Cat Seeing Double

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  "He's on the East Coast, yes," Ryan said, smiling. "I'm doing fine. Thanks for asking." She was trying hard to be nice to Larn. Joe wondered that Williams didn't detect her veiled effort-or didn't seem to.

  "Hot weather back there just now. I hope he took something light. Cotton's best, in the humidity. But I suppose he knows all about that."

  Joe narrowed his eyes, studying Williams. This guy was strange.

  "Do the police have any line on a suspect? On who would do such a thing?"

  Ryan just looked at him.

  "I don't understand much about the circumstances, but I hope they've made some progress in locating the killer. What a terrible shock, to find… Well, I am sorry."

  And you are going on about it, Joe thought, curling up with his back to Williams.

  "I hope they have enough evidence so you are no longer a suspect. I would hate to be suspected of a murder, even though everyone knows better. It would be so… demeaning." Williams was not keeping his voice down. People at the nearby tables had begun to watch them. Ryan looked increasingly uncomfortable.

  "Do they have fingerprints, or anything on the weapon? That would certainly make you feel easier."

  "I really can't discuss these matters, Larn. And we're attracting attention."

  "I only meant…" He looked suitably stricken. "I only thought… You know, hoping there was something to ease your mind, to take the pressure off," he said, lowering his voice. "Hoping you're able to feel more comfortable about this ugly mess."

  "I was told not to discuss it."

  "Well, if there's anything I can do to be of help, I just want you to know you can call on me."

  "Nothing that I know of."

  "When will your father be home?"

  This guy was so damned nosy Joe wanted to claw him. Or, he wasn't quite steady in the attic.

  "1 really don't know, Larn." Her voice was decidedly cooler, as if she were sorry she had come tonight.

  But Larn didn't seem to get the drift. "He has a good reputation in the city. I don't know many folks in law enforcement, but people say he does a good job. I certainly don't believe the gossip, I don't pay attention to that kind of thing."

  Ryan had stopped eating. "What gossip?" she said softly. "What are you talking about?"

  People at the surrounding tables had turned away making an effort not to stare. Williams lifted his hand in embarrassment, as if he realized he'd made a blunder. But Joe could see under the table Williams's left fist on his knee beating a soft, energetic rhythm, his body language laying out all too clearly his cold deliberation.

  "What gossip?" Ryan repeated, her eyes never leaving Williams. "You'd better explain what you're talking about."

  "Well, I am sorry. I thought of course you'd heard it like everyone else… It's common… Oh, hell, I thought… Can we just drop it? Forget I said anything?"

  "Of course we can't drop it," she said raising her voice, not caring if people turned to look. "What is this about? What have you heard about my father?"

  "It's only gossip, it doesn't mean anything. Let's forget it."

  Joe didn't need to look up into Ryan's face to see her rage. Every angle of her body was tense and rigid. She waited unmoving for Williams to explain.

  "Well," he said reluctantly. "It's just-the women… you have to know about the women."

  Her silence was like thunder, so volatile that Joe thought the air around her might explode. "What women? What exactly are you talking about! And where did you hear such a thing!"

  Larn sighed, his pale eyes shifting. "Don't be so loud. People are staring." This guy was far more than a nut case.

  "Well?"

  "It's common gossip in the city, Ryan. I can't believe you never heard it."

  "What, exactly, is common gossip? You'll have to spell it out."

  He sighed again, implying that this was all very painful. "You have to know that Flannery had plenty of women."

  Ryan only looked at him.

  "And that… Well, call it gossip, that Flannery had affairs with more than a few of his female parolees. Most of that, the way I hear it, was before he was appointed chief. I thought of course you'd heard this. But gossip doesn't make…"

  Ryan was white. "That is so patently a lie. I have never heard a hint of such a story. I certainly would have heard that from Rupert, he'd have been the first to pass on such a tale, would have been delighted to repeat that." She was almost shouting at Williams. "This is not a story that anyone in San Francisco has ever heard. Why are you telling me this?" People around them were growing uncomfortable. Two couples, hurrying through their meals, rose to leave. "Where did this come from? What is your purpose in saying such a thing?"

