Cat Playing Cupid (26 page)

T
HE EVENING WAS
pushing on toward nine when Charlie got home from Dr. Firetti's, the wind cold at her back as she hurried from her Blazer into the tiled mudroom that led to both the living room and the kitchen. Something smelled good, and when she stepped through into the big family kitchen, Max was fixing a tray for their late supper. She could see through into the living room where he had set up the folding table before a welcoming fire.

Max had wanted to go down to Firetti's with her, but she'd begged him to stay home, to heat up something from the freezer and maybe make a salad—she couldn't talk to the doctor openly in front of him, and certainly the cats couldn't. She was just thankful that John Firetti was there for them, day and night. There was a clinic up the coast for after-hours emergencies, but Dr. Firetti took care of emergencies for a few of his long-standing clients, as had his father before him, getting out of bed at any hour, and he seemed content with the arrangement.

She and the two cats had told him every detail of their encounter with the coyotes. He'd asked how close they'd been to the animals, had asked the same questions Max asked. When Firetti was satisfied that no one had been bitten, he'd examined and X-rayed Sage's leg, put on a new splint, and rebandaged him. But he'd wanted to keep him overnight. Kit was unwilling to leave Sage, though they had spent most of the week battling and then making up. Maybe the tortoiseshell wanted to stay because they
had
battled, because she felt guilty that she'd made Sage so unhappy he'd run away and nearly been killed.

Dr. Firetti had fixed a warm bed for the two in his office and tossed a blanket and pillow on the couch for himself. Charlie left with hugs for both cats, hoping they'd sort out their differences; she left Kit snuggled as close to Sage as she could get without hurting his wounds, and before she turned away Kit had looked up at her with such confusion, with worry and hurt for Sage and yet with a clear uncertainty in her wide yellow eyes. Uncertainty about the state of her own heart? Torn between her fear for Sage, and her own needs? Charlie had felt tears start and had turned away quickly, leaving the clinic, worrying about where Kit's hotheaded young spirit would lead her.

Now, at home, Charlie washed her hands at the kitchen sink then followed Max into the living room, where she curled up in a big chair before the fire as he carried in their supper tray. She told herself that everything would be all right, that Kit would sort out her feelings, and as Max pulled his own chair near hers, she sipped her hot tea and reached hungrily for her grilled sandwich.

“Before we got married,” she said, grinning at him, “you told me you couldn't cook.”

“And you told me you didn't know how to fix a fence or shoot straight.”

“This is the best supper I've ever had,” she said, taking another huge bite.

“It's only a grilled-cheese sandwich.”

“It's your famous grilled cream cheese and salami on rye, and it's delicious. Is there more?” she said, devouring her salad, too, and gulping the sweet, steaming tea.

“All you want, in the kitchen. Did you clean those scratches on your face? You're sure they're only from branches? The coyotes didn't get near you?”

“Not within yards, Max. Will you stop worrying?”

He took her hand. “Just glad you're safe—don't want you frothing at the mouth and biting people.” He brought her another sandwich from the kitchen, and fresh, hot tea, then threw another log on the fire and settled down again to fill her in on the events of the evening. She had, while in Dr. Firetti's office, taken a call on her cell from Ryan.

“Joe's fine,” Ryan had begun in a preamble to who-knew-what, then gave her such a brief sketch of where they were and why that Charlie had wanted to stop her, make her tell it slowly. “We're headed home now. Joe's asleep on my lap. He had a hamburger and then we stopped for dinner, smuggled him into a little steakhouse,” she had said, amused. “I can't believe how much this cat eats.”

Ryan had had the speaker on, Charlie heard Clyde laugh.

Joe must have awakened; he had growled, “You'd be hungry, too, if you barely escaped being hauled off to the
pound.” And the tomcat's yowling harangue had assured her that he was just fine.

Now she waited for Max to give her the details of what had gone down at the airport and in the city. But by the time he'd finished with San Jose and the race to San Francisco, and was recounting how the San Francisco uniforms had decked Ray Gibbs, she was nodding and jerking awake.

“Bedtime,” Max said, picking up her empty cup and plate. She rose, yawning hugely. “And Ryder Wolf is dead,” she said quietly. She would have thought she'd feel no emotion for Ryder. She was surprised by how sad that death left her.

“What will happen now?” she said as they turned out the lights and headed down the hall.

“The usual,” Max said. “SFPD will go over the stolen Audi, Santa Clara County sheriff's office will examine Lindsey's Mercedes and take evidence. Ditto with Gibbs's car. The sheriff will send a unit over to the city to transport Gibbs back to the Santa Clara County lockup.”

“To be arraigned for murder,” she said, crawling into bed. “What will happen to Lindsey? Is she under suspicion for Chappell's death?”

