Cat Seeing Double (21 page)

Cora Lee laughed. “I'll see that she behaves.”

But the kit's look at Wilma was so patently innocent that all Wilma's alarms went off—alarms just as shrill as when, during her working career, she had assessed a parolee's too-innocent look and listened to his honeyed lies.

 

The sheriff pulled up beside Max's pickup, drowning them in dust. He was a heavy man, maybe six-four, with a prominent nose and high cheekbones, and in Charlie's opinion an overly friendly smile. He loaded Hurlie into the backseat of his unit, behind the wire barrier. “What charges?”

“Interfering with the duties of a law-enforcement officer,” Max said. “Harboring a felon.”

“Fine with me.”

“And obstructing justice. I'll want his prints.”

The sheriff nodded. “You want to toss his place? You have a warrant for the old man. Or I can do it on the way down.”

Max considered. “Let's run down together and have a crack at it.”

The sheriff made Hurlie hand over his keys, and moved Hurlie's truck onto the shoulder; Max and Charlie followed him down toward Little Fish Creek. As the two men entered the cabin, Charlie waited in the truck. Max had parked where she could see in through the window of the one-room shack. A single bed, covers in a tangle. An easy chair so ragged that not even Joe Grey would tolerate it, far scruffier than Joe's clawed and hairy masterpiece. One plate and cup on the rough wooden sink drain. A door open to a fusty-looking little bathroom that she imagined would be dark with mold. Max and Sheriff Beck were in the shack for nearly half an hour; she watched them going through the few cupboards, checking under the mattress, pulling off wallboard and ceiling tiles in various locations. They performed similar searches in the two scruffy outbuildings. The sheriff's unit, parked directly in front of the shack, afforded prisoner Hurlie Farger a direct view of her. She sat sideways, with her back to him, but she could feel him staring. Max came away from the search looking sour. He stood a moment in the dusty yard beside the truck, with the sheriff.

“You ask questions around those estates,” Beck said softly, “you might want to watch yourself. DEA seems interested in that area. They took out two small marijuana plots up in the national forest, day before yesterday, and they still have a plane up. I haven't
heard
of
anything on those estates, but they're all big places and there's sure plenty of money up there.”

“I'll be careful,” Max said, studying Beck. He nodded to the sheriff. And the officer stepped into his unit and pulled away, chauffeuring Hurlie Farger to a cleaner bed than he was used to.

Swinging into the pickup, Max grinned at Charlie. “What?” he said, seeing her uncertain look.

“I half thought you were going to ask me to ride back with the sheriff. So you could run this one alone.”

“Would you have gone?”

“I wouldn't have gotten into that patrol car with Hurlie Farger, even with the sheriff there, if you gave me a direct order to that effect.”

Max studied her with a small, twisted smile. “I don't think I'd want to try giving you a direct order, Charlie Harper.” And he headed up the hills and across a forested plateau approaching the Landeau estate.

But sitting close beside Max, Charlie was quiet, trying to rearrange her thinking. Hurlie Farger had scared her. Something in his eyes, as well as his bold challenge of Max's authority, had left her chilled. And the sheriff's attitude hadn't helped.

Well, she had to learn to live with this stuff, learn to accommodate the ugly, adrenaline-packed moments. In fact, she guessed maybe it was time for a down-to-earth assessment of the way she looked at the world.

She had never been hidebound in what she expected of life. Life was what you made of it, and you sure didn't have to knuckle under just because there were bad guys around. But marrying Max had made her far
more aware of that element. Had shoved people like Hurlie Farger right in her face.

Well, she'd experienced some unsettling changes in her thirty-two years. And every one had called for a change in attitude. The adjustments she must make now would be the hardest—but every one would be worth it.

She just wanted, right now, to get through this visit to those estates, to the Landeau place, get through the day and be alone again with Max.

Maybe the aftermath of the church bombing was still with her. The pain of the last few days mixed with Hurlie's attitude had hit home unexpectedly. Laying her hand on Max's knee and leaning to kiss his cheek, she looked ahead to the tall, marbled-faced Landeau mansion with its high forbidding wall. This was just a routine visit. It would soon be over. They'd soon be alone again cuddled before the fire at the inn, ordering in a hot, comforting supper.

