Cat to the Dogs (8 page)

So far Clyde had made five attempts at this maneuver. During the first four lessons, Selig, when he was called, had run in the opposite direction, his nose to the ground.

Harper still had the phone to his ear, his expression sour but thoughtful. Dulcie would be telling him that Raul Torres arrived in Molena Point the same day as Cara Ray Crisp. That Cara Ray was
staying at the Oak Breeze Motel. Dulcie wouldn't elaborate on that point. She'd probably say something like,
I know it's not really police business. Yet. Unless, of course, Shamas Greenlaw
didn't
die naturally.
Joe could almost hear her whispering into the phone,
Don't you wonder, Captain Harper, why a PI from Seattle—where Shamas used to live, where Shamas still had a business—would plan to meet Shamas's lover in Molena Point just two weeks after Shamas was drowned?

Joe watched Harper tuck the phone into his belt and cross the field to Clyde. If Harper had paid attention to that phone call, and if he meant to head back to the village to check on Cara Ray, he'd have to take either Clyde's car or his own pickup; he'd left his police unit parked in front of Clyde's place. Harper hadn't made a call after Dulcie hung up, as if to send one of his officers to check on Cara Ray.

Harper and Clyde stood talking, then Harper headed toward the house. Joe, flattening himself against the metal roof, was about to signal Dulcie when Harper turned toward the stable, where his pickup was parked.

Joe beat him there. As Harper stepped into the cab, Joe had slid behind him into the back section of the king cab—avoiding the slamming door by a split second. There'd been no time to get Dulcie, she was still in the house.

He'd hoped she wasn't snooping around Harper's place, prying into the police captain's personal life. She was so nosy. Oh, that would be too low.

 

Joe had liked the feel of the big truck careening down the hills, had listened to Harper calling the motel office, asking the location of Cara Ray Crisp's room and if she had anyone with her. Not until Harper had stopped for takeout did Joe realize how hungry he was. The aroma of fish and chips had been almost more than he could stand. Then Harper was backing into the alley, Joe drooling for a bite of fried cod.

But now the cod was gone. And Cara Ray Crisp had turned out her light and left her room. Joe listened to Harper wad up the sack and napkins and stuff them in the trash bin. Wind swirled into the cab as Harper opened the door.

And Joe was alone, shut into Harper's pickup, the door slammed practically in his face.

Leaping to the back of the front seat, he watched Harper cross the street into the patio of the Oak Breeze and move on past the pool toward the manager's office, never glancing toward Cara Ray as she descended the stairs and chose a chaise by the pool. Dropping her towel across it, she stretched out.

Cara Ray was not the only sunbather. Half a dozen other greased bodies reclined like oiled sardines laid out on grids to dry. The sun was low, but the evening was still warm, the pool as blue as the eyes of a rutting Siamese.

The police captain, moving on into the office, would quickly find out when Cara Ray had checked in, what name and credit card she had used, if she had arrived in a car, if Raul Torres had been registered, if Cara Ray had registered for a single or double, if she had been seen with anyone.

But, Joe wondered, if she had come here to meet Torres, and Torres came up missing, why hadn't Cara Ray gone directly to the police? Why wasn't she looking for the guy?

With questions buzzing in his head as thick as flies on stale cat food, he watched a young man come around the corner from the direction of the parking lot, wearing loose swim trunks, flip-flops, and an open shirt, heading for the pool. Choosing a chaise near Cara Ray but facing the opposite direction, he adjusted the back to a moderate recline, made himself comfortable, and opened a newspaper.

Behind the paper, he spoke; he didn't look around at Cara Ray. He was a big-boned, wide-shouldered guy. Square jaw, sandy hair, and freckles—
If this guy isn't a Greenlaw,
Joe thought,
yours truly is a ring-tailed gorilla.

And was he staying at the Oak Breeze? Or had he parked in the visitors' lot behind the motel? As far as Joe knew, none of the Greenlaws was staying in a motel; they were all too tight with their cash. Had this guy met Cara Ray at Lucinda's and made a date with her? Or were they old friends? And why the secrecy?

