Cat Breaking Free (15 page)

“What's wrong? Is there…Clyde, where's Rock? I brought him…Is he all right? Did you get my message?”

“He's in the backyard where you left him.”

She stared at him. “What's he done? What are you mad about?”

There was a long silence. Clyde stood frowning. She stared at him, and began to laugh. “You're mad! Mad because I…” She pushed past him into the room, and turned to look at him. She took his hand and, against his mild resistance, led him to the couch, pulled him down to sit beside her. She was still holding his hand.

“Listen to me, Clyde. I met Roman Slayter for dinner because he said he had some kind of evidence about the jewel burglary. He called and called.”

“Right.”

“Just listen…”

From the kitchen, Joe Grey listened, too. Having slipped back inside through the dog door, he'd slid it shut in Rock's face, had left Rock outside pawing and scratching at the plywood. Joe stood in the kitchen, engrossed in Clyde's anger and Ryan's amusement, and in her explanation of why she'd agreed to have dinner with Slayter. He was heartened that she'd left the
restaurant in a rage before dinner was served. Surely Clyde would be pleased at that.

When Ryan repeated Slayter's “information” about Chichi, Clyde played dumb, as if Chichi's stealthy behavior was news to him—as it should be. They made up with a lot of mushy talk that embarrassed Joe, then Clyde opened a bottle of Chablis and made Ryan a grilled shrimp sandwich that was, she said, far superior to Binnie's linguini. They let Rock in before he tore up the door; and Joe went up to his tower and curled down among the cushions, leaving the lovebirds alone. Below him the house was quiet, except for the romantic forties music that Clyde had loaded onto the CD player. Joe must have been asleep when Ryan and Rock left, he didn't hear her truck pull away.

 

About the same time that Ryan left Binnie's so abruptly, abandoning her dinner, Lucinda Greenlaw called Charlie. Charlie and Wilma were tucked up by the fire in the Harpers' new living room, with Dulcie and the kit, having had an early dinner before Max went back to the station.

“We've found a house,” Lucinda said, her voice bright with excitement. “We waited to call until our offer was accepted. Tell Kit…Is Max there…? Could I…”

“Max is at work,” Charlie said, laughing. “You can talk to Kit. She's all over me, pawing at the phone.” Kit had sprung to her lap and was rearing up, paws on Charlie's shoulder, pressing her ear to the phone, her long, fluffy tail lashing. She was so excited that when
Charlie turned the speaker on, she yowled twice like a little wild cat before she could get a word out. “A house, Lucinda? A house! What kind of house! Does it have a tower like Joe Grey's? Is it near Dulcie's? With a big garden and trees and a window seat with pillows and a nice fireplace and…?”

“Stop, Kit! Stop and listen! Window seats, yes. Trees and a tangle of garden just the way you like. There's no tower but it does have a surprise…”

“What surprise, Lucinda? What?”

“Would it be a surprise if I told you? You'll have to wait and see. Of course there's a fireplace. You'll love this house. We'll pick you up first thing in the morning, seven-thirty, have breakfast in the village, then meet the Realtor at nine. Oh, Kit, we can hardly wait for you to see it.”

Kit was purring so loud that it was hard for Charlie to get a word in. “Shhh, Kit.” She stroked the excited tortoiseshell. “Lucinda, have breakfast here! A mushroom omelet and fresh mangoes?”

“That sounds wonderful, Charlie, but that's way too early to be entertaining company.”

“No it isn't. You're not company, you're family. Ryan's bringing the girls, to ride. They can help me before they saddle their horses.”

When Lucinda said they'd come, Charlie clicked the phone off, and looked into Kit's wide, yellow eyes. The little cat was seething with anticipation, so wired that Charlie thought she'd fly apart. It took a long time for Kit to settle down again and to resume telling the story she had begun.

Charlie felt certain that Kit's early life, with a judicious retelling to remove the little cat's unusual talents,
could be a wonderful book—if she could do the story justice. Wilma had read the first five chapters, which were in rough draft, and she thought the story was as compelling and as real as
Watership Down
. Charlie knew it was foolhardy to ask the opinion of one's friends when it came to creative matters, whether to the written word or to a painting. But Wilma was, after all, a well-read librarian with a keen perception of what her own readers loved. The fact that both Wilma, and Charlie's agent, were excited about the beginning chapters had left Charlie amazed and even more eager to write the finest book she could. Life was, indeed, full of wonders.

