trees, the rubble-strewn gardens, at a lawn chair in the middle of the street—a tall young man, thin face, thin, long nose, wearing a tan golf cap and tan Windbreaker. At last, eased and purring and feeling whole again, she sat down and licked loose bark and wet leaves from her paws. Life was good. Joe Grey was dear and loving to have taken over the kittens after a hard night himself, to offer her a little freedom. Refreshed, she galloped home longing to snuggle down with her big gray tomcat and their youngsters, hoping that Joe had played hard with them and had settled the last of their wildness—for the moment.
Yes, Joe had quieted them. Dulcie arrived home to find the kittens sleepy and docile, willing to stay in the cage as she and Joe played gently with them. Joe gave her a brief picture of last night’s thefts, the tree falling, its leafy branches breaking his tower windows and sticking through into the main house, the smashed, stolen Jeep; the thief’s escape; their windy race to find Pan. “Ryan and Scotty will be taking down the tree. Will they break my windows even more, cutting the branches out? Can Ryan fix it, can she make it right again?”
“Of course she can fix it. She built the tower!” Dulcie lashed her tail. “It will be as good as new.” Seeing how restless he was, that he was beginning to fidget, “Go,” she said, “go hit the PD, you’ll feel better when you can see some reports, find out what they have.”
Joe gave her a whisker kiss, nuzzled the kittens, and was gone, out through the cat door.
He was back in less than a minute. He flew into the kitchen, leaped to the table then to the sink to peer out the window.
Wilma was up now, she came into the kitchen, clipping back her pale hair. In the dawn light it shone silver against her blue T-shirt. “What?” she said, frowning at Joe and stepping to the side of the window, out of sight.
“There’s a man walking the street,” Joe said, “stopping here and there in the shadows. He keeps looking this way as if he’s casing the house. He was there when I got here, but then he was just strolling along.”
“I saw him, too,” Dulcie said. “Walking casually, looking at the rubble, at the broken trees and damage . . .”
“He isn’t casual now,” Joe said.
Wilma, hidden by the blue curtain, frowned as she stood looking. Just as Dulcie leaped up beside her, the man backed deeper between the neighbors’ houses, but still looking at their windows. Only when light from the rising sun hit his face did he move deeper into the shadows—but not before Wilma got a good look.
Startled, she stepped back farther beyond the curtain. A tall, slim young man, thin but with strangely broad shoulders slightly hunched forward. A thin face but with wide cheekbones, a straight, thin nose and narrow chin. Light brown hair sticking out from beneath his cap. Wilma was very still, her hands gripping the edge of the sink so hard her knuckles were white. Behind them Courtney leaped to the counter, pressing against her.
Wilma stroked the calico idly, her attention on the man. “I saw him near the market yesterday, I got just a glimpse. For an instant I thought I knew him—as if he had stepped right out of time, stepped into this time from some twenty years ago.”
Courtney’s eyes, when Wilma mentioned stepping out of time, blazed with interest. The boy kittens leaped up, too, cocking their heads, intrigued.
Wilma said, “He’s a dead ringer for one of my old parolees. Calvin Alderson.” She studied the man, his face, his stance. “I had his case for over a year, until the PD picked him up for murder. He was indicted, went to trial, was convicted—some twenty years ago, but this man’s a dead ringer for young Calvin just as he looked then.”
“And at the market,” Dulcie said, jumping up beside Wilma and Courtney, “he was watching you?”
“He seemed to be. Passing a row of shelves twice, glancing in at me, standing in the shadows as I left, turning away when I went to load my car.”
Dulcie had never before seen her housemate afraid. Wilma Getz was no shrinking violet, she had been well-trained in her profession.
“Same build,” Wilma said, “slim but with those broad, angled shoulders. That day when they led him out of the courtroom he yelled that he’d find me one day, that he’d take care of me good.” She said this almost amused. “That wasn’t the first time I was ever threatened. It goes with the program. But seeing him now, exactly the way he looked then . . . Seeing someone who looks exactly like him,” she corrected herself.