Dropping down onto the front seat of the king cab, Joe fought the door handle, pawing and pulling at it—but even his considerable tomcat strength was almost no match for General Motors. He got the door open at last, bruising his paws. Within seconds Joe was across the street crouching in the geraniums that bordered the wide tile patio, looking out at Cara Ray reclining on her chaise beside the long, blue pool.

T
HE GERANIUM
thicket was dense and tall enough to conceal a dozen tomcats, but the long stretch of tiled paving beyond it, between Joe Grey and his quarry, offered no cover. Away across the open patio, Cara Ray and the man behind the newspaper were speaking quietly. Cara Ray, stretched out on her chaise on her stomach, had untied her bikini bra to avoid strap marks, her well-oiled body highlighting a golden tan. Joe, watching her lips moving, tried to tell what she was saying, but he wasn't any good at lipreading. He supposed, like most things in life, that skill took some effort to master. Near him under the geranium leaves, a sparrow was hopping, picking up seeds, forcing Joe to exercise every ounce of self-control not to snatch the dumb little morsel and chomp him.

The flowers were so pungent and spicy that his fur would smell like geraniums for the next week. Beneath his paws, the earth was damp; as he sauntered out onto the patio he left a trail across the tiles of dark, wet pawprints.

Cara Ray had her eyes closed. Joe lay down beneath her chaise, behind her visitor, stretching out on the warm tile paving. His
view up through the webbing was of Cara Ray's cheek and a lot of her anatomy. She smelled like coconut oil. He couldn't see her companion's face, only the breadth of his shoulders, and his legs and feet, which were indecently hairy, for a human. Dark, curly hair, though the hair on his head was light. His body had the kind of tan that, once it has peaked, begins to look dull and flaking. Compared with Cara Ray's blond radiance, he looked like a dust-covered mannequin that someone had dragged from an attic and posed on the chaise with an open newspaper.

“Are you sure you didn't find anything, Cara Ray? Where were you looking?”

“Sam, you'd know if I did. It's only been three days. Sitting in that old woman's stuffy parlor drinking tea until I think I'll throw up—and at night, listening to their boring stories. Grown men and women, telling fairy tales.” She raised her head to look at him. “
You
made yourself scarce enough.” Glancing down, she saw Joe under her chaise, and caught her breath. Snatching up her towel, she flapped it at him. “Shoo. Shoo.”

Joe rose and moved away, out of her line of sight.

“Wha'd you want me to do, Cara Ray, jump up and throw my arms around you? Anyway, who'd have the chance, with Cousin Dirken all over you?”

Cara Ray laughed. “Farting around repairing that house. What a joke.” She glared under the chaise, didn't see Joe.

Sam sniggered. “Pulling off the siding, chopping holes in that old cement and filling 'em up again.” He fished a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, carefully selected one from the center, where it presumably wasn't crushed, and lit up. “Dirken tags me around every minute I'm at the house, won't let me out of his sight. Nearly has palsy if I head out into the yard.”

She half rose, holding the bra. “If he watches you so close, then how do you think
I
can do any better? He tags me, too—as bad as Newlon.”

“When Dirken watches you, Cara Ray, his mind isn't on what
you're looking for. More likely on what he's
wanting
to look for.”

She bellowed out a laugh, an alarming bray for such a sleek, petite lady.

“And the old woman?” he said. “She suspect anything?”

“Not a clue. Dim as a blind deacon passing the collection plate.” She rolled over on her back, clutching her untied bra to herself, revealing more white skin than tan. “What about Torres?”

He lowered the paper and raised up, looking around at the other sunbathers. “Torres died in an accident, Cara Ray. His brakes failed.” He half turned, his face in profile behind the raised newspaper. “It's time you got some results out of that old woman.”

She sat up, straddling the chaise, tying on her bra. “I'm working on it. You think I can just waltz in there and make nice to his
widow
, right away we're bosom buddies? You think that dry old biddy is going to trust me? Share all her girlie secrets, right down to what Shamas was like in bed—if she can remember that far back. You think she's going to cozy up to me the way she does to Pedric? And we don't need that buddy-buddy stuff, either, between those two. I think…”

“Well,
I
have to be careful, Cara Ray. You know my old parole officer lives in this burg.”

