Cat Laughing Last (27 page)

“And,” Charlie said tremulously, “I guess I have a literary agent. If I…if I decide to write something more.”

Dulcie glanced at Joe, remembering how frightened Charlie had been when she first learned that her drawings had been accepted by the Aronson Gallery, how nervous she had been before the gallery opening—then how bubbly with excitement when everyone loved her work.

She was just as frightened now. But that didn't matter. Charlie did fine under pressure.

Harper put his arm around her, grinning down at her, then looking around at their gathered friends. “We've set the wedding date—four months from today, then we're off to Alaska. When we get back, maybe I can talk Charlie into supervising Charlie's Fix-It, Clean-It from her studio at the ranch, and spend the rest of her time working on whatever projects she maps out—provided she makes spaghetti once a week, and helps me with the horses.”

Champagne corks were popped, toasts offered up, and the party food was attacked with enthusiasm. A dozen more officers arrived, some with their wives, and most of the librarians who worked with Wilma, and soon other friends began to straggle in. With the party in full swing, people crowding in wall-to-wall, the two cats, having eaten their fill, retired to the bedroom. It was perhaps half an hour later that Clyde appeared to ask Joe's advice. He shut the door behind him.

“You want my advice?” Joe said. “You're asking for my opinion? What's the catch?”

“Just be quiet and listen. Do you always have to be so sarcastic?” Clyde stood scowling down at him. “What would you think, if I didn't sell the house?”

Dulcie mewed softly. But Joe's heart gave a leap as violent as if he'd swallowed a live mouse.

“What would you think if Ryan added a second-story bedroom and office, with a view over the village—so we could see the ocean? And redesigned the backyard into a walled Spanish patio with those outdoor heaters, and a raised barbecue and fireplace?”

“Be okay, I guess,” Joe said noncommittally. He didn't dare glance at Dulcie for fear he'd lose his cool. He wanted to do back flips, to yowl with happiness. “With, say, one of those cupola things on top of the new bedroom, a sort of cat tower? Could she do that?”

“She could do that,” Clyde said. “But of course we'd have to live with a restaurant next door, with all the traffic, and people going in and out.”

“We would,” Joe said carefully, keeping the conversation low-key. He looked hard at Clyde. “Let's give it some thought. Think about our options.” And for the first time, the idea of moving didn't seem like the end of the world. If he had options, and if Clyde was including him in on the decision making, then it wasn't like being thrown out homeless, back into the alleys. For the first time, the various possibilities held such interest for the tomcat that he couldn't help but purr.

Amazing what a difference it made when Clyde softened up a little and asked his advice. Joe felt like he'd fallen right back into his secure and comfortable life, as cozy as his own easy chair. Smiling up at Clyde, and then at Dulcie, he was caught in a warm froth of family sentimentality. “After all,” he told Clyde, “if we did de
cide to move, we have the whole village to choose from.”

Clyde grinned and picked Joe up, setting him on his shoulder, then tucked Dulcie under his arm. “You two did all right with the Traynor case. That phone call to Adele McElroy was, I have to say, a stroke of genius.”

He looked down at Joe. “I don't want to know how you knew about her, or how you two softened Max Harper up to the point of allowing you in the station. The dispatchers seem quite taken with Dulcie.

“And Harper doesn't want to know, ever,” Clyde said, “why there were gray and white cat hairs in the window of the Pumpkin Coach, among the broken glass.” And he headed back for the party, dropping the cats on the couch beside Charlie. Harper, sitting close to her, turned to look at the cats, his expression stern and withdrawn—but there was, deep in the captain's eyes, something uneasy, something questioning.

Joe looked back at Harper as blankly as he could manage, and kneaded Charlie's knee, keeping his claws in. Charlie looked down at him, her eyes filled with amusement, and reached over him to hold Max's hand. And Joe thought, no matter how many thieves and deadbeats there were in the world, there were far more good folks. No matter how many tarty little murderers like Vivi Traynor, with her frozen cherries and her giggles, there were many more humans who were totally okay, folks a cat could count on.

All a cat had to do was right a few wrongs when he could, ignore the human transgressions he couldn't change, love his true friends, and always, always have the last laugh.