Now, long after Max got home and they were tucked up in bed, and both cats were settled in with Wilma in Charlie's studio, Charlie lay awake, filled with too many thoughts to find sleep. The fire in the master bedroom had burned to coals, and still she lay thinking about the book and about the pictures she was doing for it; seeing the newest drawing clearly, as she liked to do before she began it. Beside her, Max tossed restlessly. Even in sleep, his mind would be busy with police matters.

She thought about the jewel theft and the increasing complexity of the suspects; profiles that Max and Dallas had put together. About their growing suspicion of a larger scenario, perhaps a dozen burglaries to hit the village at one time. Though she tried never to succumb to fear, the more she learned about this little nondescript Luis Rivas and his men, the more uneasy she felt. She turned over, shivering, pressing close to Max, clinging to the comforting sense of his goodness and strong capability. He and Dallas and Davis had the sit
uation well under control, she told herself, or they soon would have.

But still the worries were there, silly, disjointed fears about matters that probably meant nothing, like Ryan's dinner with Roman Slayter and his accusation of Clyde's neighbor.

Ryan had called her when she left the restaurant, so mad she could hardly talk. Charlie lay puzzling over what Slayter had told Ryan, puzzling over Slayter's arrival in the village at just this time, as well as Chichi's sudden appearance right next door to Clyde. And she began to wonder why Max had received no anonymous phone tips on this case.

Still, though, Max and Dallas were gathering information and biding their time, waiting for more police files to come in from L.A. So maybe Joe and Dulcie were doing that, too.

She was smiling to herself in the dark, thinking about two little cats wandering the station, pawing through reports, tucking away sensitive facts, when she heard, in the still night, one of the cats in the kitchen crunching kibble.

That would be the kit, she thought, grinning. In a little while, she saw the little cat's shadow prowling the patio, restlessly stalking, her long, fluffy tail twitching. Was Kit, too, thinking about the jewel robbery? More likely, about the new house. Charlie thought about the amazing accident that had brought Kit here, to the Greenlaws. That wild band had never before, in Kit's lifetime, traveled this far north. What had drawn the clowder to Hellhag Hill, and drawn the Greenlaws to picnic there? Surely that had been a wonderfully happy accident. Or had it been more than an accident?

That meeting between Kit and the Greenlaws, then Charlie herself moving to Molena Point, had resulted in Charlie's book in progress. Serendipity? A happy accident? Or a gift of grace? A gift she would do her best to honor.

Snuggled close to Max, Charlie promised herself that she would produce, in this book, the best work she could create, an adventure to touch the heart of every reader. She lay smiling, lost again in the story—and the next thing she knew the alarm was buzzing and she was out of bed before she came fully awake. Pulling on her jeans and sweatshirt and boots, she went to feed the horses and dogs and then to start breakfast.

P
icking up the two girls again the next morning, Ryan
headed straight for the ranch, no stopping this morning for breakfast; she and Rock had shared a bowl of cereal; though he'd had his dog food to himself. She wanted to get the upstairs dried in before any chance of rain. Early spring on the central coast could be temperamental, California wasn't all sunshine and warm beaches. The roughing in was finished, the roof raised and the new studs in place. Today they would get the exterior sheeting and roof sheeting on. The flooring was being delivered this morning, too, and the drywall, all of which needed to be stacked under cover before bad weather hit. When she stopped for the girls, they climbed in the back seat sleepy and quiet; they were silent until, in the center of the village, Dillon came alert, suddenly glued to the window.

“There she is again!” They were passing a small café patio that was half filled with early breakfast customers. “What does she do, at the crack of dawn? For hours, like that? Looking up and down the street and
writing things down. She's spying on someone. How long's she been sitting there?”

Ryan glanced in her rearview mirror. “What?'

“That same blonde,” Dillon said, “that lives next door to Clyde, that bimbo who was all over him yesterday when we pulled up at his house. Who is she?”

“That cheap blonde with the tight sweaters and big boobs,” Lori specified.

Ryan glanced at Lori, amused, and turned off Ocean up the highway, heading for the Harper place.

“We've seen her four times,” Lori said, “sitting in different restaurants early in the morning. For hours, alone, watching the street. Writing something in a notebook. She's never eating, just coffee. How much coffee can a person drink?”

“Hours, Lori? How would you know that?'

“We've been taking the dogs to the beach,” Lori said. “Susan Brittain's dogs.” Susan was one of the four senior ladies Lori had lived with since her father went to prison. Lori loved the standard poodle and the Dalmatian, and got along well with them. “I don't like that woman, she's a tramp.”

Ryan gave her a stern look in the mirror, trying not to laugh.