“Not likely you'll run into him. Why would you? If you stay out of jail.”

“It's a her. And I damn sure might run into her. She and Lucinda are thicker than cats in a bowl of cream. All I need is for that bitch to get on my case. She sent me back twice, always hassling me. Sent me right damn back to federal prison.”

“So? You're clean now. You told me you were clean.”

He glanced back at her and smiled.

She laughed. “If you…” She stopped speaking, rolled over suddenly onto her belly, hiding her face.

Joe, stretching up to see what had startled her, backed deeper under the chaise as the uniformed captain swung out of the motel office. Harper didn't seem to notice Cara Ray, not a blink as he
headed across the patio toward the street. Joe kept his head down, hiding the white strip on his face and his white paws, muttering a little cat prayer that Harper, watching Cara Ray out of the corner of his eye, wouldn't notice one small, gray, immobile hunk of cat fur crouching in the shadow under the chaise.

Leaving the patio, Harper walked right on past his king cab, never glancing at it. Probably he'd leave the truck parked between the buildings under the jasmine vine until Cara Ray and her friend had left the pool area. It was just after Harper left that the conversation turned even more murky. Sam, turning the newspaper page as if he were reading, said, “I need to move on, Cara Ray. Before the funeral. I've details to tend to.”

“You leave before the funeral,” she snapped, “don't you think someone will wonder? The funeral's what you came for. And as to the machine sales, that little adventure was your idea, not mine.”

“One road leads to the other, Cara Ray.”

“What about the boat? The cops been back on it?”

“Why would they? They got no reason. And what would they find? There's nothing
to
find.” He snapped the newspaper irritably. “It was an accident, Cara Ray.”

“One road leads to the other, Sam, only if you make a track between them.” Cara Ray rose; her look was as brittle as broken glass. Heading for the stairs, her blue eyes and delicate features shone as cold as an arctic ice field.

T
HE TEA
tray, on the coffee table before the fire, was set with Wilma's hand-thrown ceramic cups and saucers and arranged with an assortment of lemon bars, scones, and fruit-filled custards. The blazing fire cast bright reflections across Wilma's deep-toned oriental rug and across the blue velvet couch and love seat. Above the mantel, a rich Jeannot painting of the Molena Point hills lent further richness to the cozy room. Behind Wilma's cherry desk, the white shutters were open to the stormy afternoon, framing the old oak trees that twisted across her tangled flower garden. Wilma had put on a CD of Pete Fountain, the bright clarinet jazz filling the house with its happy sound. Dulcie sat on Wilma's desk, her green eyes deeply amused. They were waiting for Lucinda.

“It was a cat,” Dulcie was telling Wilma. “A tiny little cat, riding that big pup. You should have seen Selig racing away with the littlest, scruffiest kitten you can imagine raking his backside. Kitten the color of charred wood, and fierce—angry as a tiger.”

It seemed to Dulcie that all her world suddenly was filled with young animals, both exasperating and lovable. She had
spent the morning sitting on Clyde's back fence beside Joe, watching as Clyde tried to train Selig. Selig had accepted the command,
Sit.
He knew what it meant, and he obeyed when the mood struck him. But
Down
seemed a position with which he was not conversant. Clyde might be a fine auto mechanic, but as a dog trainer he was about as effective as a declawed cat in a room full of Rottweilers.

Wilma adjusted the quilted tea cozy and glanced across at Dulcie. “Where do you suppose those cats came from? You always told me the hill wasn't inviting to cats, that the village cats didn't like to go there.”

“Sometimes it does seem a frightening place,” Dulcie said. “But that young cat doesn't seem to mind; she acts as if the whole hill belongs to her.”

Dulcie licked a bit of scone and custard that Wilma had put on a small flowered plate for her. “I saw those cats, the first time, a week after the earthquake, slipping across the hill like shadows. I couldn't get close, I could hardly see them except the little dark one. She stopped and looked back at me, stood for a long time, staring, before she raced away. I thought she wanted to come nearer, but then she'd glance behind her almost as if the others didn't want her to get friendly.”