  Larn looked totally apologetic, really crushed. Joe was so fascinated he had to remind himself to stop staring. Turning away, he began to wash again, watching Williams with occasional sideways glances.

  "I don't know where I heard it. Everywhere. And then just this week I heard it in conjunction with the murder," Larn said embarrassedly. "The implication was that… that maybe Rupert had been talking about one of Flannery's affairs, spreading around names and details, and Flannery had-"

  Ryan gaped at him then was out of her chair jerking Larn up-he came up under her grip as limp as a doll, looking shocked but making no effort to resist her. She spun him around with surprising strength, forced him between the tables and out through the patio to the street, his arm bent behind him. Forced him down the sidewalk away from the restaurant. As Joe leaped to follow them the thought did cross his mind that someone ought to pay the bill. Well, he sure couldn't. One of the perks of being a cat, you never got stuck with the bill.

  Half a block down, she shoved Williams into an alley. Joe glanced across the street where Clyde sat in the Hudson, poised as if ready to move. Joe peered around into the brick alley where Ryan had Williams backed against the building. The man was totally submissive. Was he enjoying himself? Getting it on with this woman's rage? Torn between disgust and amusement, Joe settled down between the trash cans to watch.

  Ryan looked like she was about to pound Williams when the scuff of shoes made Joe spin around. Clyde stood with his fists clenched as if he wanted to pile into Williams. But Ryan's display of anger held him frozen.

  The hint of a grin ticked at the corner of Clyde's mouth as he studied Williams's pallor and Ryan's businesslike grip on the man's collar. She glanced at Clyde, her face coloring.

  "What was he doing?" Clyde said, amused.

  She said nothing, but turned back to Williams. "If I ever hear that kind of talk anywhere, I'll know it came from you. I swear I'll pound you, Williams, then sue your pants off for slander. I have four top attorneys in the city, and I would like nothing better than to see them take you down."

  Jerking Williams away from the wall, she shoved him hard. He stumbled and half fell out onto the sidewalk. "Go home, Larn. Go back to San Andreas. I don't know what your purpose is. But you pull anything more-anything, and you'll be cooling your ass in the slammer."

  Larn rose from an off-balance crouch, stared at Ryan and at Clyde, his face unreadable, and headed away fast. Ryan watched until he reached his car and had driven off, then she collapsed against Clyde, her face buried against him. Her shoulders were shaking, whether shivering with nerves, or rocking with laughter, Joe couldn't tell. The gray tomcat, sitting among the garbage cans in the dark alley, was sorry that Dulcie had missed this one.

  23

  A week earlier, Joe Grey would have sworn that this would never happen, that he and Clyde would never go undercover together running surveillance, tooling along in Clyde's old Hudson behind Larn Williams's Jeep like a pair of buddy cops. But here they were, slipping up the hills through the night behind Williams's white SUV.

  Clyde had waited, in front of Burger Basher, as patiently for Joe as Holmes waiting for Watson while Joe played electronic bug underneath Ryan's table. Then that little affair in the alley that had left Joe weak with laughter, and left Clyde wired for
action, ready to move as Ryan headed for Clyde's place to pick up Rock. Clyde had told her, in the alley, that he was just passing, that he had an errand. Whatever she believed, she'd grinned at him and thanked him nicely for coming to her rescue; no harsh word for following her. Gave him a buss on the cheek and said she'd see him in the morning.

  So here they were following Williams, Clyde dawdling in traffic so not to be noticed, then panicked when Williams turned a corner for fear they'd lose him.

  Joe did his best not to laugh. Watching Clyde practice his surveillance skills was an absolute and entertaining first.

  And it was, as well, an occasion that Joe suspected he would deeply regret. First thing he knew, Clyde would be telling him exactly how to conduct every smallest detail of his private business.

  "Where's he headed?" Clyde said, frowning.

  "I could be wrong. I'm guessing the Landeau cottage. Watch the road," Joe hissed as Clyde turned to look at him.

  "Why would he go there?"

  Joe himself was surprised. But maybe he shouldn't be. There was nothing to show a connection between Williams and the Landeaus, but they did live in the same small town of San Andreas, they could know each other.

