Cat Seeing Double (26 page)

The kit followed. They were poised among the pillows looking down at that sea of colors and sniffing the scent of clean wool when Ryan and Hanni looked up.

Ryan lifted her hand as if to stop them, but Hanni laughed. Any other designer, confronted with cats on her costly installation, would have shouted and chased them away. Hanni simply watched them, watched Joe Grey pad in too, stepping diffidently among the pillows.

“What harm can they do?” Hanni said. “Come on, cats. Are your paws clean?” She looked where they had trod and saw no dirt. “Come on, have a roll before the grande dame arrives. It's your only chance. Marianna would eat you alive.” She grinned at Ryan. “Can you imagine? Cats on her hundred-thousand-dollar masterpiece?”

“Don't you worry they'll pull a thread?”

“It's a well-made piece, the English know how to make rugs that last—the English
know
there'll be cats on them. And Joe
is
a perfect gentleman. Kate and I kept him for a week, at the cottage, when we were down looking at the Pamillon estate. Something about Clyde painting his place. The cat had perfect manners then. Why would he be different now?”

Beneath the cats' paws, the wool was softer than a featherbed. Dulcie and the kit rolled deliriously, wriggling, sinking into the thick pile, the kit flipping back and forth lashing her long, fluffy tail.

But Joe rolled for only a moment. He came to rest
lying on his back, his white paws waving in the air as if in total abandon while he considered the flaw in the fireplace.

In the morning light, from this angle, he couldn't see that out-of-place, ragged scar. Rolling across the rug as if crazy with play, he looked again.

Nothing. The rising dawn light coming from every direction showed the black recess as smooth as the other two. But last night he
had
seen the diagonal scar running down the right-hand rectangle, as sure as his name was Joe Grey. Rolling again, he tried another angle.

“See,” Hanni said, “they're not doing any harm. But, oh boy, wouldn't Marianna flip!”

“You love doing something that would enrage her.”

“She'll never know, as long as they're out before she gets here.”

“She's coming down? This morning?”

“She's in Half Moon Bay—or was, last night. She called me about something, I told her the rug was here. She sounded pretty excited, for ice queen Marianna. Said she'd be down early, that she had some business in the village. One of their rentals, I suppose.” Sullivan had, several years before when the real-estate market was soft, made some excellent investments in Molena Point.

“There, that's the last of it,” Hanni said, smoothing the corner of the rug. Standing, she stepped up to the tiled entry with Ryan for a full view. They could see, even with the three cats sprawled across the rug, that it lay smooth and flat, a perfect fit, a meadow of color as fine as any painting.

“I'd like to roll on it, myself,” Hanni said.

“Go ahead, you earned it. It truly is magnificent. You can—”

Both women turned as a car pulled into the drive. They couldn't see it from the entry, that wall and the door were solid. Hanni, stepping into the bedroom to look through the window, hurried out again. “Get the cats out! Come on Joe Grey, Dulcie. Move it, she's coming.”

Her excited voice would have startled even the dullest cat. But as Joe and Dulcie leaped for the open screen, Marianna, with her usual dispatch, was out of the car and through the front door, her tall, slim figure frozen in the doorway.

The cats, crouched among fallen branches, looked for the kit, but she had vanished. They peered back toward the bright room, where Marianna stood on the landing. She was dressed in a severe black suit, long gold earrings, black stockings, black sandals with four-inch heels. Her eyes were fixed on the fireplace, her expression unbelieving.

Staring back at her from among the freshly split logs, the kit crouched unmoving, her black-and-brown coat hardly visible against the pine bark, but her yellow eyes wide with fear.

Having apparently, in her panic, bolted straight through the mesh curtain, she was trapped. When Marianna approached the firebox, the kit backed deeper, shivering, too frightened to bolt past her and run.

Kit stared
out of the fireplace at the tall, black-suited, spike-heeled blonde with all the fear she would exhibit facing Lucifer himself. And from the woods outside, Joe and Dulcie watched with the same fear of the woman. Even Ryan looked uncertain.

