Cat Seeing Double

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  It did occur to the tomcat that, in worrying over the kit, he was behaving exactly like Clyde and Wilma. But he immediately dismissed that thought. This was an entirely different circumstance. The kit was still young, innocent, and totally unpredictable.

  Abandoning the newspaper and his empty plate, Joe dropped off the table. If the police had further information about the bombing, it wasn't in the Gazette. But, of course, Garza would keep any new leads strictly within the department. Nipping out his cat door and up a neighbor's pine tree, he stretched out on a branch where he could watch Ryan tear up the roof, and could think over the two cases.

  As to evidence in the church bombing, he knew the county lab was backed up for months and that they made very few exceptions. But couldn't they try, for a case such as this? Harper said every department and every court had to wait its turn. So why wasn't there more staffing? Joe scratched an itch that was definitely not a flea. All kinds of people were out of work, yet these high-tech jobs were going begging. Why? Humans were adaptable, they were smart. If a cat couldn't catch rats, he'd go after other game.

  Still, he guessed it was hard to make a change in your life.

  He watched Ryan and a young, long-haired carpenter cut and nail plywood flooring. Above them on the attic roof the other carpenter knelt, ripping off shingles, dropping them down to the yard and sidewalk. In a moment Clyde wandered out of the carport with a rake and went to work down at the end of the yard where shingles already Uttered the grass and cement. Sometimes, all the banging and hustle that accompanied busy human endeavor wore a cat right out.

  Dulcie would say all that hustle was what humanity was about. Build, invent, improve, and move on. Push the envelope. The ingenuity of the human mind was no longer involved simply with hunting. A billion possible scenarios now waited, to be deftly harnessed. She would say, only when that eager creativity was twisted into negative channels, into destruction, did mankind falter and slide back to the cave mentality.

  Now that old man, old Gramps Farger. There was a cave mentality, with his bombs and drugs.

  Gramps had disappeared completely from the little house where he and Curtis's father had run their original meth lab. Harper's men hadn't found a sign of life when they went back after the bombing, again looking for Gramps. The lab had been out back, a quarter mile away from the house, in a rough shack. Harper said it stunk so bad that the officers had to wear masks. Those chemicals got right in your lungs. Maybe the house would have to be burned down, Joe thought, and the earth turned under like some atomic waste.

  And now Gramps was running free, letting the kid take the rap, letting a ten-year-old boy cool his heels in jail.

  Joe watched the carpenters tearing out the two end walls, preparing to cut loose the apex of the roof. Eight huge, businesslike jacks stood ready to lift the long halves of the roof straight up, turning them into walls. He wondered how dangerous that would be, jacking up those two forty-foot sections. Wondered how Ryan was going to secure them in place while she built the new roof on top and built the end walls. He'd hate to be underneath if one of those mothers gave way. Talk about a cat pancake.

  But watching the dark-haired young woman swing her sledgehammer knocking out two-by-fours, Joe didn't doubt that Ryan's plan would work, that it was efficient and professional, and as safe as any construction operation could be.

  Still, though, he thought he'd keep his distance during the jacking up. He was just wondering if Ryan planned to do that after lunch, when Rock's booming challenge filled the morning, echoing from the backyard where Rock had been confined with old Rube.

  Leaping to the next tree between the neighbor's house and his own, Joe watched Rock cavorting and dancing around Rube trying to get the old black Labrador to play. The two elderly cats and the young white female looked on from atop the trellis, not yet comfortable with the big energetic weimaraner. Poor Rube seemed willing to romp, ducking his gray muzzle and pawing at the paving but his limbs and joints didn't want to cooperate. Joe mewed softly, knowing how much Rube hurt and feeling bad for him, knowing that even with the wonders of modern medicine Dr. Firetti couldn't turn off all the pain of arthritis.

  At least Rube had a nice backyard. And the patio's heavy Spanish-style trellis provided fine aerial walkways for the cats. To say nothing of the warmth-the high stucco wall at the back trapped the afternoon sun so the patio was warm as a spa, holding the heat well into evening where an animal could stretch out for a luxurious nap.