Clyde's attic,
once a dark tomb for generations of deceased spiders, was now free of cobwebs and dust and ancient mouse droppings, and swept clean of sawdust. The last rich light of the setting sun gleamed in where the end wall had been removed, and a soft breeze wandered through, sweet with the scents of cypress and pine. The attic was silent too, the power tools and hammers stilled, the carpenters gone for the day—it was Joe's space now. He lay stretched out across a sheet of plywood that was propped on two sawhorses, lay relaxed and purring, digesting a half-bag of corn chips that had been abandoned by one of the carpenters. The wind off the sea caressed him. The buzz of a dispossessed wasp distracted him only faintly, humming among the rafters. He was nearly asleep when footsteps on the temporary stairway forced him to lift his head—though really no action was required, he knew that step.

Clyde's head appeared at the north end of the attic silhouetted in the bright triangular space. Rising up the last steps, Clyde ducked beneath the apex, walking hunched over. By this time tomorrow evening he would
be able to stand tall, would be able to reach up and not even touch the ceiling—barring some delay in construction, Joe thought. Barring some accident. What if, tomorrow morning, the roof-jacks didn't hold until the newly raised walls had been secured? What if…

But such thoughts belonged to the more human aspect of his nature. Humans loved to fret over the disaster that hadn't happened and likely wouldn't happen. Joe's more equitable feline persona lived for the moment and let the future fall how it might, pun intended.

Yawning, he considered Clyde with interest. Clyde stood with his back to Joe, looking out toward the sea, his short black hair mussed up into peaks the way it got when he was irritated. Was he not seeing Ryan tonight? Certainly he wasn't dressed for an exciting evening or even a casual dinner. Arriving home, he had pulled on his oldest, scruffiest polo shirt, the purple one with the grease stains across the front and the hole in the sleeve. And when Clyde turned to look at him, his scowl implied, indeed, an incredibly bad mood. Joe licked his whiskers. “You look sour enough to
chew
the roof off.”

No response.

“This is more than a bad day at the shop. Right?”

Nothing. Clyde's body was rigid with annoyance.

“You have a fight with Ryan? But she's doing a great job, the new room will be something. I love that you can see right down to the beach, between the roofs and trees.”

A slight shifting of shoulders.

“And the new tower,” Joe said. “That's going to be some kind of elegant cat house.”

Clyde continued to glare.

“What did you fight about?” Joe studied Clyde's ruddy face trying to read what exactly that particular scowl might mean. “She's too hardheaded and independent?” he asked tentatively—as if he were Clyde's shrink drawing him out. “She wants to install pink flamingos in the front yard with fake palm trees?”

Clyde sat down on a carpenter's stool, a boxy little bench used for tool storage, for cutting a board, for scabbing two boards together, to stand on, or to sit on while eating lunch, a very clever little piece of furniture. He glared. “She's going out with that guy tonight. Out to dinner. The guy who broke into her truck and switched her billing. She's going
out
with him.”

“Why would she do that? The guy's a crook. He tried to set her up. Why would she…” He stared at Clyde. “She's going to set
him
up? But what does she…?”

“She wants to see what else he might try. He doesn't know she switched the billing back to the original, he'll think the fake bill is in the mail. She wants to see what he'll talk about, what questions he might ask her. She thinks she can figure out what he's after.”

“Oh, that's smart. What if
he
killed Rupert? Say he murdered her husband. Shot him in the head. So she goes out to dinner with him.” Joe looked hard at Clyde, assessing his housemate. “You couldn't stop her short of locking her up. And you're scared for her.”

Clyde nodded, looking miserable.

“So, follow them.”

“She figured I might. She said that would blow it, said maybe he knows me and would certainly know my yellow roadster. That I might put her in danger.”

Joe sighed. He licked his paw, waiting. But Clyde was silent again—far be it from Clyde to come out and
ask
for help. “So, where are they going?”

“She's meeting him at the Burger Basher at seven. She called me at work, broke our date for dinner. Asked if I'd keep Rock for a couple of hours. I thought I'd…”

“What? Just happen in for a beer? That'll fix it.”