“Don't know yet,” he said, slipping in beside her. “We've yet to identify the woman in the grave. Maybe that's Nina, maybe not. And we have to establish cause of death. Gibbs could be arraigned on that count, too.” He looked over at her—and smiled. She was sound asleep.

Strange, Max thought, watching her. Although this case had endangered Mike and Dallas, it hadn't worried her nearly as much as had tonight's events involving the
feral cat. The stress of forging back through that black tangle of woods to rescue the two cats—how many people would do that? The stress of having to shoot the coyotes. Her worry and fear for the cats always touched him. And she claimed she wasn't tenderhearted. Smiling down at his unpredictable redheaded wife, Max turned out the lamp and was soon asleep himself as the rising moon sent a first glimmer through the high windows.

 

B
UT LATER, AS
moonlight washed broadly through the windows of the Harper house, touching Charlie's face, she woke again to relive the scene in Dr. Firetti's examining room. As the doctor went to fetch some food for the cats, she had stepped out into the hall, leaving Sage and Kit alone, tucked up in the big basket he had fixed for them. But there, she had paused.

Behind her, she could hear them talking and she turned to listen; she was dismayed as Sage begged Kit to come back to the clowder, to join the clowder once more, to stay with him and be a pair.

She didn't want Kit to return to the wild, didn't want her to leave her life in the village, none of Kit's friends wanted that. Yet they all, cats and humans, wanted her to be happy. The question was, what did Kit want? Kit, herself, didn't seem to know. She made up to Sage one minute, snuggling and purring, and the next minute was fighting with him. Tonight she'd told him, “No, Sage. I won't come back.”

“But we've always been best friends,” he'd said. “You don't really want to stay here among humans, you can't
really want to live as a captive, locked up in houses with humans.”

“I
don't
live as a captive,” Kit had hissed. “I come and go as I please, I do as I please. I'm not
locked up
! I belong here!”

“But what about us. If you love me…”

“We will always be loving friends,” she'd said softly. “I…I don't know how I feel…Stone Eye is gone,” she‘d said, “but if another tyrant comes along, will you be obedient to him, too? So he'll protect you?”

Sage had said nothing. Only silence.

“Does being safe mean more to you than our freedom?” she'd snapped. There was a thump on the floor as she'd leaped out of the basket and come racing through the door—but Charlie had moved faster, catching her up and holding her close, Kit's heart pounding against her, a fast little trip-hammer.

“You can't run away, Kit. Just listen to him. Listen to his side, you owe him that.”

Kit had turned her face away—but then in a moment she looked up at Charlie, and shame showed in her wide yellow eyes. As Charlie carried her back into the examining room, Sage had tried to rise, stumbling against the side of the basket, crouching as if to leap out. Charlie hurried to stop him, setting Kit down in the basket beside him, where the two hissed at each other. But then Sage had looked ashamedly down at his paws.

“I'm sorry,” the pale cat had mumbled. “No one can force you to leave here, no one can force you to love me.”

“I'm
sorry,” Kit had said contritely. “I guess…Maybe, sometimes, one doesn't have a choice in how one feels.”

“I guess maybe sometimes,” Sage had said, “one takes the easy way.” He looked at Kit a long time, then lay down again. Tentatively Kit curled down beside him. Sage purred a little, and nuzzled Kit's whiskers—and Charlie turned and left them, slipping out of the room.

Two stubborn little individuals
, she'd thought, feeling tears start.
So at cross purposes.
She'd hurt deeply for them, had headed home filled with concern for Sage and for the fiery young tortoiseshell.

N
OW, AS
C
HARLIE
dropped into a tired sleep again snuggled against Max, down in the village, at Molena Point PD, Lindsey Wolf finished giving Detective Garza her formal statement, clarifying every detail she could recall from the moment she'd first parked across from Gibbs's condo and then followed his car. From those terrible moments in the airport when she saw her sister murdered, to the moment when, in the gift shop at Fisherman's Wharf, Gibbs himself was shot and taken into custody.

In Dallas's office, against the faint sound of the dispatcher's voice from up the hall and the voices of various officers moving in and out through the building, she told Dallas everything she could remember. The long ride in the cab watching Gibbs's car moving in and out of traffic. Thinking her driver would have a cell phone, and he hadn't. Not wanting to relay her message through his dispatcher, not sure what the dispatcher would tell her superior and other drivers. Following Gibbs to the hotel, paying her cab
fare, and slipping into the restaurant to use their phone, having to explain that it was an emergency. By the time they finished the interview, she felt wrung out.

“Come on,” Dallas said. “Mike's waiting. You'll feel better with a drink and some dinner.” And they headed for Mike's apartment, leaving the center of the village, its streets and shops bright and awash with moonlight, and heading up among the darker streets where the moon was hidden above pine and oak and cypress trees.

“Have you thought about what you'll do now?” Dallas said. “After all that's happened, will you find it too painful to stay here in the village?”

