Cat Playing Cupid (2 page)

“Just our luck,” Dallas said, startling the tomcat. “If Mike does take the case, some troublemaker claims that because Mike dated Lindsey, any current investigation is unethical—if it comes to a full investigation,” he said, easing a sheaf of papers out from under Joe. “But, hell, what are the odds that that's Chappell, up there in Oregon?

“Anyway,” he muttered, as he scanned and then signed a stack of routine forms, “that was nearly ten years ago. And Mike isn't a member of the department, this is contract work.” He looked at Joe, his square Latino face thoughtful. “Let Mike run with it. Who knows what he'll find?”

Who knows what'll happen?
Joe thought. And then the
tomcat, watching the detective, caught a glimpse of something else besides concern for departmental policy. Did he see a spark of jealousy in those dark Latino eyes? A surge of macho competitiveness over Lindsey Wolf?

“I can't clear up this mess with you on top of it,” Dallas said. Lifting Joe, he set him down at the end of the desk, determined to clean up his paperwork.
Free up the coming weekend so he could enjoy Ryan's wedding,
Joe thought,
without a cluttered desk waiting for him.

“This wedding better go smoothly,” Dallas said, almost as if he could read Joe's mind. “We don't need to call in the bomb squad.” And that wasn't a joke, the tomcat knew too well. Just a year ago a bomb explosion had created a near disaster at the wedding of the police chief, the church nearly demolished and several people injured minutes before the guests would have filed in.

A lucky, anonymous tip had averted calamity, had probably prevented a mass murder—a tip that Dallas and the chief still wondered about, the tomcat thought, smiling.

“But no one,” Dallas said, “has a grudge against Ryan or Clyde, not the way a few scum would like to seriously damage anyone in law enforcement.” Ryan and Clyde weren't cops, but still…Ryan was like Dallas's daughter, and Clyde was a close friend to many in the department.

Praying that Dallas was right, that nothing ugly
would
happen, Joe looked up at the detective, purring companionably.

“No,” Dallas said, pummeling Joe as if he were a dog, until Joe hissed a warning and Dallas withdrew his hand.
“Sorry,” he said. Then, “No, nothing bad is going to happen. This will be a quiet, happy wedding—low key, just as Ryan and Clyde want. The department would take apart anyone who tried to make it otherwise, anyone who tried to harm those two.”

I
NDEED, ON THE
day of the wedding there was no bomb threat, no threat of any kind, the casual but smoothly planned ceremony proceeded in a sunny manner quite in keeping with the hopes of the edgy bride and nervous groom—though a dead body had been reported.

The information was relayed to Charlie Harper, wife of police chief Max Harper, the day before the wedding.

A hidden grave had been accidentally uncovered not three miles from the Harpers' home, where Clyde and Ryan were to be married.

Charlie got the word from a friend, but she didn't tell Max about it. She had no intention of telling him, not before the wedding and not afterward. On the happy day, long after the wedding cake was demolished, the sentimental tears were all wiped away, and the euphoric couple had been sent off for a two-week honeymoon in California's wine country, still Charlie didn't tell Max that an unidentified body had been found in his jurisdiction.

Not only was it against the law to withhold such information from the police, it was against Charlie's principles to lie, even by omission, to the one man she loved in all the world.

But this one time, she had no choice. She couldn't tell him about the corpse. There was no logical way she could know about the hidden grave. None of their friends would have been up to the ruins that weekend, to discover it and tell her. Certainly she couldn't tell Max she'd learned about the grave through an anonymous phone call, because any anonymous call would point directly to one of Max's three unidentified informants.

She wouldn't put those three in further jeopardy, they already had enough trouble keeping their secret. Anyway, why would one of the department's regular informants be up there in that isolated location? And why would they call Charlie instead of calling the department directly, as they usually did?

Nor could she tell Max she'd stumbled on the grave herself. She had no reason to be wandering up there among those fallen walls where she had, not long ago, shot and killed a man in self-defense. Max knew she avoided the ruins. And it would be way too bizarre to think she'd slipped away to the old estate just before the wedding, in the middle of cleaning house and fixing special dishes for the buffet, or to think that, on the morning of the wedding, she'd saddled her mare and ridden up there when she should have been filling the coffee urn, icing the champagne, and laying out her good linen tablecloths on the extended kitchen and patio tables.

All during the weekend of the wedding and afterward,
while keeping her secret, Charlie tried to work out a scenario that would seem plausible to Max and yet would inform the department of the unknown grave. The wedding was held on the fourteenth day of February, a Sunday, at precisely eleven
A.M
. The couple had chosen Valentine's Day only after the weather forecaster solemnly promised that it would be clear and fine.

The day turned out exactly so—a bright morning but cool, the sea breeze cool and fresh, the sky spreading a deep blue backdrop to the masses of white clouds that had piled to heavenly heights above the blue Pacific. The bride wore red, not so much in honor of St. Valentine as because she liked red. Her tailored suit, a muted tomato shade as soft as the spring roses she carried, complemented perfectly her high brunette coloring, her short dark hair, and her intense green eyes.