“Well, she is. She's there when we go down, real early before school, and she's there when we come back. Once was later, Saturday. We were in the library.” She glanced at Dillon, who grinned sheepishly.

Dillon's current English teacher was assigning long, detailed papers, and would not let the kids go online to do their research. It had to be from books, with the sources properly noted, all footnotes in correct form—and no adult help.

Dillon had never worked this way, she said all the kids complained. Two dozen parents were so angry they were trying to get the teacher fired. But a dozen more applauded her. Dillon found the new method very hard and demanding. She didn't care, at the moment, that the training would put her in the top ranks when applying for college. She didn't care that she was learning to do far more thorough and accurate research than anyone could ever do online, or that you couldn't do adequate college work without those basics. But while Dillon wasn't happy with the assignments, Lori was having a ball.

Two years younger, Lori tried not to be smug that she knew her way among the reference books. Before Lori's mother died, she'd often taken Lori to work with her in the library, and had often let her help with reference projects.

No one had said Dillon couldn't have help from a younger child. Surely her teacher had never imagined that a twelve-year-old would have those skills. And while Lori was hugely enjoying the challenge, and Dillon was learning, the situation deeply embarrassed the older girl.

Below the highway, the sea gleamed in the brightening morning, the little waves flashing silver up at them. The tide was in, the surf pounding high against the black rocks, the smell of the sea sharp with salt and iodine and little dead sea-creatures. Ryan glanced at the girls. “So what do you think she was watching?”

Dillon shrugged. “Hard to tell. I didn't see anything very interesting. A man from the shop across the street watering his garden. Cars creeping by. Couple of tourists walking their dogs.”

“Which shop, Dillon?”

“That posh leather one,” Lori said. “With the Gucci bags.”

“And the other times?”

“Dormeyer's Jewelry once,” Lori said. “When we took the dogs down before supper, and were coming home. Sunday night, gray-haired man closing up, locking the door.”

“That was Mr. Dormeyer,” Dillon said. “He owns the shop.”

“Was anyone with him?” Ryan asked. “His wife?”

“A woman left about an hour before,” Lori said. “Gray hair, a long skirt and sandals. He left last, locked the door.”

Ryan nodded. Gray-haired Mena Dormeyer usually wore long, flowered skirts, and sandals, even on cold winter days, varying her wardrobe only with a heavy, hand-knit sweater. And maybe with wool tights under the skirt, she thought. She slowed for a car to pass in the opposite direction, then turned left onto the Harpers' lane. Moving slowly between the white pasture fences, approaching the barn, she studied the new end walls of the second story, their skeletons pale in the early light. The side walls had been stripped of the old roofing shingles but were still covered with age-darkened plywood. Scotty's truck was parked in the yard. She caught a flash of his red hair and beard as he disappeared around the back of the barn, where they had stashed their ladders and equipment out of the way of the horses. Parking the truck, she watched the girls head into the house to get permission before they saddled the horses.

Ordinarily, Dillon would have been welcome to
work on the construction, doing odd jobs, but Ryan didn't want her on the second floor, balancing on open joists. Dillon's work permit spelled out clearly the safety precautions Ryan would take. Ryan had not only signed the agreement but had of course promised Dillon's parents that she would be closely supervised. This was not medieval England, where a fourteen-year-old was expected to do adult work and was paid a bit of stale bread and a lump of coal.

Swinging out of the truck, she gave Rock his command to jump out behind her; and as the girls hurried out, she headed for the barn.

She was up on the beams when the Greenlaws' car pulled in. They were gone again when, at midmorning, she went in to have coffee with Charlie and Wilma. Sitting at the kitchen table, she mentioned the two girls watching Chichi and commenting on Chichi's early-morning vigils. On the window seat, Wilma's tabby cat lay stretched among the pillows, next to Wilma's overnight bag. Like a patient traveler waiting to depart, Ryan thought, amused. Wilma was going home this morning, after several days' pampering, but how could the cat know? The familiarity of the overnight bag? Knowing that where it went, Wilma went? That had to be the explanation.

Though this cat often gave Ryan a sense of the unreal. All three cats did. Well, but cats were strange little creatures, she didn't understand cats.

Yet even Rock seemed to view these particular cats in a strange way. With unusual respect? Yes, that was it. And often with a puzzled look that seemed almost to be amazement.

Maybe the cats had clawed Rock at some time, had put him in his place, and he was unusually wary of them. Rock was, after all, a very big dog. He was daunting to most cats, so maybe it surprised him that these three would stand up to him—as they surely had, in the beginning. Now they were the best of friends.