  Ryan had even provided a decorative tile border around old Barney's gravestone. The golden retriever, Rube's lifelong pal who had died last year, was buried just beyond the oak tree. Ryan had, with tenderness, retained the small sentimental elements that were important to their little family while, in more practical terms, pursuing a remodeling regimen that would make the house worth twice its present value.

  Clyde's "building money" for this project had been, just as when he bought the old apartment house, cash earned from the sale of his restored antique cars. The latest vehicle, a refurbished 1942 LaSalle, Clyde had purchased in a shocking condition of rust and neglect. Now, renewed nearly to better than its original state, the antique car had sold almost at once for more than enough to complete the upstairs project, a sum hard to comprehend in terms of kitty treats or even in confections from Jolly's Deli.

  Watching his contented housemates, Joe was glad Clyde hadn't sold their little home. As for the house next door, it had not been turned into a restaurant after all, but had been sold again. The one property alone, apparently, hadn't been large enough to make the venture cost-effective.

  Listen to me, Joe thought, alarmed. Cost-effective? Worth twice its present value? Sometimes I worry myself, sometimes I sound way too much like a human. Next thing you know, I'll be buying mutual funds.

  It was well past noon when Ryan and the carpenters broke for lunch, when Clyde's car pulled in. The sudden silence of the stilled hammers and power tools was so profound it left Joe's ears ringing. Any sensible cat would have left the scene hours before to seek a quiet retreat, but he didn't want to miss anything-and now he didn't want to miss lunch. He watched Clyde come up the steps toting a white paper bag that sent an aroma of pastrami on rye like a benediction, watched Ryan hurry down the makeshift stairs and around to the backyard to see that Rock had water and a few minutes of petting, before she ate her lunch. As she returned, Joe settled beside Clyde, where he sat on the new subfloor, opening the white paper bag. He felt sorry for the household cats, that they couldn't have gourmet goodies. The vet had warned Clyde long ago about the dangers of such food to felines. Dr. Firetti had no idea of the delicacies in which Joe and Dulcie and the kit indulged, apparently without harm. They all three checked out in their lab tests and exams with flying colors. "Healthy as three little horses," the doctor always said, congratulating Clyde and Wilma on their conscientious care. "I see you're sticking to the prescribed diet." And no one told him any different.

  Listening to Ryan's soft voice, Joe tied into his share of Clyde's sandwich, holding it down with his paw. Far be it from Clyde to cut it up for him. Glancing above him, he saw that Ryan hadn't yet cut loose the roof along the peak. All was solid up there over their heads. The two carpenters sat at the other end of the room, their radio playing some kind of reggae, turned low. Both were young and lean and tanned, one with a rough thatch of hair shaggy around his shoulders, the other, Wayne, with dark hair in a military trim that made Joe wonder if he was moonlighting from some coastal army camp. Ryan's uncle Scotty hadn't yet arrived.

  Ryan was saying, "When I got home last night, Rock took one sniff at the stairs and the door and charged into that apartment roaring. He knew someone had been in there. He raced around looking for him, pitching a fit. Took me a while to get him settled. I didn't want to discourage him from barking but 1 sure don't want the neighbors on my case."

  "Neighbors ought to be happy to have a guard dog in residence. Put it to them that you had a prowler and you're sure glad the dog ran
him off."

  "I wonder if the neighbors saw Larn, if anyone saw him come in. You'd think if they had, they'd have called the station."

  "Did you tell Dallas?"

  "Yes. He's checking for prints, something for the record." She looked at him solemnly. "My dad called early this morning from Atlanta, he'd heard about the murder on the news."

  "He didn't know?"

  "I asked Dallas not to tell him. There's nothing he can do and I thought it would only distract him. Don't those TV stations have anything to fill up their time besides a murder clear across the country? They gave it the same spin as the San Francisco papers, contractor's money-hungry wife."

  Clyde handed her a container of potato salad, glancing across at the carpenters. The two men were deep in conversation, paying no attention to them. "What are you going to do about Williams?"

  "Wait and see what he does. I sent a correct bill this morning to the Jakeses by registered mail. Put the doctored billing in my safe deposit box with a note about the circumstances."