The groom was dressed in the first suit he'd owned in more years than he cared to count; he'd chosen a pale tan gabardine that would dress down easily to their casual lifestyle. Nor was the happy couple married in the Catholic Church as one might expect of Ryan Flannery's Irish-Latino heritage. The ceremony took place not on their own patio, as they had at first imagined, but on the wide hilltop terrace of the Max Harper ranch. Besides twenty-some close civilian friends in attendance were as many of Molena Point's finest as could be absent from the department at one time without encouraging an untoward outbreak of crime in the small village. The couple had chosen a weekend without any local festivals, golf tournaments, or antique-car exhibits, any of which would have put an extra burden on the department.

Chief of Police Max Harper was Clyde's best man. The bride, again breaking tradition, was given away not by one male relative, but by three: her uncle, Police Detective Dallas Garza; her father, retired Chief U. S. Probation Officer Mike Flannery; and her red-bearded uncle Scott Flannery, who was the foreman of her construction firm.

Dallas was in full police uniform, his short, dark hair freshly trimmed. Ryan's dad, tall, sandy-haired Mike Flannery, wore a dark suit, white shirt, and soft paisley tie. Mike's brother, Scotty, had chosen the only thing in his closet that wasn't a work shirt and jeans; he wore beige slacks, a white shirt open at the collar, and a dark green corduroy sport coat that contrasted sharply with his red hair and beard. The three men walked Ryan down the aisle side by side—while Ryan's big, silver, canine companion looked on from the sidelines, so tense with excitement that the three cats, sitting beside him, thought any minute the big Weimaraner would bolt straight into the middle of the procession: That was
his
family marching down the makeshift aisle between the rows of metal chairs, and the big retriever shivered with nervous intensity at this obviously important event involving those he loved.

But Rock, sitting close between Charlie Harper's left knee and Clyde's gray tomcat, with both Charlie and Joe Grey giving him stern looks, managed to remain on his best behavior.

No guest in attendance thought it strange that Ryan's Weimaraner and the groom's tomcat, and their friends' two cats, were in attendance; animals were an important part of their lives. Charlie stood with her fingers touching Rock's silky head, near his collar, to make doubly sure he
didn't bolt to his mistress and new master; she could feel him quivering under her gentle strokes.

As for the three cats, Charlie wasn't worried about their behavior. Joe Grey, his tabby lady, and the tortoiseshell kit knew better than many people how to act during such a solemn and important ceremony.

Though, looking down at the cats, Charlie did wonder at Joe Grey's admirable restraint on this particular day—because this marriage would change dramatically all the rest of the gray tomcat's life. The fact that Ryan would now be living with Joe Grey and Clyde presented a whole new set of rules and priorities for the tomcat; Charlie had worried considerably about how he'd settle into the new routine.

Any cat would find the addition of a new family member a threat to his place in the household and to his treasured habits, but for a cat who could speak with humans and who not only read the morning paper but expected first grabs at the front page, such a life change had to be stressful. Even though Ryan knew Joe's secret, had figured out for herself that he was as skilled in the English language as was she, the changes for Joe, as well as for Ryan and Clyde—for all three strong-willed individuals—would be trying. Particularly considering Joe Grey's secret involvement with Molena Point PD as their prime, though anonymous, informant.

Well, it was no good worrying about difficulties in the Damen household. She expected the three of them would work it out. And as the wedding music of soft Irish folk songs drifted through the outdoor speakers, Charlie centered her attention on the beautiful matron of honor as Ryan's sister, Hanni, stepped out onto the crowded
patio through the glass doors from the Harper living room, leading the bridal procession.

It seemed fitting to Charlie that the bride herself had designed and constructed this part of the Harper home that was now the site of her wedding. This portion of the house was particularly bright and open, the airy living room anchored by tall, heavy pillars and soaring beams and the tall stone fireplace. The floor-to-ceiling glass walls that looked out to the sea over the Harpers' green pastures, now reflected Hanni as she led the two flower girls, the bride, and her escorts in slow and measured steps across the patio, between the rows of seated guests to the bower of roses where Clyde waited nervously with Captain Harper and the preacher; Charlie had to smile because Hanni had tastefully dressed down for the occasion, with none of her usual flamboyance.

Only Hanni's short, white hair, in a bright tangle around her smooth young face, could not be dimmed, her natural looks not be restrained by the tailored tan suit, somewhat darker than Clyde's; she wore none of her usual wild jewelry, but only a thin gold chain at her throat and tiny gold earrings, demure pieces she must have borrowed for the occasion, as they were nothing like her usual bizarre necklaces and pendants and wild rings for which Hanni Coon was so well known. Today, Hanni did not upstage her sister. The bride looked delicious in her soft red suit, and she looked so happy that Charlie felt tears starting, the foolish tears that weddings always stirred in her for no sensible reason.