“I plan to wait outside. In case she needs someone. In case he tries to strong-arm her, get her in his car.”

“That's so melodramatic.”

“And a dead body in her garage is not melodramatic.”

Joe washed his right ear. “And that's why you drove that old brown Hudson home. I wondered what that was about.”

“She's never seen that car, and certainly Williams wouldn't have seen it.”

Clyde had in his upscale automotive shop, in a private garage at the rear of the complex, enough rare old cars to run surveillance in a different vehicle every night for a month. Clyde's assortment of classic and antique models, all waiting to be restored, might seem to some a monstrous collection of junk. To Clyde Damen those old cars were CDs in the bank, gold under the mattress.

Clyde looked at him a long time.

Joe licked some crumbs from inside the ripped-open corn chip bag. “Burger Basher. Seven o'clock. Okay. So you owe me one.”

“How would you go about it without getting—without them seeing you?”

“Feeling guilty already?”

“Burger Basher is all open, just that little low wall around the patio, then the sidewalk. And Ryan knows you. If she sees you schlepping around there, she'll have to wonder. She already thinks you're a bit strange.”

“Strange in what way? Why would she think me strange? And what's she going to wonder? If I'm running surveillance? Oh, right.”

“That little trick with the mice on her doorstep, you think I didn't have to stretch to make that little caper seem even remotely unremarkable? What made you…?”

“Do you want my help or not? I have a hundred ways to spend my evening.”

Clyde shrugged, looking embarrassed.

“And,” Joe said, eyeing Clyde closely, “I have a hundred ways to listen to those two without being seen. In return, if you want to contribute a little something tasty to my supper plate before I undertake this risky venture…”

“
Tasty
is such a crass word, even for a cat. It isn't a word. I've never heard you use such a common expression.”

Joe smiled. “Dulcie couldn't agree more. She thinks that word is incredibly crude. Let's put it this way. I'm hungry. I'd like something for my dinner that is in keeping with my elevated status as your newly hired private investigator.”

Clyde moved toward the stairs. “I just happened to bring home some filet. I'll go on down and slap it in the skillet.”

Clyde's skillet-broiled steak, rare and juicy in the middle, crisp and dark on the outside, suited Joe just fine. Leaping past Clyde down the stairs, he headed for the kitchen to sit in the middle of the table as Clyde put supper together. “What time is he picking her up?”

“They're meeting there, at seven. She wanted it to seem as little like a date as possible, just friends meeting for dinner.”

“You better park a block away. If she's in immediate danger I'll slip out and alert you. I wish, at times like this, that I had access to a walkie-talkie or a small and unobtrusive cell phone.”

“Don't you think a cat carrying a phone around the village is going to attract attention?”

“Not if an enterprising firm would make one that looks like an electronic flea collar. It wouldn't have to ring, it could just vibrate. And…”

Clyde turned away to dish up supper.

And Joe, savoring his steak, looked forward with great anticipation to the evening. There was nothing, absolutely nothing as satisfying as sharing your professional skills with those who were less talented.

 

At seven in the evening Burger Basher's patio was crowded to overflowing: people had gathered out on the sidewalk and sat on the two-foot high wall of the patio, waiting for their names to be called. Ryan and Larn sat on the wall, drinking beer from tall mugs. Half a block away, Joe watched them through the windshield of Clyde's old Hudson. Beside him Clyde had slouched down in the seat with a cap pulled over his eyes, a real B-
movie heavy, so ludicrous Joe nearly choked, laughing.

“So what are they doing?” Clyde said, his voice muffled.

“Still waiting for their table. From the looks of the crowd, I'd say about twenty minutes. Williams parked just down the street. He's driving a white SUV, not the gray hatchback.”

“Hope they don't decide to take a walk. Maybe I should move the car.”

“Don't fuss. No one's going to spot you, you look like an old wino gearing up for a big night of panhandling. Turn on the radio. Listen to a tape. Play some nice hot jazz and let me concentrate. I need to figure where I want to land, in there—the place is about as accommodating as an airport terminal at rush hour.”

“I told you it was too open. And why would I turn on the radio? I can hear the restaurant tape just fine. How about that little service counter? You could hide behind the coffeepots.”