“Alderson was on death row five years before they executed him. He was convicted of killing his wife’s lover. The investigating detectives were convinced he killed the wife, too, but her body was never found. They had some shaky evidence, but no body. Not enough to make a second case for murder.”
Wilma stood looking into the shadows at the man. “This could well be his son, their little boy, Rickie. He was placed into child care, he was about seven then. He was in trouble later, in his teens. I check his record now and then, except for small local crimes that might not be included. He did a couple of long stretches for assault, and here and there short jail time for theft or breaking and entering. Last I heard, he was in prison in Texas.” She stroked Dulcie. “I’ll call Max later, see if he can find out where Rick is now. Meanwhile, it’s nothing to worry over. That young man isn’t Calvin Alderson, and why would his son care about me? He hated his father, scared to death of Calvin. He should have been glad we locked him up—at the time, just a little boy, he was furious at me, at the law. Later, when I visited him in child care, he was fine.”
Courtney, snuggled between them, looked up at Wilma, intently curious about any new, intriguing human event. But her eyes held a shadow, too. As if the presence of a stalker, of danger to Wilma, stirred some long-ago memory, some ugly dream.
The sun was higher now, pushing back the shadows between their neighbors’ houses, and the man across the street moved briskly away, turning at the next corner, out of sight. They heard a car start and drive off. Joe Grey raced out the cat door and scrambled to the rooftops meaning to follow but already the car was gone.
Joe returned to the kitchen feeling concern for Wilma and frightened for Dulcie and the kittens. He didn’t want this guy hanging around. Was he Calvin Alderson’s son? Why would he be here? What did he have in mind? How did Wilma fit into his unfortunate life if, as she said, he had hated his father?
But Wilma wouldn’t let anything happen to Dulcie and the kittens, or to herself. A break-in wasn’t likely; she had good locks on her windows, and more than one handgun.
Still, restless over the watcher, hastily he licked up the cold custard Wilma set before him. Then using his damaged tower as an excuse, wondering aloud if the carpenters had started on it, if they were taking proper care, if Ryan was there to oversee the work, he headed for the cat door.
Dulcie, watching him, had to smile. “Go,” she said. “Go see to your tower, they’ll be clearing away the rubble.” And Joe Grey hit the roofs, making detours, peering into alleys, watching the streets for the prowler as he headed home.
6
Joe was three blocks from home, coming across the roof of the house where the BMW had been stashed, when he paused looking away along the side street. The department had put up sawhorses and crime
tape barriers at either end of a three-block area. Along the curb stood seven cars with broken windows. All other parking places were empty where, before, there had been more than two dozen vehicles, many damaged. How many had the thieves gotten away with? How many had already been towed to the police lot, or their owners had been contacted and allowed to claim them? Two squad cars were parked inside the yellow tape, an officer seated in each, most likely running the license plates to find the last seven owners.
They would want to check for fingerprints on the cars and their interiors, or maybe wait for Dallas to do that. They would need lists from the owners of what was missing. He thought about the BMW that had been hidden just below him. He hoped it was still there, he still felt guilty that they hadn’t reported it. He thought of Pan’s words, Let it lie. It will come right, we’ll think of a way. The padlock was still hanging locked.
But maybe the cops had already jimmied it, and found the car. Was it there or was it gone? That was a nice BMW, one of those sporty models. Joe wondered if the owners even knew, yet, that it was missing, if they had even reported it stolen.
The tomcat still wasn’t willing to risk calling in, risk placing the snitch so close to his own home. Leave it, he thought, but it wasn’t like Joe Grey to do that.
He arrived home on his own roof to find Ryan, her uncle Scotty, and two of their carpenters clearing away the fallen tree. They had cut the heavy trunk into sections, had removed all but the spreading top that was still tangled in Joe’s tower windows. Corners of one window stuck out at an alarming angle. Another of the shattered panes had given way, scattering more diamond-bright fragments across the dark shingles. Ryan knelt beside the tower carefully cutting small branches, pulling them free of the structure.
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