The Irish folk music lilted softly, the stringed instruments blending with the sea's rhythmic pounding and
with the far cries of the gulls, an earthy-milieu counterpoint to the minister's voice as he intoned the words of the brief ceremony. Only when he asked for the ring was he interrupted—by the nicker of Charlie's sorrel mare, from the pasture, which made everyone chuckle.

Joe Grey, watching Dallas Garza and Mike and Scott Flannery give away the bride, caught again a hint of bridling on Dallas's part as he glanced over at Mike, and wondered again if Dallas's competitive look centered on thoughts of Lindsey Wolf.

But when Joe looked at Dulcie to get her reaction, his tabby lady seemed to have noticed nothing, she seemed lost either in the sentimental ceremony or off in some distant thought, and did not even notice his glance.

 

W
ATCHING
R
YAN
and Clyde joined in holy matrimony, the tabby cat, like Charlie, had to swallow back her own tears. What was it that made females weep at weddings?

She watched Clyde kiss the bride, and then the crowd surrounded the happy couple, laughing and congratulating them, and Dulcie had to hide a wild urge to laugh with delight, not only because of the joyous moment but because practical-minded Ryan Flannery—Ryan Flannery Damen, now—was a member of the inner group, because Ryan had guessed, all on her own, that the three cats could talk to her and understand her, because Ryan had guessed their impossible secret.

As the guests milled around them, the three cats, to avoid the surge of crowding feet, leaped to the top of the
cold barbecue, out of the way—cops were a raucous crew, and their civilian counterparts were just as enthusiastic. Rock had joined the fray, yipping and dancing around the newlyweds, abandoning any attempt at obeying Ryan's carefully taught manners.

The couple was toasted, and toasted again; they danced the first dance, and posed for pictures, and cut the cake. Max put on a tape of Irish jigs, and everyone danced: eighty-year-old Lucinda and Pedric Greenlaw; Dulcie's housemate Wilma, and Mike Flannery; the four senior ladies dancing with handsome young cops; fourteen-year-old Dillon Thurwell and twelve-year-old Lori dancing with cops, too, their faces flushed, their eyes laughing. Hanni and her husband danced while their three boys inhaled party food. If this was a small, quiet wedding, Dulcie thought, heaven help a cat in the midst of a big, all-out celebration. Atop the barbecue, she pressed close between Joe and Kit, enjoying their human friends' rowdy pleasure.

By three o'clock that afternoon the party was winding down, the cake had been demolished, only scraps remained on the buffet, and the bride and groom had departed for their drive up the coast.

Most of the officers had gone back on duty. The senior ladies had left, as had Dillon and Lori, the two girls clutching their pieces of wedding cake to put under their pillows. “I will marry a cop,” said red-haired Dillon, winking at portly Officer Brennan. But Lori, with her dad still in prison, pushed back her long dark hair and was silent. Lori didn't say what kind of man she'd marry.

The party dwindled to a quiet, mellow aftermath, melancholy and sentimental. Why anyone should feel sad
after a wedding, Dulcie wasn't sure. This was the start of a new life for Ryan and Clyde—but while everyone was giddily happy, the cats could not ignore the undercurrent of sadness that now turned folks silent and thoughtful.

But of course Dulcie's housemate felt sad. Wilma was the closest thing to an older sister that Clyde had, and as happy as she was for him, surely she felt she was losing a bit of him—it would be Ryan, now, to whom Clyde would tell his secrets and ask for advice, to whom he'd voice his dreams and fears.

But Wilma knew that was as it should be, and Dulcie could see that her silver-haired housemate was more happy than sad. Wilma had said to Dulcie more than once that it was time Clyde settled down with the right woman—and Ryan was surely the right woman. Two mates of equal strength, Dulcie thought. Two people honest enough and with enough crazy humor to sustain the hardest bumps that might lie ahead.

From atop the barbecue the tabby cat watched Mike and Dallas and Scotty fold up the metal chairs from the patio and carry them out to Scotty's truck, to be returned to the furniture rental. All three men looked both well satisfied at this milestone in Ryan's life, and yet quiet and nostalgic. The cats watched Charlie and Hanni clean up the empty plates and platters and lay out the remaining food in a fresh but smaller array on the big round kitchen table, nesting the dishes on trays of ice. And as the sun dropped and the afternoon grew chill, the few remaining friends retired to the living room, where Max lit a fire on the hearth.

Immediately the cats and Rock stretched out before the blaze, taking the best places. Their friends slipped out
of their jackets, shoes came off, a few beers were opened. This was the second party this weekend, and for a while, a peaceful silence reigned as each in his or her own mind wished the newlyweds well, wished them a happy and safe journey on their honeymoon and through a long life. Among their small group only Charlie was strung tight.