Cat Laughing Last (9 page)

“Because now that the play is about to be produced, everyone has a script. All of a sudden, more people know about the letters.”

Joe wasn't convinced but he helped her search for some old, frail letter written in Spanish, trying the desks and file cabinets and the rolltop desk which looked like a good place to hide valuables. All its drawers were locked with heavy, old-fashioned brass locks that wouldn't budge.

And later, when Dulcie asked Wilma's opinion, Wilma said, “I've always supposed the letters didn't survive. Or maybe that some collector had them tucked away. I've never given them much thought.” She looked at Dulcie as doubtfully as Joe Grey had done, as if Dulcie was way off base on this one.

But then Joe and Dulcie caught Charlie snooping through Elliott Traynor's desk, something they'd never dreamed that Charlie would do. Spying was a cat's prerogative, but there was Charlie brazenly prying, shocking the cats with her nosiness and delighting them—and soon, both Charlie and Ryan Flannery would add tinder to the fires of their sharp curiosity.

I
n the
velvet evening, Mexican music beat brassy and sweet, and the aroma of chilies and roasted meats floated on the cool air, enticing Joe Grey and Dulcie as they trotted along behind their human friends. Licking their whiskers at the good smells, the two cats tried not to draw attention to themselves. But the kit raced boldly ahead, brushing past Charlie's ankles and between Max Harper's feet with no thought to keeping a low profile. Charlie glanced down at her once, grinning, and reached down to stroke her. Walking between Max Harper and Clyde, Charlie moved together with Harper as if their thoughts, their very spirits were in perfect sync.

Lovers, Dulcie thought, watching them. Or soon to be lovers. You could always tell, in the beginning. And that made her feel sad for Clyde, made her wish Clyde and Kate would work out their differences, wish that Kate would come home, that she would get serious about Clyde and move back to the village. Clyde seemed so—unfinished, Dulcie thought. She knew, with typical female logic, that it was time Clyde Damen got married.

Though apparently Joe didn't think so. Why must he always know her thoughts? Beside her, he flicked a whisker with annoyance, his yellow eyes burning, his look saying clearly,
Leave it alone, Dulcie. Leave Clyde alone, quit matchmaking.
Joe said when she was matchmaking, her tail flicked in a certain way. Well, he wasn't any help, he did nothing to nudge Clyde along. For all of Joe Grey's input, Clyde could stay a bachelor forever.

Only, sometimes she did catch an irritated and speculative look in Joe's eyes that made her wonder what he and Clyde talked about, in private. Made her wonder if, alone with Clyde, Joe hassled him to get married more than she imagined. Maybe, she thought, amused, Joe didn't want her to catch him matchmaking.

When Clyde and Charlie and Harper entered the patio of Lupe's Playa, moving in through the wrought-iron gate, the kit barged in right between their feet—until Dulcie snaked out a swift paw and snatched her back, hissing at her and then purring and licking her ear.

Chastened, the kit followed Dulcie and Joe away from the entry and around behind the restaurant and up a bougainvillea vine to the top of the high patio wall. Padding along above the diners' heads, the three cats slipped into a mass of purple blossoms where they were well concealed yet had a fine view of Lupe's Playa. Below them, at Harper's usual table, Detective Garza and his slim, dark-haired niece were already seated.

The patio was softly lighted by colored oil lamps that hung from the branches of three giant oak trees around which the tables were clustered. From the
eaves of the building hung bright piñatas and Mexican flags. The restaurant itself, with its bright dining rooms, flanked two sides of the terrace, the lighted windows revealing more crowded tables and happy, laughing diners. Lupe's Playa was the pièce de résistance for fine Mexican food, a four-star winner, Harper and Clyde said. Both men were authorities, their appraisal of Mexican cuisine a serious avocation.

In their rodeo days, Max Harper and Clyde had frequented every good Mexican café between Portland and San Diego, and inland to the Nevada border. Both could describe in detail the specific virtues of an excellent chili relleño or an enchilada ranchero; both would turn up their noses at ground beef as a filling; both could name the painstaking steps in the proper preparation of tamales, a process that, when correctly done, took three days, from the soaking and roasting of the corn to the drying of the husks and the final rolling of the tamales.

Garza and his niece sat with their backs to the wall, unaware of the three cats hidden in the vines above them. The cats' view of Ryan was the top of her head, her dark curly hair tousled and windblown. She was dressed in jeans and a pale blue T-shirt with no cutesy logos emblazoned on it. Was she reading Garza off, or only laying out her troubles? Whichever, this lady had a hot temper.

