Cat Seeing Double (18 page)

She had awakened when the first hint of dawn shone in one long pale crack beneath the lid of the chest. Pushing up the lid with her nose, and crawling out, she had padded across the second-floor nursery to where the wall fell away. There she stood looking down at the heaps of rock and dead oaks that bristled like some gigantic devil's garden, stood looking past the ruins to the hills that dropped away below her. Wanting to be home right then, right that minute, wanting breakfast, wanting most of all to telephone Dallas Garza and tell him where that old man was, who had tried to kill half the village. Was she the only one in the world who knew
where that old man was hiding? Consumed by her need she had leaped down the ragged stairs flying over heaped stones and through tangled bushes running for home, running.

“And here I am,” said the kit, licking a last smear of custard from her whiskers. “No one else knows where that old man is. No one but the boy because the boy's clothes were in the shack but that boy will never tell anyone.” And she sailed to the desk and pawed at the phone, her ears and whiskers sharp forward, her long fluffy tail high and lashing—this kit who was scared of the phone but who, right now, was more full of herself and more eager to confide in the law, or at least to confide in Detective Garza.

“Very smooth,”
Joe said, leaping on the breakfast table, landing inches from Clyde's plate.

“What's smooth?” Clyde said, wiping up the last of his fried eggs. “Where've you been? Your breakfast's getting cold.”

“Up on the roof, watching them put up the platform and stairs. Pretty fast workers.”

“Scaffolding. It's called scaffolding.” Clyde glanced at his watch. “They got here before seven, one of the carpenters had the lumber on his truck. They're expecting another delivery at eight.”

“I gather Ryan's not a union member. She'd never get away with starting work so early.” Already Joe's ears felt numb from the thunder of hammers and the rasping scream of the electric saws. He might boast superior knowledge and skills, for a tomcat, with none of the normal feline fears, but the sound of a Skilsaw or an electric drill still sent shivers up his furry spine.

The scaffolding that Ryan had constructed along the side of the house, with a temporary stairway from the front sidewalk, was indeed a platform large and strong
enough to support any number of carpenters plus a considerable weight in lumber and building materials. The men wouldn't have to enter the house except to connect the plumbing and, at some point in the job, to build the inner stairway in half of Clyde's small guest room. Clyde's present bedroom would become the new guest room, without his desk and weight equipment that now cluttered the little space. That would all be moved upstairs.

“They plan to have the shingles off the roof this morning before the lumber arrives,” Clyde said. “There'll be roofing nails all over the yard. I'm taking the morning off to vacuum them up, but you cats stay out of the way. Watch your paws. Stay inside when the truck gets here, until they've dropped that load of lumber. Be sure the kit is inside.”

“Anything else? Don't pick up any fleas? Stay away from barking dogs?”

Clyde gave him a long, patient look. “I am only a human. You can't expect me to be as intelligent or perceptive as a feline. But because I am human, I worry about you. That is what humans do. You are going to have to make allowances. If you want to keep me healthy and happy and keep me bringing home the kippers, you will have to humor me. Stay out of the way of the truck. Is that clear?”

“There is no need for early morning sarcasm. I already told Dulcie about the lumber. And I laid down the law to the kit. You don't need to write a script and do a two-minute stand-up.”

Clyde glared.

But Joe Grey smiled. “A load of lumber in the yard
will be the end of that patch of scruffy grass you euphemistically call the front lawn.”

Ignoring him, Clyde rose to rinse his plate. Joe nibbled at his own breakfast. “Very nice omelet.” Savoring the Brie-spinach-bacon-and-cheese concoction, he pawed open the morning paper.

Rupert's death had not come to the attention of reporters until the Sunday edition was already on the street. This Monday morning it filled the front page above the fold. There was no photograph of the body or of Ryan; likely Dallas had seen to that. Joe scanned the article, which said nothing that he didn't already know. The press had made clear that the murdered man's widow, in whose garage the body had been found, was not only police detective Dallas Garza's niece, but was the sister of local interior designer Hanni Coon. And that Ryan's father was Michael Flannery, chief U.S. probation officer for the northern district of California, based in San Francisco. The article pointed out that Ryan had filed for divorce from Dannizer six months earlier when she moved to Molena Point to open a separate contracting business. It gave the name of her new business and some interesting details about the lawsuit in which she was suing Dannizer for half the value of their San Francisco firm, Dannizer Construction. That
lawsuit was now unnecessary. The paper made it clear that, with Rupert's death, Ryan would be a wealthy woman. Joe scanned, as well, the
Gazette
's latest article on the church bombing, but it was only a rehash of previous reports, except for information on those who had been treated for minors wounds or shock, and that Cora Lee French had been released from the hospital.

Now that Cora Lee was home, Joe thought, it was time to take the kit up to stay with her. The kit could have gotten herself into all kinds of trouble, up at that old man's shack. Cora Lee would love playing hostess to her favorite cat, and until this bombing business was cleared up, the unpredictable tattercoat would be safer—and Dulcie wouldn't be wound in knots. Joe was more than curious to see if Garza would run with what the kit had told him.

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 littered 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 in
dulged, 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 I 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.”