Cat Laughing Last (14 page)

Wilma laid her hand over Mavity's. “You know my guest room's yours as long as you want.”

“And my house, too,” Susan said. “I'll be going home today, to get that mess cleaned up. And who knows how soon we might find a big place that's just right for all of us.”

Mavity nodded, looking both uncertain and hopeful. She reached out to touch the oak chest. “This is old. Look at that crack, and how dark the wood is. It's sort of like those wood carvings my brother, Greeley, sends me sometimes from Panama.”

“I got it at the Barmeir sale. I had it in the trunk of my car the morning that man broke in.”

“It's nicer than that white chest Richard Casselrod made such a scene over—stole it, is what he did. No other word for it. Jerked it right out of Cora Lee's hands, even if he did throw down some money.”

Harper rose, calling the dalmatian to him. “I'll take him up to Dr. Firetti to board. Firetti owes me a favor.”

“I…” Susan began. “He and Lamb get along very well. If you don't find Lenny…”

Harper nodded. “That would be fine. But right now, it isn't wise for you to keep him. You don't want Lenny White coming around, using the dog as an excuse. In fact,” Harper said, “I'm not keen on you going back home alone.”

“I'll be fine with Lamb. If Lamb had been home that morning, those men wouldn't have gotten in.”

Harper didn't reply. He rose and left, taking the spotted dog with him. Wilma stood at the window, watching the dalmatian leap up into the cab of Harper's Chevy pickup. And Susan sat looking silently at Wilma and Mavity, realizing suddenly how very much she did not want to be home alone, did not want to go to sleep at night wondering if someone would break a window and come in—except of course Lamb would bark and wake her.

But she grinned at Mavity's wrinkled frown of concern. “A poodle's no sissy, Mavity. Those teeth could take your arm off.”

Though in truth, it was Lamb she worried about. Worried that someone would hit him with a heavy weapon or shoot him, leaving both of them defenseless.

D
riving up
Ocean, with the dalmatian in the seat beside him, Max Harper's mind remained on Susan Brittain. An extra patrol around her place wouldn't hurt, as long as he had the manpower. Turning off Ocean beside Beckwhite Automotive, he glanced toward the east wing of the handsome Mediterranean building where Clyde Damen's large, sprawling repair shop was housed, with its separate body and paint shops, its storage sheds and parking space, and Clyde's private workshop where he restored antique cars. He could see into the main shop, but he didn't see Clyde. The low morning sun brightened the red tile roof of the complex and picked out the brilliant colors of the Icelandic poppies that bloomed before the dealership's show windows. The bright colors made him think of his dead wife, of the garden Millie had loved.

Through the shaded glass of the showroom, he could see a dark green Rolls-Royce gleaming, and two new Jaguars, one bright red. He wondered how it would be to have that kind of money.

Grinning, he stroked the spotted dog. “I wouldn't
spend it on cars,” he told the dalmatian. “Spend it on horses, and maybe dogs, too—and on Charlie,” he said. And maybe that was all right. Millie had told him more than once that she wouldn't want him to be alone. Until now he'd been content enough, cherishing only her memory.

Dr. Firetti's home and hospital were just beyond Beckwhite's, on a residential side street. His facility was a complex of three small, frame cottages that had been built back in the thirties, and were now joined by high patio walls to make an entry and secure dog runs. Harper sat in his truck a moment before going in.

“I guess,” he told the dog, “when this blows over, if no one's claimed you, Susan would give you a fine home.” He ruffled the dog's ears. “Companion for Lamb. I bet you'd like that.”

Susan Brittain had had enough trouble with that wreck that had put her in the retirement home, that had left her so crippled her daughter wasn't sure she'd walk again. But walk she did, got herself up out of the wheelchair, surely with the help of the poodle for moral support. And now this mess at her place, which he hoped wasn't going to escalate into something worse. Seemed to him that a woman living alone ought to have better security. He had some thoughts on the matter, but his ideas weren't popular.

This break-in had him uneasy; there were too many vague connections. But that's what investigating was about. What was the matter with him? Was he getting old, losing his edge? Fetching a halter rope from the back of the truck, he snapped it on the dalmatian's collar and led the dog into the waiting room.

The ten-by-ten foyer was furnished with a green
tweed carpet, green leather couch and love seat, and a couple of wooden chairs. A small old lady sat on the love seat, clutching a cardboard cat carrier on her lap. As Harper entered, a low hiss filled the room, sending the dalmatian bolting away from the carrier, toward the door. The receptionist nodded to Harper, spoke into the intercom, and in a moment motioned Harper on back to Firetti's office.