“This is not a simple quarrel! I'm not going back to him. I'm not staying with a man I don't trust or respect.” She shifted in her chair, looking at Dallas more directly, her green eyes blazing beneath thick black lashes.

Garza was grinning. “Don't lay your anger on me—I couldn't be happier. You should have done this years ago.”

“I have an appointment tomorrow morning with the attorney Max Harper recommended. Thanks for talking to him.” She sipped her beer. “I want to get the divorce started, get my contractor's license—and my half of the value of the business. In a few months, I'll be running my new company. R. Flannery Construction.” She laid her hand on his. “I want to get into a place of my own, lick my wounds alone. Does that disappoint you?”

“Of course it doesn't. You're in the village, we can have dinner, run the dogs when I bring them down—go hunting this fall without Rupert pitching a fit.” He patted her hand. “Just glad to have you near, honey. Glad to see you free of him.”

“An apartment with good storage space,” Ryan said. “Have to buy all new equipment, power tools, ladders, wheelbarrows, you name it. Have to do some advertising—to say nothing of hiring. Besides the job in San Anselmo, I have a couple of other nibbles, contacts from San Francisco. One of our—of Rupert's—clients wants me to build a small vacation cottage down here. They bought a lot last year, a teardown.”

“So you're not only going to fight Rupert for your half of the business, you're going to steal the firm's clients.”

“I don't consider it stealing, if they come to me. None of them was happy with Rupert, with his attitude.”

“I have to say, you came away armed. Armed for what, time will tell.”

“Don't be a cop, Dallas. I'll work it out.”

Garza stood up as Clyde and Charlie and Harper approached. Harper pulled out a chair for Charlie; but as the three were seated, Joe nudged Dulcie. She followed his gaze across the patio, where Vivi and Elliott Traynor had just appeared, waiting for a table.

Vivi looked incredibly small and thin next to Elliott, who seemed twice her size. He was a handsome man, with well-styled silver hair, dressed in a suede leather sport coat and pale slacks, a man who looked used to living well. Vivi, in her black tights and black sweater and wildly frizzy hair, looked like something he might have picked up south of town.

Glancing around the patio, Vivi began to fidget as if she should not have to wait to be seated. When she spotted their table she did a comic double take, turned her back to the party, and grabbed Elliott's arm, dragging him toward the door. Looking surprised, Traynor followed her. When the maître d' turned back to them, they were gone.

Ryan sat very still, staring after them. “Why did they turn away? She spotted us, and spun around like she'd been scalded.”

“I told you the Traynors were here,” Garza said. “She was looking straight at you.” He studied his niece. “Something happen in San Francisco? I thought you hardly knew them, that you'd met them only once. Some business dinner?”

“Rupert and I had dinner with them one evening, with friends. Then Rupert insisted we take them out. We did, but I didn't especially enjoy it. Though I can't think of anything that would make them avoid me.

“Unless…” Ryan colored. “Unless she and Rupert…”

Garza's expression didn't change.

“Dinner was—well, both evenings were pleasant enough, really. But Rupert was fidgety and rude because he had to listen to details about Elliott's play. He thought Elliott was totally egocentric. I didn't think so, I liked him, he's a charming man. He'd been making arrangements with Molena Point Players, someone down here was doing the music and lyrics. Mark King?”

“Yes,” Charlie said. “Mark King.”

“He talked about his historical trilogy, too,” Ryan said. “It was interesting. But Rupert…Well,” she said slowly, “Rupert did spend a good deal of time talking with Vivi.” She went a shade paler, lowering her gaze.

Charlie looked across at Ryan. “Elliott Traynor's play—isn't it based on the same historical material as his last three novels?” Under the table, Charlie and Harper were holding hands. Only the cats could see them, from the angle of the wall. The kit's tail twitched with merriment.

“Yes,” Ryan said. “He seems totally caught up in early California history. But the material of the novels is different. The play centers around Catalina Ortega-Diaz and her love story.”

“My aunt Wilma supplied some of the research for the books,” Charlie said, “as well as for the play, from the library's local history collection and from the records kept at the mission.”

“I haven't read the trilogy,” Ryan said. “But Traynor told us the true story of the play. Catalina was the daughter of a wealthy Spanish ranchero—this would
be somewhere in the eighteen fifties, when the rancheros began to mortgage parcels of their land to buy luxuries—silks, crystal, golden goblets brought over by ship from Europe. Apparently they and their families lived pretty high, enjoyed life day to day and really didn't take the mortgages seriously. Didn't think the notes would ever be called in.

