Cat Spitting Mad (5 page)

A
s Charlie
Getz turned her van up the quarter-mile lane that led to Max Harper's small ranch, the yellow light of the security lamps was mighty welcome. The dark roads were behind her, where perhaps a killer lurked, the hills pitch black, the sky black and starless.

Heading the van down the lighted fence line toward the white frame house and stable, she prayed for the safety of the Marners and Dillon as she'd been praying all night.

The idea of three riders missing was so bizarre—the implication of a child missing made bile come in her throat. Heading eagerly for the stable yard, she knew she was driving too fast.

Slowing the old van, she studied the dark pools of night beneath the overhanging oaks, looking for the mare. She could see, up on the hills behind the ranch, flashes of torchlight jiggling and careening, and could see lights higher up the foothills, disappearing into the pine forest. Parking before the house, she cut the en
gine and headlights and sat listening to the far, faint shouts of the searchers.

After the wash of light up the lane, the yard was too dark. Harper didn't like lights glaring in his windows; his yard lights were operable from remotes in his car and truck, and from inside the house and stable.

Now, in the tangle of black shapes around her, nothing shifted or moved.

She'd never been afraid at night, not in Molena Point, not when she'd lived in San Francisco. Tonight her fear made her weak.

Slipping out of the van, she switched on her torch and started across the yard toward the stable, swinging her beam wide, causing the shadows to run and dance—probably only tree trunks, maybe a wheelbarrow.

Then, beneath a far oak, a shadow shifted and turned.

She aimed her light toward it like a gun—wished it was a gun.

Her beam caught the whites of frightened eyes, the line of the mare's head and pricked ears. Redwing stood pressed against the fence, her eyes wide with fear.

Gently Charlie approached her, aiming her torch away. The mare stood stiffly, holding one leg up. The reins were broken, trailing in the dirt. Harper's nice Stübben saddle hung down Redwing's side, the stirrup dragging, the girth loose where a buckle had broken. When she reached for Redwing, the mare threw her head and snorted, rearing to wheel away. Charlie grabbed the broken rein, moving with her, letting her
plunge, then easing into her. Laying her hand on the mare's neck, she felt Redwing trembling. At the same instant, loud barking erupted from the barn where the two big half-Dane dogs had been shut in their box stall for the night. The sound of their voices eased Charlie—as if their bellowing would drive away danger. And the furor seemed to calm Redwing, too. The mare knew the dogs, she played with them in the pasture; she seemed easier at their familiar presence.

Removing the saddle, placing it on the fence rail, she led the mare out to see if she could walk.

The mare limped badly.

Leading Redwing to the barn, Charlie flipped on the lights, found a halter, and carefully removed the bridle, touching it as little as possible. Maybe that was silly, but if someone had grabbed the reins and pulled Dillon off, there could be fingerprints.

Harper would laugh at her. Maybe she read too many detective stories. Hanging the bridle on its hook, she put the mare in the cross-ties and went out to the yard to fetch the saddle, supporting it by two fingers under the pad.

Maybe, when the saddle slipped, Dillon had fallen; maybe she was lying, hurt, up on the dark hills, confused or unconscious.

But why would she be alone, without Helen and Ruthie?

Ignoring the whining dogs, she wiped down the mare, cleaned her skinned knee, and daubed on some salve. Putting her in her stall, she fetched a flake of hay for her and filled her water bucket. The dogs continued to bark and to scrabble at their stall door. Too bad the
year-old pups weren't trained to track; they could be of use tonight. But those two mutts, as much as she loved them, would only get in the way.

When she had the mare bedded, she removed one of the two leashes hanging from the nail beside the dogs' stall and, by opening their door only a crack, managed with a lot of shouting and strong-arming and ignored commands, to let Hestig out and leave Selig confined.

Leashing Hestig, she tied him to a ring at the side of the stable alleyway. He stood whining, watching her soulfully. She felt easier with the big pup near. The Great Dane part of him gave him a voice like a train horn, and he had the size and presence to intimidate any stranger.