Firetti was a small man with a smooth round face, pale hair thinning on top, and rimless glasses. When he examined a large dog, as he prepared to do now, he put on safety glasses. He'd been hit in the face more than once by a lunging animal. Changing glasses, he lifted the dalmatian to the table, though Harper hadn't suggested an examination.

“Just a quick look-over. What's the problem?”

“Can you keep him out of sight for a while? One of those back kennels? If you get anyone in here inquiring, let me know at once. Or if it's a phone call, get whatever information you can. Say you'll keep a lookout and call them.”

Firetti nodded, smiling as if pleased to be a part of police business. He ran his hands down the dog, stroked him, checked mouth and teeth and ears, took his temperature, listened to his heart, then set him down off the table. He didn't ask questions, just nodded to Harper, and led the dog away to the isolation wing. Harper was back at the department in time for court, acting as a witness on a drunk driving case that he hoped would net the defendant the maximum sentence.

He was out of court again by 10:50, heading down the hall to the department, wishing the remodeling was finished, wondering if things would ever be back to
normal. Why did any kind of building project take four times as long as the contractor promised? Half his officers were in temporary quarters scattered all over the courthouse. The other half were doing their desk work among bare stud walls, stacks of two-by-fours, sawhorses and piles of sawdust and screaming power tools, and no kind of security. He wondered why he'd started this project.

Though, to give the contractor credit, his carpenters were as quiet as they could be; they didn't shout, didn't talk on the job except when their work demanded a few words—no long-winded bouts of sports talk and male gossip that most carpenters indulged in while they hammered away.

When he checked with the dispatcher, two calls got his attention.

At 9:15, the neighbor living next door to Elliott Traynor had called to report gunfire the night before. A Lillian Sanders. She said she couldn't call until her husband went to work because he had considered the noise backfire and said she shouldn't bother the police, that she would only make a fool of herself. Checking back over last night's calls he found four reports of possible gunfire, though it could have been only backfire. An officer had patrolled the area for some time, with no indication of trouble.

At 9:40, Charlie had called for him but wouldn't leave a message. That wasn't like Charlie. The number she gave was Elliott Traynors'. She told the dispatcher she'd be there until noon.

Leaving the station, he headed for the Traynors'. Why anyone needed their house cleaned every day was
beyond his comprehension. The Traynors didn't even have children or pets to mess things up.

But Charlie did the shopping as well, and some meal preparation, so she functioned more as a housekeeper than a cleaning service. He wondered, if he and Charlie got married, if she'd want to keep the business or sell it. They hadn't really discussed marriage. He just kept thinking that way.

Never thought he'd want to marry again. Sometimes it seemed like he'd betray Millie if he married Charlie. But other times, he thought Millie would approve. Thought if she could speak to him she'd tell him she liked Charlie, that he was a damn fool to feel guilty. Thought she'd tell him to get on with what was left of his life.

As for Charlie's Fix-It, Clean-It business, maybe she'd just hire more help. She'd worked hard building the service, had turned it into a first-class operation in just a couple of years. It would be a shame to let it go. But her real work was her animal drawings, that was where he'd like to see her spend her energy. Her work was very fine, and that was not only his opinion.

She'd tried commercial art, after getting her degree, and had left the field totally discouraged. She had no patience working for others. Maybe that's why they got along so well. She'd been feeling desperate, just about at rock bottom when she left San Francisco and moved down to Molena Point, living with her aunt Wilma and starting Charlie's Fix-It, Clean-It.

Then a local gallery had seen her animal drawings. This was the only artwork she truly loved doing. They'd liked her work enough to give her a show and
represent her, and she was making a name for herself. She had a feel for animals, she knew anatomy, and she truly captured each personality. She'd done two of his horses, large framed portraits that he treasured. And Clyde's and Wilma's cats—Charlie made them look so intelligent they almost scared him. That was the only time he'd seen her digress from an animal's true character. He didn't know why, when she drew those three cats, she gave them more intelligence and awareness than even the brightest animal could command. Maybe she didn't realize how bright she made them look.

Or maybe she did that to please Wilma, and to stroke Clyde's ego. Clyde did love the gray tomcat, Harper thought with amusement. He'd never thought, when they were young kids bronc-riding and raising hell, that Clyde would end up with a houseful of cats. Clyde had three cats besides the gray tom, though you hardly noticed them much; they seemed to drape themselves around the house minding their own business. It was the gray cat that seemed to be always in your face.

Arriving at the Traynors', he found that Charlie had already gone, apparently earlier than she had expected. He sat in his truck for a few moments, studying the cottage, then called Charlie on his cell phone. He'd like to question the Traynors, to ask if they'd heard gunshots, but he had no real reason to do that. Charlie answered on the second ring.