But Hanni moved into the empty silence, laughing. “One little cat, Marianna. Look at her, she couldn't resist your lovely new rug. Your English weavers would say that's good luck, to have a little cat bless their creation.”

Marianna gave Hanni a look that should have reduced her to a grease spot. Hanni took Marianna's hands in her own and tried to ease her down the steps onto the thick, bright rug. Marianna resisted as rigidly as if cast from stone; and Hanni smiled more brightly. “Slip off your sandals, Marianna. Come, sit on it, isn't it a wonder?” Hanni sat down cross-legged on the bright weave. “I am just so thrilled. Tell me you're as pleased as we are.”

“There was not one cat in here, Hanni, there were three. I can't
believe
you would let
cats
into my home to make their messes on a brand-new, hundred-thousand-
dollar, one-of-a-kind handmade rug, to leave filthy fleas, and very likely ticks.”

“We didn't
see
them come in,” Hanni said, smiling. “We didn't see them until just as you pulled into the drive, they can only have been in here for a second while our backs were turned.”

Beyond the screened windows crouched among the forest's foliage, Joe and Dulcie looked at each, laughing at Hanni's chutzpah, but frightened. The kit was still trapped in there, crouched in the firebox staring up at Marianna. From the look in the kit's eyes, Marianna would not be smart to reach into the fireplace meaning to snatch her out and evict her.

As they watched, Ryan knelt, reaching in to the kit. The kit came to her at once. Ryan picked her up, carried her to the long windows, set her through and gave her a little pat, then closed the screen.

Kit was a streak, fleeing to them. Behind her, Hanni laughed. “What harm did she do? Just a pretty little neighborhood cat.”

Pressing between Joe and Dulcie, the kit shivered with the residue of fear, but lashed her tail with anger. “I would have slashed her, I would have bloodied her.” But soon she began to wriggle, to scratch at something in her fur. Turning, she licked her back, fidgeting as if she itched all over.

“What?” Dulcie said. “What did you do?
Did
you pick up a tick? Don't get it on me. Let me have a look.”

“Hard,” the kit said, licking again and spitting something into the dry leaves and pine needles. “Not a tick. Rocks in my fur.”

Joe nosed at the bit of debris that had fallen among the
leaves, and peered closely. He turned it over with his nose, then looked at the kit. “Are there more of these in your fur?
Don't shake them off!
Come out to the drive. Don't spill any! Walk carefully. Hurry, Kit! Come
on!
”

Puzzled but obedient, the kit followed. Joe nudged her to a spot on the drive not visible from the living room, and licked at her fur until he had dislodged three more rough pebbles. On the smooth drive he pawed at them, turning them over until each piece lay with its smooth side up, the surface painted jet black. They were bits of broken cement, each with one smooth surface.

“Did you feel those before you hid in the fireplace?”

The kit shook her whiskers. “No.”

Carefully Joe pawed the fragments onto an oak leaf, and slid that beneath a bush. When he turned to look at them, his yellow eyes burned with excitement. And quickly he moved to Ryan's truck. “Watch for me, Dulcie, in case anyone comes.”

“But you…”

“It's the only phone handy.” Slipping under the truck to the far side, he was up through the window in a second and punching in information. Another minute and he had rung the Coldiron number and was talking with Eby. “This is a neighbor of the Landeaus…”

He peered out once, but the three women were still inside; and Dulcie sat watching the door, the tip of her tail twitching. When he'd finished explaining to Eby Coldiron what needed to be done, he dropped from the window. “Go home, Dulcie. Go call Dallas, I'm afraid to do that from this phone.
He
has caller ID. I'll be along soon.”

She looked at him with suspicion.

“It's safe, trust me. Would I do something foolish?” He brushed his whiskers against hers.

She widened her eyes, and cuffed him. Of course he would do something foolish.