“The heart of the play is the effect of this on Catalina's life. When the notes were foreclosed and the merchants started taking over the land, some of the rancheros went bankrupt, Catalina's father included. Well, I didn't mean to lay out the whole story.”

“Go on,” Charlie said. “Don't leave us hanging.”

Ryan smiled. “Along comes a wealthy American named Stanton, offering to pay off Ortega-Diaz's debts in exchange for his land—and for Catalina's hand. Keep the ranch in the family. He promised Diaz that he could stay there in his own home and live well. It was the answer to the ranchero's prayer.

“But Catalina was in love with someone else,” Ryan said. “When she refused to marry Stanton, her father locked her in her room, fed her on bread and water. According to Traynor, she finally gave in. Though she married Stanton and bore his children and made a respectable life, she wrote letters to her lost love until she died.

“No one knows how many of the letters she sent. According to Traynor, she hid many of them in her chambers—rather like a secret journal. The way Traynor described it, the whole thrust of the play is on the letters between Catalina and Marcos Romero—her songs are the letters. Traynor tells the story so beautifully. I was fascinated. But Vivi seemed annoyed that
he talked so much about the play; she seemed as bored as Rupert.”

Charlie laughed. “I know how she is. I work for them, I do their cleaning. Vivi can be…off-putting.”

“I liked Elliott,” Ryan said. “He's a fiery man, but he seemed kind. I think he could be kind—without Vivi.”

From atop the brick wall, Dulcie watched the two women, thinking that they hit it off very well. They seemed about the same age, and certainly they agreed about Vivi—but then, who wouldn't?

When the waiter came with their menus, the conversation died. From the wall, the three cats peered over, considering the selections and what they might be able to cadge. That was when Clyde spotted them, when the kit thrust her nose out to see better. Everyone looked; no one laughed. Detective Garza seemed to find their presence amusing. “That gray tomcat gets around, Damen. I never saw a cat quite so—with so much presence. He's almost like a dog.”

The tomcat thought of several things he'd like to tell Detective Garza, none of them polite.

Clyde shifted his chair so his back was to the cats, disclaiming all responsibility for their presence; but he included in his order a selection of their favorites on a paper plate: chicken fajitas with jack cheese and sour cream. The egg-and-batter portion of a chili relleño, with mild sauce. And a cup of flan, for the kit. Ryan appeared as entertained as Garza; she kept glancing up at the three cats, as if watching for further developments.

When the orders came and Clyde placed the paper plate on the wall, the cats feasted, Joe and Dulcie eating in silence and neatly licking their whiskers, the kit guzzling loudly and enthusiastically, smearing flan
from her whiskers to her ears. She received amused glances from several tables.

The village was used to dogs in their restaurant patios, but companion cats were another matter, though most of the villagers knew Clyde Damen's odd preference for the gray tomcat. This was a community of writers and artists and of people rich enough or confident enough to be as eccentric as they liked—if Damen wanted to bring his cats to dinner, that was fine.

But Dallas was asking Charlie about the apartment she had for rent. “Max told me it was a duplex?”

“Yes, both sides of a duplex.” She looked at Ryan. “One is a studio, double garage underneath. The other has one bedroom, same garage arrangement.”

“I'd like to see the studio,” Ryan said. “Would you mind my keeping construction equipment there?”

“Not at all. It's a perfect arrangement. After dinner, you want to take a look?”

“Love to.”

“So would I,” said Clyde. “I haven't seen it since you painted and fixed it up.”

“We're not finished with the larger one,” Charlie said, watching him with interest. “Mavity's helping me. The studio side is done.”

“I'd like to see the one-bedroom,” Clyde said. “We're—I'm thinking of taking that offer for the house, since they built the wall of China behind me.”

Joe and Dulcie exchanged a look.

“What about your own apartment building?” Charlie said.

“Those are all one-year leases, Charlie, with options to renew. You were there when I rented those units, you were still working on the outside of the building.”

Charlie tried to look at him seriously, but the cats saw a sly grin creep across her freckled face, as if she could read Clyde too well. Her look seemed a mixture of jealousy, levity, and honest pleasure and relief.

How complicated humans were, Dulcie thought. A she-cat would either turn away uninterested, or would leap on her rival spitting and clawing.