Cat Seeing Double

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  26

  Kit stared out of the fireplace at the tall, black-suited, spike-heeled blonde with all the fear she would exhibit facing Lucifer himself. And from the woods outside, Joe and Dulcie watched with the same fear of the woman. Even Ryan looked uncertain.

  But Hanni moved into the empty silence, laughing. "One little cat, Marianna. Look at her, she couldn't resist your lovely new rug. Your English weavers would say that's good luck, to have a little cat bless their creation."

  Marianna gave Hanni a look that should have reduced her to a grease spot. Hanni took Marianna's hands in her own and tried to ease her down the steps onto the thick, bright rug. Marianna resisted as rigidly as if cast from stone; and Hanni smiled more brightly. "Slip off your sandals, Marianna. Come, sit on it, isn't it a wonder?" Hanni sat down cross-legged on the bright weave. "I am just so thrilled. Tell me you're as pleased as we are."

  "There was not one cat in here, Hanni, mere were three. I can't believe you would let cats into my home to make their messes on a brand-new, hundred-thousand-dollar, one-of-a-kind handmade rag, to leave filthy fleas, and very likely ticks."

  "We didn't see them come in," Hanni said, smiling. "We didn't see them until just as you pulled into the drive, they can only have been in here for a second while our backs were turned."

  Beyond the screened windows crouched among the forest's foliage, Joe and Dulcie looked at each, laughing at Hanni's chutzpah, but frightened. The kit was still trapped in there, crouched in the firebox staring up at Marianna. From the look in the kit's eyes, Marianna would not be smart to reach into the fireplace meaning to snatch her out and evict her.

  As they watched, Ryan knelt, reaching in to the kit. The kit came to her at once. Ryan picked her up, carried her to the long windows, set her through and gave her a Utile pat, then closed the screen.

  Kit was a streak, fleeing to them. Behind her, Hanni laughed. "What harm did she do? Just a pretty little neighborhood cat."

  Pressing between Joe and Dulcie, the kit shivered with the residue of fear, but lashed her tail with anger. "I would have slashed her, I would have bloodied her." But soon she began to wriggle, to scratch at something in her fur. Turning, she licked her back, fidgeting as if she itched all over.

  "What?" Dulcie said. "What did you do? Did you pick up a tick? Don't get it on me. Let me have a look."

  "Hard," the kit said, licking again and spitting something into the dry leaves and pine needles. "Not a tick. Rocks in my fur."

  Joe nosed at the bit of debris that had fallen among the leaves, and peered closely. He turned it over with his nose, then looked at the kit. "Are there more of these in your fur? Don't shake them off! Come out to the drive. Don't spill any! Walk carefully. Hurry, Kit! Come on!"

  Puzzled but obedient, the kit followed. Joe nudged her to a spot on the drive not visible from the living room, and licked at her fur until he had dislodged three more rough pebbles. On me smooth drive he pawed at them, turning them over until each piece lay with its smooth side up, the surface painted jet black. They were bits of broken cement, each with one smooth surface.

  "Did you feel those before you hid in the fireplace?"

  The kit shook her whiskers. "No."

  Carefully Joe pawed the fragments onto an oak leaf, and slid that beneath a bush. When he turned to look at them, his yellow eyes burned with excitement. And quickly he moved to Ryan's truck. "Watch for me, Dulcie, in case anyone comes."

  "But you…"

  "It's the only phone handy." Slipping under me truck to the far side, he was up through the window in a second and punching in information. Another minute and he had rung the Coldiron number and was talking with Eby. "This is a neighbor of me Landeaus…"

  He peered out once, but the three women were still inside; and Dulcie sat watching the door, the tip of her tail twitching. When he'd finished explaining to Eby Coldiron what needed to be done, he dropped from the window. "Go home, Dulcie. Go call Dallas, I'm afraid to do that from this phone. He has caller ID. I'll be along soon."

  She looked at him with suspicion.

  "It's safe, trust me. Would I do something foolish?" He brushed his whiskers against hers.

  She widened her eyes, and cuffed him. Of course he would do something foolish.

