"Luis has the key," she told them; but it scared her even more that she was speaking to them. As if some voodoo spell was on her. The biggest cat's eyes burned into hers like he understood her, too. As if he wanted to say, "Can't you take the key? Can't you let us out?" She grew frightened, indeed, watching him. It did no good to remind herself that they were only cats, only stray cats.
There were stray cats all over Mexico, they hunted rats and mice, and they died. In Mexico, there were always more cats.
It was Hernando who trapped the cats, away in the green hills beyond the village, which she could see from the window. Some of the cats had gotten away, slipped out of the traps. Then Hernando bought different ones. He said those cats knew how to open traps, but no cat could do that. Someone had let them loose.
Hernando believed it, though; he said they weren't regular cats. He talked real crazy, said they were worth money. But now that Hernando had gone away somewhere, why didn't Luis turn the cats loose, get rid of them?
She wished, with Hernando gone and Dufio in jail, that Luis would go away, too. She wanted to pray to the Virgin that Luis and his men would all go to jail for the jewel robbery and she and Abuela would be free. But she guessed she would go to hell if she prayed for such a thing. When she looked at the biggest cat, his eyes were so like a person's that she backed away from him, whispering her Hail Marys.
Binnie’s italian was a small, family-operated cafe that had been a fixture in Molena Point for three generations. The Gianinni family had been a part of the village since the dirt streets of Molena Point were traversed by horse and buggy. In the early days, many Italian families had emigrated from the old country to California's central coast, to farm and work and open businesses, to become doctors and lawyers and bankers, to settle in and help create the lively economy that now existed.
Other, fancier restaurants than Binnie's came and went, but Binnie's was part of the community, a constant favorite with its roasted-vegetable pizzas and seafood pastas and locally made wines and beers. A few years ago, Binnie's had redecorated, shocking the old-timers with bright abstract murals that covered the walls and ceiling and even the tabletops. Every surface became a feast of color, every chair a work of art painted differently. The effect was cozy and welcoming, a warm and cheerful retreat.
On this chill spring evening, Ryan Flannery entered Binnie's as Roman Slayter held the door for her in his most courteous manner. Having erased a dozen of Slayter's messages from her machine over the last four days, Ryan had at last given in, driven by curiosity at Slayter's latest message. She knew the taped message was a ruse, but she couldn't resist: "I think I know something about this burglary, Ryan. The jewelry store? Some facts… Well, I don't want to go to the police myself. I can't explain exactly why. You'd have to trust me on that. I thought if you passed on the information, it might be helpful…"
Oh, right, she thought. What kind of scam is this? But still, she had to know what he would say.
He'd reserved a table at the back, complete with a little bowl of flowers and a candle. Pulling out her chair for her, then folding his slim six-foot-four frame onto a red-and-blue ladder-back bench, Roman grinned at her, his brown eyes more familiar than she liked. He was wearing a tan cashmere sport coat over a black shirt and cream slacks. A flashy gold Rolex watch gleamed on his tanned wrist, and he wore some kind of gold signet ring with an onyx stone.
Up at the ranch, she hadn't noticed his jewelry, she'd been too angry and then too shocked at Rock's chameleon behavior. She still didn't understand what had gotten into Rock. She'd seen him, too many times, threaten to attack strange men who approached her. Tonight, she'd dropped the big dog off at Clyde's before Clyde got home from work. Had left a message on Clyde's machine. She hoped he didn't mind keeping Rock. It had been days since she'd seen him, and he hadn't once called her. She probably could have left Rock at home, he was much more dependable than when she'd first taken him in. But even now, when left alone, he was still inclined to panic and tear up the yard or the furniture.
Slayter had ordered wine as they were seated. Now she glanced briefly at her menu, then sat watching him. "What did you have to tell me? What was so urgent?"
Slayter had begun to speak when the waiter approached, uncorking a nice merlot. He remained silent, nodding and tasting at the right moments. Ryan watched the little ritual impatiently The dark-haired young waiter was nervous, was probably new at this-one of Binnie's many nephews, young men who had, over the years, worked in the restaurant while they were in high school or college. She kept a cool gaze on Roman.