“You free for lunch?”

“Yes. I meant to stay there until noon, but I was so ticked. When they got home early I knew I'd better get out or I'd blow at them.”

“You want to tell me now?”

“No. Shall I order some deli?”

“Yes. I'll meet you in front of Jolly's.”

When he arrived at the deli, Charlie had just picked up their lunch. She left her van at the curb, and they drove down the coast to the state park. Cruising in through the security gate and slowly through the cypress woods to the ocean, they parked where they could enjoy the waves crashing high against the jagged rocks. Charlie was pale, her freckles dark, the way she looked after a flash of anger or disappointment. She had ordered crab sandwiches, coleslaw and nonalcoholic beer.

He opened two bottles of O'Doul's. “A neighbor of the Traynors thought she heard gunfire last night. Thought it might have been from their place.”

“You talked to them?”

“I had no real reason to. Several calls were logged in last night, and an officer did an area check. He found nothing. Most of those reports turn out to be backfire.” He looked at Charlie, waiting.

“There was gunfire. It was so…Traynor left me a hundred dollars for cleaning up the mess he made.”

Harper let her tease him along, amused at her anger.

“Raccoons, Max. In the pantry. They got in from the attic. They must have made a racket—tore everything up. He shot them, right there in the pantry. He made a terrible mess, blood and gore mixed with all the food they had spilled.”

She didn't know whether he was going to laugh or continue to sit there watching her. “Traynor shot them, and put the two bodies in the garbage. Left that mess for me to clean up, along with all the garbage strewn across the yard.”

She saw a grin start at the corner of his mouth, a wry smile that made her want to smack him, then want to laugh, herself. “There was a loose vent into the attic. I got a ladder, nailed it back in place. The raccoons had worked the plywood cover off the crawl hole. Traynor left me a note and a hundred-dollar bill. Said he shot them with a target pistol—didn't want me to tell anyone.”

The lines that mapped his lean, tanned face deepened with interest.

“It's a big pantry, a walk-in. Took me half the morning. I didn't do much else; I'll make up for it tomorrow. He got home as I was leaving, said he thought it was a burglar in there, that he got the pistol, jerked the door open, saw these huge raccoons tearing up boxes of food. Said they snarled at him and scared him, and he didn't know what else to do but shoot them. Said he was really afraid of them.”

“A lot of explanation.”

“Why would he not want me to tell anyone? Not want me to tell you? Because he has a gun?”

“It's not illegal to have a gun if he stores it properly and if he's not a felon. If he keeps it locked up in the house, it's not my business.”

He looked deeply at Charlie. “You might want to watch yourself around Traynor, until we know what that's about. He has to have a hot temper, to blow away two innocent animals when he could have called the dispatcher and gotten some help.”

“It's hard for me to think of him as being crosswise with the law. Though I do have other questions about him.”

“Oh? Like what?”

“Umm—about his writing.”

“About his writing?” Harper leaned back, watching the breakers crash against the rocks sending up white showers of spray. The smell of brine was sharp through the open window.

“I read part of his manuscript that he left lying on the desk.”

He looked at her, raising an eyebrow.

She ignored his silent sarcasm. This was nothing she wanted to joke about. “It's crude, Max. Clumsy. I don't understand. Traynor's a beautiful writer.”

“I didn't know you were a literary critic. Or that you were so nosy.”

“Call it hero worship,” she said lightly. “But this has truly upset me—a real let-down.”

He began to peel the label from his beer, rolling it into a little ball. “It's a let-down because his writing is bad. Because you admired his work. You're disappointed in the man you thought of as perfect.”

“Maybe.” She sipped her beer, staring out at the sea, eased by its endless and constant rhythm. “Somehow the Traynors make me uneasy. They aren't what I expected. I guess I thought Vivi, too, would be different. That she would be gentler, wise and capable and supportive. My idea of an author's wife,” she said, laughing. But then, watching Max, she frowned. “You—the police have no reason to be interested in Traynor?”

“Not at all. Not at the moment.”

She watched him, then changed the subject. “I'm keeping the hundred dollars. I earned it. Tucking it away for a special occasion.”

“Like what? A bottle of champagne for our wedding?”

He shocked himself. Shocked them both. Charlie's eyes widened. Beneath her freckles, she blushed.

He said, “Maybe a wedding and champagne on shipboard, on our way to Alaska?”

“Now I know you're putting me on. You haven't been away from the department since you joined the force.”

“Not true. Been to Quantico twice for FBI training. And more conferences on police administration than I want to remember.”