“Tell Garza, if he'll get over to the Coldirons pronto, they'll give him a rug from the Landeau cottage, that it's vital evidence. They're waiting for him. Tell him to look for little bits of concrete with black paint on them, and to check for blood. My guess is, the DNA will match that of Rupert Dannizer. Tell him the rug has been sponged, then doused with wine.”

“You're building a lot on a few little bits of concrete.”

“And a scar on the fireplace. Go on. If Dallas isn't there, talk with Davis.”

“Of course I'll talk with Davis.” But she gave him a whisker kiss, and a nudge for luck. “Come on, Kit, get moving.” And as she and the kit headed at a gallop toward the village and home, Dulcie wondered: with Garza checking on Rupert's lovers, would this call about the fireplace tie in somehow? Would it, she thought shivering, tie in with his ballistics report?

 

Joe was not the most patient of tomcats. Waiting in the bushes by the front door, he kneaded the dry leaves, and scratched his ear. He wanted to yowl at the three women to get on with it, finish their business and leave. But when at last Ryan's truck pulled out, Marianna and Hanni stood in the doorway—not three feet from him, just above the holly leaves—indulging in incredible inanities as both women tried to smooth over their earlier confrontation. Hanni would make amends because
Marianna was her client. Marianna's motive, in being nice, was less clear.

He tensed as Hanni turned to leave, and crouched.

The instant Marianna turned back inside he was through the door behind her like a shadow easing behind the Mexican chest.

He heard Hanni's van start and pull away. He was alone with Marianna Landeau, locked inside the cottage. Any route of escape would take at least a few minutes to accomplish, perhaps under conditions he didn't want to consider. He could hear her rummaging in the bedroom as if she was shifting the clothes in the closet, maybe one of those pointless rearranging orgies to which all women seemed addicted. When he heard her go into the bathroom he strolled through the bedroom door and slipped under the bed, frightening a little spider, wishing someone would dust under there. Didn't she have a cleaning crew?

A light shone under the bathroom door, and the closet door stood open, the big walk-in space all fitted out with sleek white shelves and drawers and zippered garment bags. Absolutely neat. No place in there for a cat to hide. The hanging rods contained minimal wardrobes, his and hers. He supposed if one had three residences, it would be convenient not to cart suitcases back and forth.

The bathroom door opened and Marianna's elegantly sandaled feet appeared inches from his nose, her stiletto heels suggesting formidable weapons. He listened to her rummaging in the closet again, heard a zipper close.

Stepping out, she dropped a small duffel by the bed
room door then crossed the tile entry to the sunken sitting area. He heard her close the long windows and lock them, then she stood at the top of the steps with her back to him, as if admiring the rich new rug.

But then she moved swiftly to the kitchen, returning with one of those little plug-in hand vacs designed for quick cleanup, for those moments when someone scatters coffee grounds or cookie crumbs across the kitchen floor. With the brand-new rug, what was there to clean up? Joe went rigid, watching.

Kneeling before the fireplace, her tight skirt hiked up around her thighs, Marianna slid the mesh curtain back and reached in to vacuum the corners of the firebox behind the clean, stacked logs. Surely removing the same debris that the kit had picked up on her fur.

She did a thorough job, forcing the nozzle into the back corners. But when she returned the little machine to the kitchen, Joe smiled. She'd forgotten something. Retrieving the duffel bag from the bedroom, and shutting the closet door, she jingled her keys and was out of there, locking the front door behind her.

Not until he heard her car pull away, did he come out from under the bed.

First he tossed the bedroom, working open the night table drawers, then the drawers of the television armoire. He checked between the mattresses, poking a wary paw in, then crawling deeper, but he found only lint. Swinging on the closet-door handle, he was in within seconds, leaping at the bank of built-in drawers, gripping and kicking.

Forcing each one open in turn, he pawed carefully through. Dulcie would love Marianna's expensive lace
undies, the silk and satin perfumed with fancy little sachets. The last drawer contained half-a-dozen evening bags and as many compacts, all of them expensive looking. Crouched on the edge of the drawer, Joe frowned. Should he?