When the waiter left, Slayter lifted a little toast to her, which she ignored. "The night of the burglary," he said, "I saw a woman running… Not from the store itself, but from that direction, that block." His brown eyes never left her, a soft, disingenuous look, concerned and innocent. He'd apparently just had a haircut, she could see the tiny white line below his neat, dark hair-and he smelled of some expensive, musky aftershave. "Just as the sirens started, I saw her running down the street from the direction of the jewelry store, keeping to the shadows. She was carrying a small black bag, a shapeless cloth pouch that bulged at the bottom. She was darkly dressed, with a hood pulled around her face. Running south, away from Ocean.
"Two blocks south of Ocean she ducked into a driveway, old shingled cottage next to a two-story house on Doris, that Spanish-style place with a new shake roof."
Ryan startled. That was Clyde's house, Slayter had to know that. It was the only two-story house for several blocks south of Ocean, the only house with a new shake roof. She looked at Slayter, frowning.
Could the woman he saw, if he had seen anyone, could that be Clyde's blond neighbor? She didn't know what Slayter was up to, but she didn't think she wanted to hear this.
No matter how much she disliked that woman, she liked even less what she was hearing.
"I was just headed back to the motel after dinner," Roman said. "Heard the sirens and turned up there instead." He gave her a boyish smile. "Idle curiosity. Rubbernecking, I guess. She ran into the driveway of the brown house, disappeared at the back, I heard a door close somewhere at the back. There was a woman in the front of the house, watching TV, I could see her silhouette through the shade."
Ryan frowned. She'd thought Chichi was staying there alone, that the owners were up in the city. "If you thought she was running from the burglary, why didn't you call the police? Why are you telling me?"
"I… I was in some trouble not long ago," Roman said diffidently. "Not of my doing, but the police thought it was. I… didn't want to get involved. The police…"
"You could have called them anonymously. They might have caught her. Might even have recovered the jewels." She watched him intently. "What is this, Roman? What kind of scam is this?"
"It isn't a scam, Ryan. What would I get out of tipping you off? I saw her and thought I'd pass it on. Well…" Roman leaned closer over the table, "I think she's a friend of your friend, I think she lives next door to him. I didn't want to make trouble for someone you're fond of."
The hell you wouldn't, she thought. "Why would that make trouble for him? Are you implying that Clyde's involved?" Ryan did her best not to laugh in his face. "You're going to have to spell it out." What scared her was that he'd taken great pains to learn about Clyde, to learn who she was seeing. She watched the waiter set down their antipasto and salad and refill their wineglasses.
"I thought maybe your friend… That this might touch you in some way, that you wouldn't want to…"
She rose, shoving back her chair so hard it fell clattering to the floor. "Call the police, Roman! Tell them. This has nothing to do with Clyde, or with me! If you have information, call the department!
"Unless you want to be charged with withholding information," she added hotly. And she stormed out of the restaurant, her stomach churning with anger-and with disappointment at abandoning Binnie's shrimp-and-ham linguini.
Heading for Clyde's to pick up Rock, she did her bes
t to simmer down; but she was still steaming when she knocked softly on Clyde's door. One light was on in the living room; looked like the reading light by Clyde's chair. She could hear a Dixieland CD playing. At her knock, she expected Rock to bark and then to catch her scent and whine, but she heard neither. "Clyde? It's me, it's Ryan."
He opened the door, scowling. He didn't move back out of her way, but stood blocking her entry.
"Where's Rock? I…"
"Have a nice evening?"
"What's wrong? Is there… Clyde, where's Rock? I brought him… Is he all right? Did you get my message?"
"He's in the backyard where you left him."
She stared at him. "What's he done? What are you mad about?"
There was a long silence. Clyde stood frowning. She stared at him, and began to laugh. "You're mad! Mad because I…" She pushed past him into the room, and turned to look at him. She took his hand and, against his mild resistance, led him to the couch, pulled him down to sit beside her. She was still holding his hand.
"Listen to me, Clyde. I met Roman Slayter for dinner because he said he had some kind of evidence about the jewel burglary. He called and called."
"Right."