  Clyde raised an eyebrow.

  She shrugged. "Just being careful."

  "Your dad was upset when he called?"

  "Mad as hell, ready to kick ass. I told him it would be okay, I told him Dallas would get it sorted out. He'd already talked with Dallas. He'll be back at the end of the week, plans to catch the shuttle on down here."

  "You told him about Larn Williams, about the billing switch?"

  "Yes. He agreed with me, that I should wait to see what Larn will do."

  Clyde was quiet.

  "If Larn wanted… he could have killed me the night he killed…"

  She stared at him, her eyes widening at what she had said, what she'd been thinking. They were both silent.

  "I have no way to know that," she said quietly. "That just slipped out. I… it will be interesting to see if Larn calls me again. Maybe to see if his switch of the billing worked." She smiled. "Maybe I can lead him on, maybe learn something."

  "What does that mean? You wouldn't go out with him."

  "That would be foolish."

  "That's not an answer."

  She was silent.

  "Would you call me if you decide to see him? Let me know where you're going?"

  She just looked at him.

  "Will you call me? I make a good backup. Like the safe deposit box."

  She grinned. "All right, I'll call. If you'll stay out of the way."

  "Totally invisible," Clyde said. They were finishing their lunch when Dallas showed up wearing scruffy clothes and driving a rusted-out old Chevy. He stood in the yard watching Ryan descend.

  "On my way up the hills, see if I can find Gramps Farger. A tip that he's living up there in some old shack." Dallas looked at Ryan. "We have some blowups of the murder-scene photos. Found the hint of a tire mark, thin tire like maybe a mountain bike. Lab is doing an enhancement."

  He put his arm around her. "From the small amount of blood and the condition of the body, and the angle of the shots, coroner says Rupert wasn't killed in your garage."

  Ryan relaxed against him, letting out a long sigh. "I didn't know any news in the world could sound so wonderful."

  Clyde said, "What's this about Gramps Farger?"

  Dallas moved toward the back patio out of range of the two carpenters. "I got a tip, early this morning, a young woman. She said the old man's living in a fallen-down shack up along that ravine above the Pamillon estate." The detective leaned over the gate to pet Rock who had come racing up. Rearing, the big dog planted his front feet on top the gate and reached to lick Dallas's face.

  Dallas rubbed behind the dog's ears. "That old place was sitting vacant. We check on it every couple of weeks-he could have moved in right after our last run up there. A guy can make a lot of mischief in two weeks. Informant said he's dumping bags of trash down among the ruins."

  Clyde nodded. "Like maybe drug refuse?"

  "Maybe." Dallas smiled. "If I can lay my hands on Gramps Farger, he'll be out of circulation for a while, you can bet."

  "You going up there alone?"

  "Davis is meeting me. If we can corner Gramps, we'll go on down to the Pamillon place, have a look. Whoever the caller was, I hope she's right on this one."

  Joe glanced at Clyde's scowl and looked away. The kit would be pleased, would be all puffed up with triumph.

  But until Gramps Farger was in fact behind bars, how safe was she?

  He waited until Dallas left in the old surveillance car, then he took off before Clyde thought to stop him. Clyde would think he was headed for the hills to get in the middle of the potentially dangerous arrest of Gramps Farger. When, in fact, he was only going to have a talk with Dallas's young, female informant.

  19

  Rocky Face Inn outside San Andreas featured private patios with a wide view of the pine-covered Sierra Nevada Mountains, and the best pancakes and home-smoked ham in Calavaras County. Even the coffee tasted wonderful to Charlie, though maybe that was owed in part to the fresh mountain air and the scent of pines, and the fact that they had been driving since 6:00 in the morning, heading inland from Sonoma. Charlie was an early riser but she'd never match Max. If he wasn't up well before sunrise he felt that the day was half gone. Having checked in at 8:00 in the morning and enjoyed a leisurely breakfast, she didn't welcome the sight of Max picking up his jacket and reaching for his truck keys.

  "You could stay here," he said. "Lie by the pool."

  "Only if you stay with me."

  Max picked up her chair with her in it, and tilted her out. "Get your coat, we're burnin' daylight," he said in his best John Wayne imitation.