  "Tell Garza, if he'll get over to the Coldirons pronto, they'll give him a rug from the Landeau cottage, that it's vital evidence. They're waiting for him. Tell him to look for little bits of concrete with black paint on them, and to check for blood. My guess is, the DNA will match that of Rupert Dannizer. Tell him the rug has been sponged, then doused with wine."

  "You're building a lot on a few little bits of concrete."

  "And a scar on the fireplace. Go on. If Dallas isn't there, talk with Davis."

  "Of course I'll talk with Davis." But she gave him a whisker kiss, and a nudge for luck. "Come on, Kit, get moving." And as she and the kit headed at a gallop toward the village and home, Dulcie wondered: with Garza checking on Rupert's lovers, would this call about the fireplace tie in somehow? Would it, she thought shivering, tie in with his ballistics report?

  Joe was not the most patient of tomcats. Waiting in the bushes by the front door, he kneaded the dry leaves, and scratched his ear. He wanted to yowl at the three women to get on with it, finish their business and leave. But when at last Ryan's truck pulled out, Marianna and Hanni stood in the doorway-not three feet from him, just above the holly leaves-indulging in incredible inanities as both women tried to smooth over their earlier confrontation. Hanni would make amends because Marianna was her client. Marianna's motive, in being nice, was less clear.

  He tensed as Hanni turned to leave, and crouched.

  The instant Marianna turned back inside he was through the door behind her like a shadow easing behind the Mexican chest.

  He heard Hanni's van start and pull away. He was alone with Marianna Landeau, locked inside the cottage. Any route of escape would take at least a few minutes to accomplish, perhaps under conditions he didn't want to consider. He could hear her rummaging in the bedroom as if she was shifting the clothes in the closet, maybe one of those pointless rearranging orgies to which all women seemed addicted. When he heard her go into the bathroom he strolled through the bedroom door and slipped under the bed, frightening a little spider, wishing someone would dust under there. Didn't she have a cleaning crew?

  A light shone under the bathroom door, and the closet door stood open, the big walk-in space all fitted out with sleek white shelves and drawers and zippered garment bags. Absolutely neat. No place in there for a cat to hide. The hanging rods contained minimal wardrobes, his and hers. He supposed if one had three residences, it would be convenient not to cart suitcases back and forth.

  The bathroom door opened and Marianna's elegantly sandaled feet appeared inches from his nose, her stiletto heels suggesting formidable weapons. He listened to her rummaging in the closet again, heard a zipper close.

  Stepping out, she dropped a small duffel by the bedroom door then crossed the tile entry to the sunken sitting area. He heard her close the long windows and lock them, then she stood at the top of the steps with her back to him, as if admiring the rich new rug.

  But then she moved swiftly to the kitchen, returning with one of those little plug-in hand vacs designed for quick cleanup, for those moments when someone scatters coffee grounds or cookie crumbs across the kitchen floor. With the brand-new rug, what was there to clean up? Joe went rigid, watching.

  Kneeling before the fireplace, her tight skirt hiked up around her thighs, Marianna slid the mesh curtain back and reached in to vacuum the corners of the firebox behind the clean, stacked logs. Surely removing the same debris that the kit had picked up on her fur.

  She did a thorough job, forcing the nozzle into the back corners. But when she returned the little machine to the kitchen, Joe smiled. She'd forgotten something. Retrieving the duffel bag from the bedroom, and shutting the closet door, she jingled her keys and was out of there, locking the front door
behind her.

  Not until he heard her car pull away, did he come out from under the bed.

  First he tossed the bedroom, working open the night table drawers, then the drawers of the television armoire. He checked between the mattresses, poking a wary paw in, then crawling deeper, but he found only lint. Swinging on the closet-door handle, he was in within seconds, leaping at the bank of built-in drawers, gripping and kicking.

  Forcing each one open in turn, he pawed carefully through. Dulcie would love Marianna's expensive lace undies, the silk and satin perfumed with fancy little sachets. The last drawer contained half-a-dozen evening bags and as many compacts, all of them expensive looking. Crouched on the edge of the drawer, Joe frowned. Should he?