"Just listen…"
From the kitchen, Joe Grey listened, too. Having slipped back inside through the dog door, he'd slid it shut in Rock's face, had left Rock outside pawing and scratching at the plywood. Joe stood in the kitchen, engrossed in Clyde's anger and Ryan's amusement, and in her explanation of why she'd agreed to have dinner with Slayter. He was heartened that she'd left the restaurant in a rage before dinner was served. Surely Clyde would be pleased at that.
When Ryan repeated Slayter's "information" about Chichi, Clyde played dumb, as if Chichi's stealthy behavior was news to him-as it should be. They made up with a lot of mushy talk that embarrassed Joe, then Clyde opened a bottle of Chablis and made Ryan a grilled shrimp sandwich that was, she said, far superior to Binnie's linguini. They let Rock in before he tore up the door; and Joe went up to his tower and curled down among the cushions, leaving the lovebirds alone. Below him the house was quiet, except for the romantic forties music that Clyde had loaded onto the CD player. Joe must have been asleep when Ryan and Rock left, he didn't hear her truck pull away.
About the same time that Ryan left Binnie's so abruptly, abandoning her dinner, Lucinda Greenlaw called Charlie. Charlie and Wilma were tucked up by the fire in the Harpers' new living room, with Dulcie and the kit, having had an early dinner before Max went back to the station.
"We've found a house," Lucinda said, her voice bright with excitement. "We waited to call until our offer was accepted. Tell Kit… Is Max there…? Could I…"
"Max is at work," Charlie said, laughing. "You can talk to Kit. She's all over me, pawing at the phone." Kit had sprung to her lap and was rearing up, paws on Charlie's shoulder, pressing her ear to the phone, her long, fluffy tail lashing. She was so excited that when Charlie turned the speaker on, she yowled twice like a little wild cat before she could get a word out. "A house, Lucinda? A house! What kind of house! Does it have a tower like Joe Grey's? Is it near Dulcie's? With a big garden and trees and a window seat with pillows and a nice fireplace and…?"
"Stop, Kit! Stop and listen! Window seats, yes. Trees and a tangle of garden just the way you like. There's no tower but it does have a surprise…"
"What surprise, Lucinda? What?"
"Would it be a surprise if I told you? You'll have to wait and see. Of course there's a fireplace. You'll love this house. We'll pick you up first thing in the morning, seven-thirty, have breakfast in the village, then meet the Realtor at nine. Oh, Kit, we can hardly wait for you to see it."
Kit was purring so loud that it was hard for Charlie to get a word in. "Shhh, Kit." She stroked the excited tortoiseshell. "Lucinda, have breakfast here! A mushroom omelet and fresh mangoes?"
"That sounds wonderful, Charlie, but that's way too early to be entertaining company."
"No it isn't. You're not company, you're family. Ryan's bringing the girls, to ride. They can help me before they saddle their horses."
When Lucinda said they'd come, Charlie clicked the phone off, and looked into Kit's wide, yellow eyes. The little cat was seething with anticipation, so wired that Charlie thought she'd fly apart. It took a long time for Kit to settle down again and to resume telling the story she had begun.
Charlie felt certain that Kit's early life, with a judicious retelling to remove the little cat's unusual talents, could be a wonderful book-if she could do the story justice. Wilma had read the first five chapters, which were in rough draft, and she thought the story was as compelling and as real as Watership Down. Charlie knew it was foolhardy to ask the opinion of one's friends when it came to creative matters, whether to the written word or to a painting. But Wilma was, after all, a well-read librarian with a keen perception of what her own readers loved. The fact that both Wilma, and Charlie's agent, were excited about the beginning chapters had left Charlie amazed and even more eager to write the finest book she could. Life was, indeed, full of wonders.
Now, long after Max got home and they were tucked up in bed, and both cats were settled in with Wilma in Charlie's studio, Charlie lay awake, filled with too many thoughts to find sleep. The fire in the master bedroom had burned to coals, and still she lay thinking about the book and about the pictures she was doing for it; seeing the newest drawing clearly, as she liked to do before she began it. Beside her, Max tossed restlessly. Even in sleep, his mind would be busy with police matters.