  She made a face at him. "Don't need a coat. It's going to be ninety."

  Slapping her on the rump, he nudged her out the door. "I want to get over to the Jakeses' house before Ryan's uncle leaves for the coast, spend the rest of the morning talking to the local shopkeepers, see if they've had any unusually large chemical sales. We'll grab a bite of lunch somewhere then have a look for Hurlie Farger. Probably a wild-goose chase, but who knows. And maybe we can get a line on this Larn Williams."

  He had, in San Francisco, made contact with Sergeant Wills and Detective Sergeant Parker, and had given them the names that Dallas wanted checked out. Within a few hours of Max's meeting with them, Parker had called to say that two of the women were out of me country, Barbara Saunders and Martie Holland, or appeared to be, at this juncture. June Holbrook was working down in Millbrae and had, several months ago, left her husband. Tom Wills would go down there this morning to see what he could find.

  Max ruffled her hair and opened the truck door for her. Settling in the cab, he unfolded the local map, took a quick look then pulled out to the highway.

  With the information the two officers supplied, Dallas would work what he could from Molena Point, doubling back to Parker and Wills with questions they could best handle. Charlie had never before been so fully aware of the cooperation among law-enforcement officers. Of the women that the two officers were unofficially investigating, had the jealous husband or lover of one of them killed Rupert and set up Ryan, as a handy alibi?

  Driving north from the inn, they turned onto a newly laid granite-block driveway before a peak-roofed, rustic house that had, on the north side, a pale new addition, its fresh cedar siding and shingles reflecting the morning sun. At the side of the garden a man rose from his knees, a big, wide shouldered, redheaded man, his jeans splattered with mud and his hands wet where he had been working on a sprinkler pipe.

  He stepped up to the car, wiping his hands on a clean handkerchief. "Scott Flannery. You two are up early." He winked at Charlie. "Nice to meet you both. Come on in." His neatly trimmed hair was, if possible, a brighter red even than Charlie's own. His voice was deep and soft as it had been last night on the phone when he returned Max's call-a comforting sort of man, Charlie thought. A reassuring kind of man to have helped raise Ryan and her sisters after their mother died.

  "Those kids showed up this morni
ng," Scotty said, ushering them into the house. "There's something about cooking pancakes and bacon with the windows open that draws wandering kids same as it draws bears. Come in, come in, I just made a fresh pot of coffee. The Jakeses moved the house trailer yesterday, to the far side of the pasture."

  Seated at the breakfast table in the large, high-raftered family kitchen, Charlie breathed in the scent of new cedar lumber, and, through the wide, open windows, admired the dark mountains that rose in the distance above the golden hills.

  "Kids' names are Andy and Mario," Scotty said. "I stuffed them with pancakes, and we talked about the dog. I said I missed seeing him, said maybe the dog was with their friend Curtis, that I hadn't seen him, either. They weren't quick to answer. Maybe they don't have a clue that anything's wrong, and maybe they do. They said sometimes Curtis doesn't show up for a while, that sometimes he goes off with his uncle, cutting timber."

  "Did they mention Hurlie by name? What did you learn about him?"

  "One of them slipped and mentioned his name, then tried to cover up. They referred to him as Curtis's uncle. Said he works odd jobs around the area, some up in the larger estates. The way this land lies, the wealthy areas are shoulder to shoulder with the rundown little farms, depending on the drainage and on the view.

  "The kids claimed they didn't know where Curtis lived, that they just saw him at school, or 'around' as they put it." Scotty made a wry face, not buying that. "The boys could live in a little shacky area just east of here, Little Fish Creek. I'd look for Hurlie there too. You talk with the sheriff?"

  Harper nodded. "He mentioned Little Fish Creek as a transient area, and several other places. Said Hurlie works odd jobs, including some of the larger estates. After some prodding, he suggested the Carter place, the Ambersons and the Landeaus."

  "He left you wondering," Scotty said.

  Max nodded. "A bit reluctant. Particularly regarding the Landeaus. As if he gave me those names to cover himself, in case I got information from other sources. You see a problem, there?"