“And if I suffer third-degree burns? We don't have pet insurance.” Studying the crowded dining patio, Joe picked out four possible refuges, none of which looked adequate to hide a healthy mouse. Listening to the sweet, rocking runs of Ella Fitzgerald, he considered the layout.

Maybe the best method was the direct one. The in-your-face approach. Why not? A mew and a wriggle.
Well, hello, Ryan, fancy seeing you here.
A good loud purr.
So what are you having for supper?

The moment Ryan and Larn were shown to their table, Joe slipped through the open window of the Hudson, dropped to the sidewalk, and headed for the jas
mine vine that climbed to the roof beside the kitchen.

The couple was seated nearly in the center of the patio, not his preferred location. From high up within the vine, he watched them peruse their menus. He could feel Clyde watching him—the same sense of invasion as if Clyde were looking over his shoulder while he worked a mouse hole.

Ryan was wearing a handsome pair of faded jeans, a pearl-gray sweatshirt, expensive-looking leather sandals, and gold earrings. Her color was high, her makeup more skillfully applied than Joe had before seen, her dark hair curling fresh and crisp. A nice balance between the casual and self-assured village look, and feminine charm. A very effective statement:
I don't care
, but still a come-on designed to intrigue Williams.

Williams, in contrast, had made a conscious and awkward effort to impress. He was not an attractive man, and his too-careful attire didn't help. He might be thirty-five or so. It was hard to tell, with humans. He was thin-shouldered, his hair mousy and lank around his shoulders, his thin face resembling a particularly sneaky rodent. He wore crisply pleated brown slacks of some synthetic fabric that had an unpleasant shine, and an expensive paisley print shirt beneath a brown tweed sport coat—all just a bit too much, particularly in Molena Point. His shiny brown shoes were meant for the city, not for a casual village evening. As a waiter approached the couple, Joe slipped down the vine, meandered across the bricks in full sight between the crowded tables, stepped beneath their table, and lay down.

Staring at Ryan's sandals and at Williams's hard,
cheap shoes he sniffed the heady aroma of charbroiled burgers. If Ryan was aware of him she gave no sign—until suddenly, startling him, she draped her hand over the side of her chair and wiggled her fingers.

Maybe she did understand cats, Joe thought, grinning. He rubbed his face against her hand, wondering why she didn't make some joke to Williams about the freeloading cat. Wondering, as he listened to them order, if he might be able to cadge a few French fries.

 

While Joe ran surveillance on Ryan Flannery and Larn Williams, and Clyde sat in the old Hudson with his cap over his face ready to leap out and protect Ryan, or maybe even protect a certain tomcat, two hundred miles away Max Harper, standing in the high-ceilinged white marble entry of the Landeau mansion, was kept waiting for nearly twenty minutes after the short, stocky, white-uniformed housekeeper admitted him.

According to the Landeaus' sour-face maid, Mrs. Landeau was out of town but Mr. Landeau would soon be with him. She did not invite the captain in past the cold marble entry, but motioned with boredom toward a hard marble bench. As if he were one of an endless line of door-to-door hustlers selling magazines or some offbeat religion.

Accompanied by a white marble faun and two nude marble sprites, Harper waited impatiently, wondering at the architecture and decor the Landeaus' had chosen in selecting this particular mountain retreat. There was no hint of the natural materials that one expected in a country setting, no wood or native stone to give a sense
of welcome. He had cooled his heels for seventeen minutes and was rising to leave when Landeau made an appearance.

Sullivan Landeau was tall and slim, with reddish hair in a becoming blow-dry, an excellent carriage, a moderate tan that implied tennis and perhaps sailing but some concern for the damages of the harsh California sun. He was dressed in immaculate white slacks, a black polo shirt and leather Dockers. His gold Rolex, nestled among the pale, curly hairs of his wrist, caught a gleam from the cut-glass chandelier. His smile was cool, faintly caustic. “Mrs. Landeau is not at home. As a matter of fact, she's down in your area, on business. Staying in Half Moon Bay tonight, then on down to Molena Point early in the morning to attend to some rental property. I hope you are not here because of some problem with one of our tenants.”