She thought about the jewel theft and the increasing complexity of the suspects; profiles that Max and Dallas had put together. About their growing suspicion of a larger scenario, perhaps a dozen burglaries to hit the village at one time. Though she tried never to succumb to fear, the more she learned about this little nondescript Luis Rivas and his men, the more uneasy she felt. She turned over, shivering, pressing close to Max, clinging to the comforting sense of his goodness and strong capability. He and Dallas and Davis had the situation well under control, she told herself, or they soon would have.
But still the worries were there, silly, disjointed fears about matters that probably meant nothing, like Ryan's dinner with Roman Slayter and his accusation of Clyde's neighbor.
Ryan had called her when she left the restaurant, so mad she could hardly talk. Charlie lay puzzling over what Slayter had told Ryan, puzzling over Slayter's arrival in the village at just this time, as well as Chichi's sudden appearance right next door to Clyde. And she began to wonder why Max had received no anonymous phone tips on this case.
Still, though, Max and Dallas were gathering information and biding their time, waiting for more police files to come in from L.A. So maybe Joe and Dulcie were doing that, too.
She was smiling to herself in the dark, thinking about two little cats wandering the station, pawing through reports, tucking away sensitive facts, when she heard, in the still night, one of the cats in the kitchen crunching kibble.
That would be the kit, she thought, grinning. In a little while, she saw the little cat's shadow prowling the patio, restlessly stalking, her long, fluffy tail twitching. Was Kit, too, thinking about the jewel robbery? More likely, about the new house. Charlie thought about the amazing accident that had brought Kit here, to the Greenlaws. That wild band had never before, in Kit's lifetime, traveled this far north. What had drawn the clowder to Hellhag Hill, and drawn the Greenlaws to picnic there? Surely that had been a wonderfully happy accident. Or had it been more than an accident?
That meeting between Kit and the Greenlaws, then Charlie herself moving to Molena Point, had resulted in Charlie's book in progress. Serendipity? A happy accident? Or a gift of grace? A gift she would do her best to honor.
Snuggled close to Max, Charlie promised herself that she would produce, in this book, the best work she could create, an adventure to touch the heart of every reader. She lay smiling, lost again in the story-and the next thing she knew the alarm was buzzing a
nd she was out of bed before she came fully awake. Pulling on her jeans and sweatshirt and boots, she went to feed the horses and dogs and then to start breakfast.
20
Picking up the two girls again the next morning, Ryan headed straight for the ranch, no stopping this morning for breakfast; she and Rock had shared a bowl of cereal; though he'd had his dog food to himself. She wanted to get the upstairs dried in before any chance of rain. Early spring on the central coast could be temperamental, California wasn't all sunshine and warm beaches. The roughing in was finished, the roof raised and the new studs in place. Today they would get the exterior sheeting and roof sheeting on. The flooring was being delivered this morning, too, and the drywall, all of which needed to be stacked under cover before bad weather hit. When she stopped for the girls, they climbed in the back seat sleepy and quiet; they were silent until, in the center of the village, Dillon came alert, suddenly glued to the window.
"There she is again!" They were passing a small cafe patio that was half filled with early breakfast customers. "What does she do, at the crack of dawn? For hours, like that? Looking up and down the street and writing things down. She's spying on someone. How long's she been sitting there?"
Ryan glanced in her rearview mirror. "What?'
"That same blonde," Dillon said, "that lives next door to Clyde, that bimbo who was all over him yesterday when we pulled up at his house. Who is she?"
"That cheap blonde with the tight sweaters and big boobs," Lori specified.
Ryan glanced at Lori, amused, and turned off Ocean up the highway, heading for the Harper place.
"We've seen her four times," Lori said, "sitting in different restaurants early in the morning. For hours, alone, watching the street. Writing something in a notebook. She's never eating, just coffee. How much coffee can a person drink?"
"Hours, Lori? How would you know that?' "We've been taking the dogs to the beach," Lori said. "Susan Brittain's dogs." Susan was one of the four senior ladies Lori had lived with since her father went to prison. Lori loved the standard poodle and the Dalmatian, and got along well with them. "I don't like that woman, she's a tramp."
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