  Well, why not? What could be more opportune? Pawing half-a-dozen compacts into a quilted evening bag, he snapped closed his prize and carried it in his teeth to the front door. There he began the tedious, paw-bruising, leaping contortions necessary to slide the dead bolt, turn the knob, and escape from his self-made prison.

  Lashing her tail with amusement, Dulcie pushed the phone back onto its cradle and rolled over on Wilma's bed, her paws in the air, a Cheshire cat-smile lighting her tabby face. Oh, she did enjoy these anonymous phone calls. Dallas had not only assured her that he would drive over to the Coldirons' cottage at once, to pick up the brown shag rug, but he thanked her. He knew as well as she that it was futile to ask her questions.

  Though at first, he had argued with her. He said the concrete crumbs in the rug could be simple debris left over when the fireplace was built. Dulcie reminded him that the black recesses had been painted some time after the fireplace was built, and the fragments had black paint on them. Then Garza said that the three sculptures had been installed in those niches only recently, and that probably accounted for the black-painted chips. He'd gone silent when Dulcie informed him that the sculptures were fitted with special tension brackets at the back, so they had no need of bolts to hold them in place.

  Garza hadn't asked how she knew so much about the sculptures and about the interior of the Landeau cottage. Like Max Harper, Detective Garza had learned that it was useless to ask such questions, that he'd best take what he was offered and run with it. So far these anonymous tips had been 100 percent; both cops knew that. And maybe, she thought, this information might dovetail with lines of investigation that Garza was already pursuing. That would be interesting.

  And, she thought rolling over and purring, this morning, with this phone call, Detective Garza had almost taken orders from her. He had agreed to collect the rug right away, absolutely trusting her, never once making light of her instructions. Oh, she couldn't wait to tell Joe.

  The quilted evening purse, stuffed with its six compacts, was hellishly heavy. But Joe wasn't willing to jettison even one bit of possible evidence. Why a woman needed a dozen compacts was beyond him. Well, he never claimed to be an authority on female vicissitudes, cat or human. He could track a rabbit through rocky terrain, could dispatch the biggest wharf rat that ever snarled in a cat's face, could leap six feet between rooftops. But he couldn't tell you much about a lady's love of finery. Gripping the quilted bag firmly between determined teeth, he hurried through the bright morning along the less frequented lanes of the village, avoiding passing cars and pedestrians. Dragging the bag up three trees and across innumerable rooftops, he arrived home at last with aching neck muscles and tired jaws. Crouched on the front porch, he listened to the racket above him, from the attic, hammers pounding, nails being forced from old wood with tooth-jarring screams, human voices sharp with tension. "Hold it. There. Back a little. Whoa-Put your level on it. Up… A little more… There! Nail it!" Above him, the porch roof shook. Sticking his head through his cat door, he looked around the living room.

  Empty and safe. The house had that hollow feel mat heralded deserted space. Shoving the satin bag in onto the carpet, he followed it, collapsing beside it.

  He didn't want to drag it over to the station or to Garza's cottage in the daylight, he'd had enough trouble getting it home without alerting some nosy citizen. Oh look, what's that cat got? Come here, kitty. Let's have a look…

  Right.

  He sat contemplating the several options he could employ as a safe hiding place until dark. He considered his battered easy chair that Dulcie and Clyde and several other insensitive folk said resembled the hide of a molting elephant. He had hidden several valuable items in that well-clawed and fur-coated retreat. The purse need remain there only until dark, until he could carry it unseen across the village and slip it into the police station, or maybe into Garza's car-if he didn't rupture a neck muscle, getting it there.

  Shoving the little bag between the cushions, he stretched out in front of his chair across an African throw rug, wondering what Clyde had left him for breakfast. And praying that his evidence would nail Marianna Landeau. Praying that Ryan's ordeal was about to be resolved.

  27

  The pan-broiled steaks were two inches thick, crisp and dark on the outside, deep pink within, so juicy and tender that Ryan almost groaned. She had left the curtains open so they could enjoy the sunset that blazed beneath the dark clouds. Sitting across from her dad at the kitchen table, tasting her first bite of steak, she sighed with a fine, greedy pleasure. "You can do, with a plain black skillet, what most chefs can't manage even with their fancy grills."