“But what do you think she was doing, what was she watching?” Wilma said.

“Chichi?” Ryan shook her head. “I haven't a clue.” She grinned. “The girls decided she was spying on the shopkeepers. Leave it to kids to find the most dramatic spin.”

Charlie said, “Maybe what Slayter told you wasn't so far off, what he said when you had dinner with him last night—or started to have dinner.”

When Wilma looked inquisitive, Ryan told her what Slayter had said about Chichi running from the scene of the burglary. “That could be a figment of his imagination,” she said carefully. “Or could be a lie—Slayter's the kind who would lie for no good reason, just to entertain himself.” She glanced out the window, saw that Scotty was back at work carrying two-by-fours up the ladder, and she rose, hurrying out.

She was on the roof again when Charlie and Wilma came out, Charlie carrying Wilma's overnight bag. She watched Wilma's cat gallop by them, heading straight for Charlie's SUV. The minute Charlie opened the door, the cat leaped up onto the seat in what, Ryan was certain, was surely not normal feline behavior.

But then, what did she know? Maybe cats
were
as smart as dogs.

 

The kit, full of Charlie's lovely mushroom omelet and warm milk, prowled the empty house ahead of Lucinda and Pedric, far too impatient to give the old couple a chance to show her around. Leaping to every sill to look out, nosing into every corner lashing her tail with interest, leaping atop every bookshelf catching cobwebs in her whiskers, she decided she liked this house. Liked it quite a lot.

The two-story dwelling was on such a steep hill that, even after the Greenlaws had made their offer and given the agent a check, the conscientious agent was uncertain about the old couple living on such a slope. But to Lucinda and Pedric, the house was perfect.

The high rafters of the great room filled Kit with delight as she leaped from one to the next. But where was the surprise? She could not ask in front of the real estate agent. Even if Mrs. Thurwell was a friend, she didn't know Kit's secret. The old couple had chosen her because she was Dillon's mother, and had decided to work with her exclusively because she was a quiet, sensible agent who didn't push. Who had, during all their weeks of searching, left them alone to prowl each house as they pleased, without comment. Unless of course, they asked a question. Neither one of the Greenlaws could abide a pushy Realtor, and neither could Kit.

Now, even though she must remain mute, she raced about eagerly looking, her tail lashing, drawing Lucinda's frown because she was not behaving like a normal cat, making Mrs. Thurwell glance at her, puzzled.

“She's always been like that,” Lucinda said. “As hyper as a terrier. The vet says she has a thyroid problem.
Makes her wild. We worry about her, we keep hoping she'll settle down. She's such a dear, when she's quiet. But anything new sets her off—new people, new places…”

Lucinda laughed, as guileless as a cat herself. “I guess everyone thinks their pet is special. Do you have figures on the utility costs?”

Managing to divert Mrs. Thurwell, going over the utility figures and then leading the slim brunette into the kitchen to discuss the dishwasher, Lucinda freed the kit—and freed Pedric to lead Kit to a dining room window and open the latched shutters.

Leaping up to the sill of the open window, Kit looked and looked, then she turned to look at Pedric. The thin old man held his finger to his lips. Kit stared at him, then sailed out the window into the oak tree—into a realm that took her breath. Into a little house right among the tall branches. This was the surprise! A little house, hugged within the branches of the oak.

Scorching from the branch in through a small, open door, Kit was beyond speech. Lucinda and Pedric had never hinted that there was a tree house! She looked back to the window, to Pedric. Her tall, wrinkled friend grinned, his eyes sparkling. “It's yours,” he whispered, mouthing the words. “Yours, Kit.”

Oh, the wonder!

Joe Grey had a tower on his roof but
she
had a tree house! A tree house sturdily made of thick cedar boards, a beautiful tree house with its own little deck and door and windows. She imagined beautiful India cushions inside, a tumble of pillows in which to snuggle; it was a retreat far cozier and more elegant even than Joe Grey's wonderful tower.

At the moment, there was a lovely pile of dry oak leaves that had blown into the corner. Flopping among them she rolled and wriggled, lay upside down purring, looking up at her own raftered ceiling. She prowled her own deck, sniffing the salty sea wind and looking away to the hills where scattered cottages rose, half hidden among pines and oaks. She looked down to the south, to Wilma's house, and could see Wilma's roof! When she looked to the center of the village, she could pick out Joe Grey's tower. She looked through the branches down into the window of the dining room where Pedric stood looking up at her, his eyes bright, his wrinkles curved with pleasure. “Yours,” he mouthed again. He turned away as Mrs. Thurwell joined him.