Well, why not? What could be more opportune? Pawing half-a-dozen compacts into a quilted evening bag, he snapped closed his prize and carried it in his teeth to the front door. There he began the tedious, paw-bruising, leaping contortions necessary to slide the dead bolt, turn the knob, and escape from his self-made prison.

 

Lashing her tail with amusement, Dulcie pushed the phone back onto its cradle and rolled over on Wilma's bed, her paws in the air, a Cheshire cat-smile lighting her tabby face. Oh, she did enjoy these anonymous phone calls. Dallas had not only assured her that he would drive over to the Coldirons' cottage at once, to pick up the brown shag rug, but he thanked her. He knew as well as she that it was futile to ask her questions.

Though at first, he had argued with her. He said the concrete crumbs in the rug could be simple debris left over when the fireplace was built. Dulcie reminded him that the black recesses had been painted some time after the fireplace was built, and the fragments had black paint on them. Then Garza said that the three sculptures had been installed in those niches only recently, and
that
probably accounted for the black-painted chips. He'd gone silent when Dulcie informed him that the sculptures were fitted with special tension brackets at the back, so they had no need of bolts to hold them in place.

Garza hadn't asked how she knew so much about the sculptures and about the interior of the Landeau cottage. Like Max Harper, Detective Garza had learned that it was useless to ask such questions, that he'd best take what he was offered and run with it. So far these anonymous tips had been 100 percent; both cops knew that. And maybe, she thought, this information might dovetail with lines of investigation that Garza was already pursuing. That would be interesting.

And, she thought rolling over and purring,
this
morning, with
this
phone call, Detective Garza had almost taken orders from her. He had agreed to collect the rug right away, absolutely trusting her, never once making light of her instructions. Oh, she couldn't wait to tell Joe.

 

The quilted evening purse, stuffed with its six compacts, was hellishly heavy. But Joe wasn't willing to jettison even one bit of possible evidence. Why a woman needed a dozen compacts was beyond him. Well, he never claimed to be an authority on female vicissitudes, cat or human. He could track a rabbit through rocky terrain, could dispatch the biggest wharf rat that ever snarled in a cat's face, could leap six feet between rooftops. But he couldn't tell you much about a lady's love of finery. Gripping the quilted bag firmly between determined teeth, he hurried through the bright morning along the less frequented lanes of the village, avoiding passing cars and pedestrians. Dragging the bag up three trees and across innumerable rooftops, he arrived home at last with aching neck muscles and tired jaws.

Crouched on the front porch, he listened to the racket
above him, from the attic, hammers pounding, nails being forced from old wood with tooth-jarring screams, human voices sharp with tension.
“Hold it. There. Back a little. Whoa—Put your level on it. Up…A little more…There! Nail it!”
Above him, the porch roof shook. Sticking his head through his cat door, he looked around the living room.

Empty and safe. The house had that hollow feel that heralded deserted space. Shoving the satin bag in onto the carpet, he followed it, collapsing beside it.

He didn't want to drag it over to the station or to Garza's cottage in the daylight, he'd had enough trouble getting it home without alerting some nosy citizen.
Oh look, what's that cat got? Come here, kitty. Let's have a look…

Right.

He sat contemplating the several options he could employ as a safe hiding place until dark. He considered his battered easy chair that Dulcie and Clyde and several other insensitive folk said resembled the hide of a molting elephant. He had hidden several valuable items in that well-clawed and fur-coated retreat. The purse need remain there only until dark, until he could carry it unseen across the village and slip it into the police station, or maybe into Garza's car—if he didn't rupture a neck muscle, getting it there.

Shoving the little bag between the cushions, he stretched out in front of his chair across an African throw rug, wondering what Clyde had left him for breakfast. And praying that his evidence would nail Marianna Landeau. Praying that Ryan's ordeal was about to be resolved.