Lindsey looked at him for a long time. “You think I'll run away from ugliness again.”

He glanced at her. “I don't know.”

“That's not very flattering.”

“I'm a cop. I don't specialize in flattery.”

She smiled. “You don't use flattery in your work?”

He laughed, then was silent. Ahead, at the top of the hill, the over-the-garage duplex was dark on one side, but Mike's lights were bright and welcoming. She looked at Dallas as he pulled up the drive. “I don't think I'll run, this time.”

From the living room above, Mike watched them pull in. He'd been standing at the windows nursing a drink, looking down across the moonlit village to the sea beyond.

He had stopped to pick up salad things and steaks, had put the potatoes in the oven to bake, washed and put together the salad. Turning to check the oven, he considered his new digs with satisfaction, the big, airy studio with its high, white-stained rafters, its tall windows looking down over the village. Ryan's roomy desk before the windows,
offering a comfortable place to work—near the kitchen and coffeepot, he thought, amused.

At the back of the long room was a simple daybed, soft with throw pillows in the daytime, and two canvas camp chairs. With the dressing room and bath, he had the perfect bachelor pad.

Perfect, for now.

It would be pretty crowded for a couple.

But that was way down the line. He didn't know if Lindsey was ready for a real commitment. How tied was she, still, to what she'd had? What she'd thought she had with Chappell?

Turning as if to speak to Rock, he realized the big dog wasn't with him, that Rock was back with his mistress.
I don't suppose
, he thought, watching the Blazer pull in and stepping into the kitchen to mix Lindsey's drink,
don't suppose I'd ever find another dog like Rock.

He thought about this morning, which seemed days ago, about Rock's exhibition of unerring tracking, and wondered what the real story was. Maybe Ryan would tell him, sometime. And maybe she wouldn't. And for a moment, again, he missed the youngster she had been, a handful of fire and stubbornness, as hardheaded as a young mule. Then he smiled. Was she so different now?

He put aside his fatherly sentiment as Lindsey and Dallas came up the stairs. Opening the door for them, he felt a stab of warmth at the sight of Lindsey—and, again, a sharp jolt of relief that she was safe. That she wasn't dead in that car, in place of her sister.

 

I
T WAS NEARLY
six the next morning when the Greenlaws woke and Lucinda reached down the bed feeling around her feet for Kit—then remembered that Kit was at the clinic with Sage, that Charlie had called from the clinic last night to tell her about the coyotes. Rising and pulling on her robe, thinking of Kit nearly killed by coyotes, Lucinda said a prayer of thanks that their beloved tortoiseshell was safe. And she prayed for Sage, too. What had possessed him to run off like that, into the wild, still encumbered by that awkward cast?

Love, she thought. Love and hurt and anger. She didn't want to think past that point, couldn't bear to think that Kit might love him in return, love him enough to leave them, to leave her home.

And how selfish was that!

Starting the coffee, pouring a cup before it finished brewing, she sat down at the dining table with the faded, handwritten letters taken from Olivia Pamillon's diary.

Though she and Pedric had read them at once, when Wilma brought them up last night, she wanted another look. The letters were addressed to only three people: two cousins, Annette Pamillon and Jeannine Pamillon Brink. And Jeannine's husband, Tom. That was the couple who had brought back the first speaking cats, secretly intending to breed and sell them. The messages were oblique in their wording. These seemed to be first drafts, with words crossed out or changed to make them less decipherable to the uninitiated. Surely Olivia had penned new copies from these, mailed them, and kept the originals; but why had she kept them? The replies were equally obscure.

Two implied that Olivia would take legal action to de
stroy Jeannine's title to her shares of the estate if she and Tom didn't abandon their commercialization of the cats and swear themselves to secrecy. A threat couched in obscurity but clear to someone who knew the truth.

But even Olivia's comments about the cats themselves, to Annette, whom she must have trusted, were oblique, phrases such as,
I love watching the wild animals around the estate. So many come to visit me, and seem to grow bolder each day.
And then there would be some innocuous and unrelated comment regarding clothes, or a recipe, and then—as if this was the pattern they'd worked out—the urgent part of the message:
John's houseguests are incredibly nosy, asking questions that are none of their affair.
Or,
I have asked Jeannine several times if I might stop by when I'm in the village. Every time they are busy, or are going out of town. My own cousin.
And then a few weeks later, again to Annette,
I think it's time we visited Jeannine together, a kind of surprise. What do you think?

Lucinda laid the sheets aside. Strange that Olivia had kept these—maybe, as she'd gotten older, she'd held on to them and to the Bewick book as a link with her fading past. Lucinda hoped those who had known about the cats were all dead; she grew increasingly uneasy wondering who else might know, wondering how far the secret might have spread. To paraphrase one of her favorite authors—as secrets
will
do.