Dulcie smiled. “She's a terrible little morsel, with that dirty blackish-and-brown fur all matted and sticking out every which way. No more than skin over bones, and she can't be four months old.”

“Do you suppose they lost their home in the earthquake?” Wilma asked.

“Maybe,” Dulcie said. “Maybe they're a small feral colony that fled up the coast when the quake hit.” The epicenter of the earthquake had been some eighty miles to the south of Molena Point. “Maybe they're from one of those managed colonies that you read about.”

Occasionally, Dulcie's favorite cat magazines would do a story about feral-cat colonies that were fed by groups of volunteers, peo
ple who trapped the cats to treat them for illnesses or injuries and give them their shots, then turned them loose again, to live free.

“Little feral kittens,” she said softly.

Wilma stopped fussing with the tea tray and gave her a long look; but something in Dulcie's tone kept her from pursuing the subject.

That little feral kitten,
Dulcie thought.
So bold and wild.
She ate a bit more scone, lapped up her custard, and watched through the window as Lucinda Greenlaw's New Yorker drew to the curb. Wilma's purpose in asking Lucinda over for tea, that day, was not simply social, but to find out about Cara Ray Crisp, a favor for Max Harper. Harper didn't often ask his friends for this sort of snooping.

Of the five people on the boat when Shamas drowned, Newlon had come directly from docking the
Green Lady
at Molena Point harbor, to be with Lucinda. Winnie and George Chambers had made their condolence call a few days later; Winnie Chambers had been sympathetic and gentle, but her husband George had seemed stiff. Dulcie had watched him fidget, definitely ill at ease—as if tenderness and excessive emotion were not in his nature. Sam Fulman had come sauntering in two days after Newlon arrived, saying he'd had to run up to the city on business.
I'll just bet,
Dulcie had thought. Lucinda had not, of course, expected to see Shamas's mistress at her door at any time, come to make condolences.

The six members of the sailing party had all performed the duties of crew on the three-cabin vessel, though Dulcie had her doubts about how much work Cara Ray undertook. More likely her contribution was in bed.

In Seattle, where the
Green Lady
had gone into port after Shamas drowned, the police had put the death down as a drinking accident; Shamas's blood alcohol had been high enough to easily account, under the midnight-storm conditions, for a fatal error of judgment and balance.

With Dulcie's phone tip, Captain Harper had become increasingly curious. He had no real grounds, however, to question Cara Ray—hence Wilma's conversation with Lucinda.

Dulcie, curling down on the desk as Lucinda settled comfortably before the fire, watched Wilma pour out the tea and serve the little plates and listened through the small talk about Wilma's garden and the weather, as Wilma gently moved the conversation toward Cara Ray's visits.

“I suppose Cara Ray drove down to Molena Point alone?”

“Oh, I'm sure she's here alone. Well, at least she hasn't mentioned anyone else. She doesn't drive over, except that first time. She walks the few blocks from her motel. The second time she came, Dirken drove her home. The next night, too, because it was late, nearly midnight.” Lucinda raised an eyebrow. “I expect Newlon and his cousins would all have liked the opportunity.”

“She didn't mention anyone she might have driven down from the city with? Or perhaps someone she knew here in Molena Point?”

“No, she didn't. The woman is not that free with information about herself. What is it, Wilma? Why the questions?”

“Nothing,” Wilma said. “Simple curiosity. If she is such a beauty, as you say, I thought perhaps…one would wonder if there's a…gentleman friend.”

Lucinda went silent, drawing into herself. “You mean another gentleman friend, since Shamas.” She looked at Wilma helplessly.

This was not, Dulcie thought, easy for either of them.

“She spent a lot of time with you,” Wilma said. “I suppose she talked about the accident.”

Lucinda nodded stiffly. “She did. On her first visit. But she said nothing that the Seattle police didn't tell me, if that's what you're after.”