  Or, Joe thought, maybe this was the meaning of Gramps Farger's remark, Them San Andreas people.

  The Fargers and the Landeaus? Talk about an unlikely mix.

  Once they were above the village the residential streets were black, where the moon had dissolved above pale clouds. Joe glanced at Clyde. "Better turn off your lights."

  "I'm not driving with my lights off. And hit some animal?"

  "He'll make you, otherwise. There's not a car per square mile moving up here."

  Clyde cut his lights. The street went black.

  "Drive slower. I can see the street, I can see if there's an animal. Maybe he'll think you turned off. He's not moving very fast."

  "Why would he trash her father? Why would he go to the Landeau place? What's the connection? What's this guy up to?"

  "Slow down, he's turning in."

  Easing to the curb a block before the cottage, Clyde cut the engine. Williams had pulled onto the parking close to the cottage door, making no effort to hide his car. On the dark granite paving, the white Jeep stood out like snow on tar. "Roll down your window," Joe said softly. "You'll stay in the car like you promised?"

  "Didn't I promise?"

  "That's not an answer." Joe glanced at Clyde. "He sees you, you could blow everything-and could put me in danger." Before Clyde could answer, he leaped across Clyde's legs, dropped out the window, and beat it up the street. He had no idea how long Clyde would remain patiently behind the wheel or, in his new investigative enthusiasm, come sneaking along the street like some two-bit private eye. Surveillance was easier with Dulcie. No human in their right mind would suspect a pair of cats.

  He was just in time to see Williams let himself in with a key. Swiftly Joe slipped into the house behind his heels, just making it through as Williams slammed the door, and sliding behind the Mexican chest.

  Williams didn't pause as if getting his bearings, nor did he turn on the light. He headed straight for the bedroom, knowing his way. Moving up the four steps he sat down on the bed and pulled off his shoes. The bed was unmade, the brightly patterned designer sheets and spread tangled half on the floor. Dropping his shoes, Williams picked up the phone. As he dialed, Joe crept past through the shadows, and hightailed it into the kitchen.

  Leaping to the dark granite counter, slick as black ice beneath his paws, he searched frantically for the extension. The counters were nearly empty. A set of modern canisters. Nothing behind them. Bread box, but no phone inside. Did they keep the phone in a cupboard?

  Or was there only one phone, and Williams had moved it to the bedroom at some earlier time?

  Yes, behind the bread box he found the empty jack. Was the guy staying here with the Landeaus permission? Or without their knowledge? Why else would he not turn on the lights?

  Dropping to the floor as silently as he could manage, he slipped into the bedroom in time to hear Williams say, "Yes, but I don't see the point. So the Jakeses sue her. So what does…?"

  Pause… Behind Williams's back, Joe slid across the room and under the bed.

  "Why is it none of my business! If I'm going to do the work, I… Does this have to do with her divorce?"

  Joe could make out a faint metallic reverberation from the other end. Sounded like a woman's voice, sharp with anger. Creeping along under me bed, gathering strands of cobwebs that made his ears itch, he crouched directly beneath Williams. Amazing how fast these little busy spiders could set up housekeeping.

  "Of course I did. Yes, a code she won't find. What do you think? So the Jakeses hit the fan, what then? So what's the purpose?"

  Angry crackling. Definitely a woman.

  "Thanks. I go to all the trouble, to say nothing of the risk, and all you can say is, Don't sweat it! You tell me don't sweat it!"

  Crackle, hiss…

  "She's what? What time in the morning?"

  A terse response.

  "What time? That's the crack of damn dawn. Well, isn't that cute… Of course I'll be out of here. When did you find this out? Why didn't you… Well, all right. Don't be so bitchy… No, I won't leave anything lying around!"

  Crackle, crackle…

  "All right. And what if I spill about Martie?"

  The voice at the other end snapped with rage. Williams listened, drumming his fingers on the bedside table. "Well, it's just between you and me," and he brayed a coarse laugh. "Just between us and Martie! Martie Martie Martie." He pounded on the night table. "Martie Martie Holland.. ." then banged the phone down, giggling a laugh that made Joe's blood curdle.