  Mike Flannery grinned. "I've heard that line." She laughed, but she watched him carefully too. He wasn't even home yet, this was only the last leg of his trip, he had come down here to help her, worried about her, and she was going to dump these ugly rumors on him, lay out all Larn Williams's lies to cheer him.

  But she had to talk about this if she were to resolve her own uncertainty, her own fears. Thinking about Williams's vicious story, on top of his tampering with her billing, she had grown increasingly frightened of what else he might plan to do, of what his ultimate goal might be.

  Was Williams's mind simply twisted, was he an impossible mental case? Or had he killed Rupert? But why would he draw attention to himself?

  Maybe his actions were a carefully planned harassment designed to keep her off-center and perhaps complicate the murder investigation? Designed to throw the police off track and protect someone else?

  Her father put down his fork, watching her, his expression half amused at her fidgeting, half a frown of concern. "Whatever's bothering you, Ryan, spit it out. Before you choke on it."

  "Something someone said. It's all lies. But… Well, lies that are hard to repeat."

  "If it makes you this edgy, if you're embarrassed to say it, it has to be about me. What have I done? What did someone say I did?"

  She looked at him helplessly.

  "It wouldn't be the first time someone told a lie about law enforcement."

  "He said it was common gossip in the city but I never heard anything like it, in the city or anywhere else."

  He waited patiently, buttering his baked potato.

  Hesitantly she began, repeating Williams's accusations. Flannery listened without comment, without interrupting. When she finished he asked only, "Do you believe him?"

  "Of course I don't believe him. But-what's he up to? Is there some strange little thread on which he could build such lies? And there's more."

  She told him about the break-in, about Larn cooking her books and switching the bills. "What's scary is, this has to fit in with Rupert's murder. That's what's scary."

  "What makes you think that?"

  "You and Dallas always say, never believe in coincidence."

  "Have you told Dallas what Williams said, and about the billing?"

  "I called him about the bills, the night it happened. But what Williams said… I didn't tell him that."

  "Why not?"

  "Partly because I made a spectacle of myself in the restaurant when he told me those things. I lost my temper, big-time. Strong-armed him and marched him outside. I just… I suppose Dallas has heard that, by now. If Clyde hadn't c
ome along and stopped me, I would have pounded him. What a weird bird. He just went limp, didn't try to fight me, didn't do anything. As if-"

  "As if he likes the ladies to pound him?"

  "That's sick."

  "Can you make any connection between Williams and Rupert? Or, even between Williams and the bombing on Sunday?"

  "No, I can't. It's such a muddle. Except, it all seems to connect to San Andreas. Williams lives and works there. I just finished the Jakes job there. And Curtis Farger was staying up there before the bombing. He came down from San Andreas in my truck, hidden in the back with the dog." She sighed. "Maybe one thing just led to another, but…"

  "Go over it step by step, the relationships. Begin with your job in San Andreas."

  "I had remodeled a house for the Jakeses in the city, so it was natural for them to come to me for their vacation addition. They approached me, in fact, before I left Rupert. After I left, I told them I didn't want to take the job away from the firm, but they said they wanted me, that they didn't want to deal with Rupert. So I agreed.

  "Then when I moved down here to the village, the Jakeses recommended me to the Landeaus because Marianna and Sullivan had bought a teardown here. The Landeaus came down and we talked. She sort of scared me, she was so… austere. One of those gorgeous natural blondes, but without any warmth. Intimidating. We went over the property, I gave them my assessment, and I ended up remodeling the teardown.

  "As to Larn Williams, he just showed up when I was working on the Jakeses' place. Wanted me to bid on a job for one of his real-estate clients." She looked helplessly at her father. "I can't see a connection. I didn't realize then how strange Larn is, I didn't see that." She studied her dad's preoccupied frown. "What?"

  Flannery was quiet.

  "Do you know something about Larn Williams?"

  "Would you have a picture of Mrs. Landeau?"

  "No. Why?"

  "How old would you say she is?"