“She seems,” Wilma said smoothly, “to have made herself very much at home.”

Lucinda flushed. “She…made no bones that she was Shamas's ‘good friend,' as she put it.”

Lucinda sipped her tea nervously. “She has no shame. She told me how she had loved to sit on shipboard in the evenings listening to Shamas tell his wonderful tales.”

“That first visit—what else did she talk about?”

“What is this, Wilma? What are these questions? Why are you doing this?”

“I'm trying to understand,” Wilma said quietly. She did not mention Max Harper, nor would she. What she was doing for Harper, Dulcie knew, put Wilma almost in the category of a police snitch. And a snitch didn't reveal her role; that did not make for good law enforcement.

“I'm trying,” Wilma said, “to understand why Cara Ray came here. And why you've allowed her in, Lucinda. Not once, but three times. What could she possibly…”

“It was the Greenlaws,” Lucinda said crossly. “Dirken, Newlon—they made her very welcome; that first day, they asked her to stay the evening.”

“Did you…show her around the house?”

Lucinda flushed. “She said…that Shamas had bragged so about it.”

Dulcie felt her tail lashing. She couldn't believe that even Lucinda would be so spineless. She could just imagine Lucinda taking that woman on a nice little guided tour of Shamas's home, pointing out all the valuable antiques.

Was that what Cara Ray was looking for? Small items she might steal, valuable pieces that perhaps Shamas had mentioned? His old and valuable chess sets, for instance, which had been written up once in the
Gazette
. Or the authentic scrimshaw and carved-ivory collection that Shamas had liked to show visitors. Had Lucinda showed them all to Cara Ray? What was it in human nature that made people so trusting?

“Why do you allow it?” Wilma said gently. “Why don't you send her packing?”

“I truly don't know. Partly, I suppose, a false sense of good manners. It's hard to break habits instilled in you so severely as a child. The same hidebound manners,” Lucinda said with uncharacteristic boldness, “that keep me from sending the whole Greenlaw tribe packing.

“Well,” she said, smiling, “at least the Greenlaw women have begun to do the cooking. Not that I like their heavy meals, or like them in my kitchen. But I don't have to cook for that tribe.”

I bet you still have to buy the groceries,
Dulcie thought with a catty little smirk.

“The rest of the clan will arrive in a few more days,” Lucinda said. “Then the funeral, and they'll be gone again, and Cara Ray, too.

“Oh, I dread the funeral, Wilma. His family is going to turn it into a regular dirge of moaning and weeping and showmanship. I don't think they cared a fig about Shamas, but they're planning all manner of things for the wake, weepy poetry readings, flowery speeches—I'd rather have
no
ceremony.”

“Certainly,” Wilma said, “this Cara Ray won't have the nerve to show her face.”

“She has bought a new dress for the occasion. ‘A little black dress,' she told me.”

Wilma's eyes widened. “She wouldn't actually…”

Lucinda's face flushed. “She intends to be there. She's a whore, Wilma. Nothing but a common whore.”

Dulcie stared—she had never heard Lucinda speak so plainly. Maybe there was more grit to Lucinda Greenlaw than she had ever guessed.

“Lucinda, send that woman packing,” Wilma said. “Back to San Francisco. Don't let her take advantage of you.”

“I…have a feeling about her, Wilma. That…that she knows things about Shamas I should be privy to.”

“What sort of things?”

“Something important. Something…I don't know. Not personal things, but something to do with the estate, with his businesses. I want…to keep her around for a while.

“She's buttering up Shamas's nephews shamefully, but—well, they were all on shipboard together. I just…don't want to send her away, yet, Wilma.”

Dulcie washed her paws, puzzling over Lucinda. All the pieces she knew about Lucinda Greenlaw never seemed quite to fit together. Lucinda seemed so shy and docile, yet sometimes she was surprisingly bold.

Dulcie was still wondering about the old lady that evening, as she and Joe peered through the lighted window into the crowded parlor—as they watched Cara Ray make nice with the younger Greenlaw men, the little blonde flirting and preening, drawing cold looks from Lucinda.