  This guy was one weird player.

  And Ryan had gone out with him. Ryan had, Joe thought with a sharp jolt, Ryan had beat up on him… this guy who was, in Joe's opinion, first in line for the nut farm. And, first in line as having killed her husband.

  For instance, what would most men do if a woman tried to beat up on them? Grab her arms and get her under control-or knock her around and pound her. Williams had done neither. How many men would just stand there and take it, as limp as a decapitated mouse? No, Larn Williams, in anyone's book, was a long way from normal.

  And what did he mean to do to Ryan later? What might he be saving up to do?

  Furthermore, if that was Marianna on the other end of the line, why would she want to cook Ryan's books? What did Marianna have to gain by framing Ryan?

  And who was Martie Holland?

  Above Joe on the bed, Williams shifted his weight, still giggling and muttering. Joe heard him pick up the phone again, heard the little click of the headset against the machine, heard the dial tone then a fast clicking as if Williams had hit the redial.

  Laughing that same crazy laugh, Williams shouted the name over and over, "Martie Holland Martie Holland Martie Holland," then he slammed the phone down again, rose, and padded into the kitchen. Joe heard him open the refrigerator, then the cupboard, heard the icemaker spitting ice cubes into a glass, and could smell the sharp scent of whisky. While Williams mixed a drink, Joe lay under the bed trying to make sense of his phone conversation. Williams brought his drink into the bedroom, set it on the nightstand, and stretched out on the bed so the springs creaked above Joe's head. He heard Williams plump the pillows then straighten the covers as if perhaps preparing for sleep. The tomcat was about to cut out of there when he heard, outside the window, the faintest rustling of bushes.

  Scooting on his belly to the window side of the bed, he peered up at a familiar shadow dark against the glass-then it was gone.

  He didn't wait to find out if Williams had seen Clyde. Leaving the bedroom fast, he leaped at the front door, praying the dead bolt would give before Williams heard him-wondering if he'd be able to turn the bolt.

  There was not a sound from the bedroom except Williams shaking the ice in his glass. Joe leaped again, and again. Dead bolts were
hell on the paws, most of them stronger and with less leverage than a cat could manage. Had Williams heard him? Why was he so quiet? Joe was swinging and kicking when, glancing across the living room where moonlight slanted down against the mantel, he saw something that made him drop to the floor, looking.

  Something about the three smooth black indentations that held the three pieces of sculpture wasn't right. Two were smooth and properly constructed. But in the angled moonlight, the right-hand rectangle looked rough and unfinished. Someone had taken less than the required care in smoothing the concrete, had left a ragged line and rough trowel marks.

  Considering the perfection of detail in the rest of the house, that did seem strange. Considering Marianna Landeau's reputation for demanding perfection, it seemed more than strange. He was about to slip closer, for a better look, when beyond the front door he heard Clyde's whisper. "Joe? Are you there? Joe? "

  In the bedroom, Williams stirred, sending a shock of panic through Joe. He turned, watching the man. He didn't think he wanted to play innocent lost kitty with this guy.

  Leaping for the lock in huge panic, driven by desperation, he just managed to turn the dead bolt, seriously bruising his paws-the door flew open. Clyde loomed, his familiar scent filling Joe's nostrils. Joe glanced to the bedroom again, but Williams had turned over and seemed to be dozing off.

  "Wait," Joe said. "Pull the door to and wait, I just want to…"

  "Wait, hell. Come out of there now."

  "One second," Joe said, and he was across the room rearing up, staring up at the moonlit mantel.

  Yes, definitely flawed. Sloppy work that Marianna should never have permitted, or for that matter, Ryan either-though possibly you couldn't see this in the daylight; Joe hadn't seen it then. Only now did the sharply angled light pick out clearly the thin, ragged line that ran diagonally across the black concrete.

  Wondering if such a flaw could have gone undetected, he heard Williams stir again and push back the covers. Taking one last look at the rough black concrete, Joe fled for the door. Clawing past Clyde's feet, he was out of there racing ahead of Clyde across the yard into the dark, concealing woods, where they crouched together among the bushes like two thieves.