She and Clyde together had started training the two strays in obedience, but it was slow going. Dog training wasn't Clyde's talent. The pups had ended up at Harper's, and she and Max had been working with them in the evenings, taking advantage of the wide, flat acreage to teach them the basic commands. They were learning. But tonight, with the unusual routine, and having listened to the shouting from the hills, they were too excited to pay much attention.

She remained still a moment, stroking Hestig. In the long, quiet evenings, she hadn't meant for her relationship with Max Harper to turn personal, hadn't meant to become so attracted to him—and the trouble was, it
hadn't
turned personal. She didn't think Max felt anything for her but friendship.

Harper was Clyde's best friend. It wouldn't be like him to hurt Clyde. And he was a cop, his feelings all
buttoned up and in control—or at least hidden, she thought wryly.

Except, what about Crystal Ryder?

That one had thrown herself at the captain and gotten a response. But then, the woman was gorgeous, with that tawny blond hair and big brown doe eyes and deep dimples and a figure that, to quote Clyde, was stacked like a brick outhouse. How could Max resist?

While she, Charlie, was just a skinny, gawky redhead with no sex appeal and more freckles than brains.

Crystal Ryder was the first woman Max had looked at since his wife died.

How can I be thinking about such inanities, about my personal problems, when Dillon's lost and hurt?

Shutting the mare's stall door, she unsnapped Hestig's leash from the wall and, with the pup at heel, she circled the stable yard, shining her light deep beneath the trees and up into the hay shed, keeping an eye on the lane, hoping to see a squad car turning in.

But the dirt drive remained empty—empty and lonely. And the winding road beyond the lights was unrelieved in its dense and endless blackness. Feeling vulnerable, she pulled Hestig close to her, and headed for the darkened house.

Using the key Max had given her this evening, and pushing open the back door, she felt Hestig cower against her, so her heart did a double skip.

Quietly she told him to watch. To his credit, the big honey-colored dog came to attention with a surprised growl. Laying her hand on his shoulder, she reached inside and flipped the switch, illuminating the big country kitchen.

No one was there, no one standing against the oak cabinets or lurking beneath the table. Beyond the two inner doorways, the dining room and hall were dense with shadow. She stepped inside, keeping Hestig close, reached for the phone on the kitchen table, and dialed Harper's cell phone.

“Yes?” he said softly.

“I'm in your kitchen. Redwing came home. No sign of Dillon.”

“We haven't found her.”

“The mare slipped her saddle, it was hanging down, a girth buckle broken, the reins broken.”

“Does it look like the mare fell?”

“She's lame on her left front knee. An abrasion, blood and dirt. Yes, like she stumbled. I doctored it. You haven't found Helen and Ruthie either?”

“We found Ruthie and Helen.” Max's voice was flat. “They're dead, Charlie.”

“Dead?” Her breath caught. “How? What happened? Where is Dillon?”

“Someone was up there in the hills. Someone met them on the trail. Their throats were cut. We haven't found Dillon,” he repeated.

Every drop of strength had drained away. She sat down at the table, pulling Hestig close.

“Both Ruthie and Helen were slashed across the throat,” Harper said, as if perhaps she hadn't heard, or understood. Hadn't wanted to hear.

She stared into the shadows of the hall, holding the dog close, filled with the sickening picture of the mother and that lovely young woman lying up there on the dark hills alone.

“Dillon,” she said again. “Where is Dillon? The mare…The mare came home alone.”

“I told you, Charlie. We haven't found her. Did you unsaddle the mare?”

“Yes, of course.”

“How much did you handle the tack?”

“I…As little as possible.”

“Why, Charlie? How did you know I'd want prints?”

“I just—with three riders missing, I just—thought it might be wise. I don't know. Just seemed a good idea. Where—where are you?”

“In the hills north of you. I'll send an officer down. Are you alone?”

“I have Hestig with me.”

“Be wary. Stay in the kitchen. Squad car will be there pronto.”

She hung up, staring at the two dark doorways, wondering if the killer had
brought
Redwing home—maybe ridden her home—then come into the house.

But why would he do that? After he killed Helen and Ruthie, he'd surely run, try to get away. Shivering, she looked more carefully around the kitchen.

Nothing seemed out of place, not even a dirty dish in the sink. Max kept his house, and even the feed room and tackroom, in the same orderly manner in which he ran the police station, every piece of equipment clean and ready, in its place where it could be quickly found.

She knew Max's house; she knew where he kept his gun-cleaning equipment, and where a .38 Chief's Special was cushioned beneath the shoe rack in his closet.

But she would have to go down the dark hall to
reach the closet, passing the dark bathroom and bedrooms. She remained at the table, stroking Hestig, feeling cowardly and anxious, waiting for the squad car.

The kitchen still showed a woman's warmth, Millie's cookbooks still on the shelf above her little desk, her dried flowers in a vase, the flowered chair cushions. Millie had been a cop, and a good one. But she'd liked having a cozy home. All this, the flowers, the little pretty touches, he had kept, legacy from a cherished and cherishing wife. Millie had been dead for nearly two years before Charlie ever knew Max, before Charlie ever moved to Molena Point.

These last weeks, as she and Max worked with the pups, Max had told her more than he realized about Millie. He'd told her a lot about Clyde, too, as he recalled their high school days, their summers riding bulls on the rodeo circuit. And Harper had told her a lot about himself and the way he looked at life. She hadn't known he could be so talkative.

And all the evenings she had spent up here, with the excuse of training the pups, she'd kept turning down dinner with Clyde, turning down dates, a simple movie, a walk on the beach.

She
had
gone with Clyde to the jazz concert, though she wanted to be up here with Max. And she'd agreed to see the outdoor theater's production of
A Midsummer Night's Dream,
but only to ease her conscience—then had sat on the hard bench during the performance, thinking about Max.

She was such a fool.

And how could she think about all this tonight?

But she couldn't think steadily about what had hap
pened to the Marners. About what could be happening to Dillon. She was terrified to think about Dillon. Staring at the black windows, she realized that Dillon could be here on the ranch, could have slipped from the saddle out there beyond the lights.

She rose, nearly toppling her chair, snatching up the torch. Commanding Hestig to heel in a voice that brought him lurching to her side, she headed out to the yard, was sweeping her meager torchlight between the oaks, jumpy at every imagined sound, when headlights came down the road and turned onto the lane.

It was not the squad car she'd expected, but Clyde's roadster, flashing down the lane butter-yellow, stirring in her a picture of the night Clyde had escorted her to the opening of her first art exhibit—not a one-man show, but her work prominently featured among that of five local artists. What a lovely evening, and how caring Clyde had been, dressing up for her, polishing the antique car until it gleamed, timing their arrival to pull up grandly before a crowded gallery, handing her out as if she were a movie star.

Behind Clyde's bright antique convertible, a black-and-white turned in from the road. Clyde was coming up the steps as it parked. The instant she released Hestig, the big pup rushed at Clyde, leaping and whining. Officer Wendell got out of his unit and stood in the yard, asking if she was all right, then went in to search the house. Wendell seemed even more rigid than usual, less friendly. He was always a quiet man. Thin and sour, not a lot of laughs. Maybe the murder had sickened him—or maybe just a sour mood. Wendell had taken a severe demotion recently, after getting into
some kind of trouble over a woman. Charlie didn't know what had happened. She knew that Max wasn't easy on his men.

Clyde put his arm around her and drew her into the house. “Any coffee?” He looked tired. His dark hair stood in peaks, his T-shirt hung limp with sweat. His voice was hoarse the way it got when he was upset or out of sorts.

She poured the last of Harper's breakfast coffee into a mug and stuck it in the microwave. “Redwing came home.” She pointed out toward the fence where she'd found the mare huddled. She'd never thought of a horse being huddled, but Redwing had been.

Another squad car arrived. Detective Davis and Lieutenant Brennan got out. Both had cameras. Usually, Davis did the photography. Davis waved her out, nodding toward the stable, her short, dark hair catching the light.

As Charlie hurried out, Lieutenant Brennan began to photograph the stable yard, his strobe light picking out every ripple in the soft earth, every hoofprint. Charlie showed him where she had led the mare to the stable and then crossed from the stable beside the pup. Brennan nodded curtly. She guessed murder of a woman and young girl was not business as usual to these officers.