Cat Seeing Double (11 page)

Of course Scotty invited him in. The dog had come willingly, staring at their plates but he didn't beg or charge the table. He stood silent and watchful, observing them and their supper with those serious yellow eyes, studying each of them in turn. Scotty had hesitated only a moment, then blew on his plate to cool the hot canned stew, stirred and blew again, and set it on the floor.

Not until Scotty stepped back did the dog approach the plate. He paused, looking up at Scotty.

“It's okay. It's for you.”

The dog inhaled the stew in three gulps. They had fed him all their suppers and opened another can. After an hour they fed him again, bread and canned hot
dogs. Over the period of several hours they cleaned out the cupboard. The dog had slept in the trailer that night, and the next morning they called the sheriff, thinking he'd gotten lost from some hunter. From then on the dog would show up every couple of days, usually with the kids, but always starving. The boys had no notion where he lived, nor did the sheriff or his deputies.

Now as Ryan opened the door the cats came alert, prepared to leap from the sill and away. The dog trotted out quietly looking them over but making no move to approach. Ryan, with a handful of paper towels, stood on the deck wiping the dried mud from his coat. But then as she started down to the truck, she paused, frowning, and turned back inside. The dog followed her, staying close, looking up at her begging her to get a move on.

 

Picking up the phone and dialing the station, she was relieved to be put through at once to Dallas. “Have you gotten Curtis Farger to talk? Gotten a line on where he was staying in San Andreas?”

“Nothing yet. Why? Officers searched the old man's shack again this morning, but no sign that a bomb had been put together there—and no sign of Gramps and no fresh shoe tracks or tire tracks, no indication anyone's been back there.”

“I think I might have something. I'd like to come talk with Curtis.”

“This hasn't anything to do with Rupert?”

“No, it hasn't.”

He waited, not responding.

“There was a dog up there around the trailer, hanging out with those kids. He's in my kitchen now, looks like Curtis brought him along for company. Looks like when he got to Molena Point Curtis never thought to take care of the animal, but just let him run loose.”

“You didn't mention a dog when we talked.”

“I had a reason.”

“Which was?”

“I'll tell you later. It hasn't anything to do with Curtis.”

“You sure it's the same dog?”

“Same dog. A fine big weimaraner. There aren't two like this one. Scotty and I tried to find his owners. We both wanted to keep him, but…”

“So what's the secret?”

“When you see him,
you'll
want him.”

Dallas laughed. “You think if you bring the dog in, you can soften Curtis up?”

“I think it's worth a try. He seemed to really like the dog, maybe he would open up. When the dog was around, Curtis was always hanging on him, hugging him.”

“And you're all right, about this morning?”

“I'm fine,” she lied.

“Come on in.”

“I need to get him some food, first. And feed myself, I'm dizzy with hunger. Have you eaten anything?”

“As we speak. Enjoying the last bite of a double cheeseburger.”

Hanging up, she got a bath towel and, down on the drive, gave the dog a thorough rubdown, sleeking his
coat to a shine. Amazing how good he looked despite his half-starved condition. Laying another clean towel over the passenger seat of the cab, she told him to load up.

He knew the command, hopping right up into the bucket seat, sitting as straight and dignified as if he'd spent his life riding in the best vehicles.

Considering only briefly her promise to herself about no mud in the cab, she closed the passenger door, slid into the driver's seat and headed for the market. Some promises, at certain moments in your life, were indeed made to be broken.

She was inside the market and out again breaking all records, her mind filled with stories of hyper-energetic weimaraners who had torn up the insides of a car or travel trailer with amazing speed and efficiency. In one instance involving a brand-new RV, a weimaraner with tooth-and-claw enthusiasm had created 20,000 dollars' worth of damage in less than half an hour while the dog's family grabbed a quick lunch.

Tossing a fifty-pound bag of dog kibble into the truck bed, and dropping the bag containing her deli sandwich next to her on the bucket seat, she headed for the little park at the bottom of her street where she and the dog could share their breakfast. In a fit of possessiveness she had bought, from the market's pet section, a new leather collar, a leather leash, a choke chain, and a long retractable leash that would make Dallas laugh. No competent dog trainer would be caught dead with such a contraption, but for the time being she thought it might be useful. She had not seen behind her as she headed down the hill from her duplex, the two cats taking off on their own urgent errand, racing across the
neighbors' yards and down the hill in the direction of Molena Point PD.

Nor would she have paid any attention. She would have no reason to think that the cats were headed for Curtis Farger's cell, to wait for her and Rock. That they would soon be crouched outside the high cell window which, on this bright morning, should be wide open, secured only by its heavy iron bars. She would have no reason to imagine that four-legged spies would be waiting, intent on any scrap of information she might glean from the young bomber.

News of
a murder in Molena Point traveled swiftly through the village, flashing from phone to phone, to on-the-street conversation, to phone again to gossip passed on by waiters, customers, shopkeepers, in short from friend to friend. Clyde Damen listened to the details as related to him by his supervising mechanic while Clyde inspected the engine of a '96 BMW. Turning away from the sleek convertible, he went into his office to call Ryan. When her phone rang ten times and no answer, he called Wilma.

Wilma had heard about the murder from the tortoiseshell cat when the kit came running home. The kit had heard about the death as she lingered beneath a table of the Courtyard Café. Kit would have been a witness to the police investigation except that early that morning she had veered away from Joe and Dulcie as they raced down the hills toward Ryan's duplex following the sirens like a pair of cheap ambulance chasers.

The kit, heading into the village, had trotted along the sidewalk sampling the aromas from half-a-dozen restaurants. She had paused before the Swiss House pa
tio examining the fine scent of sausages and pancakes. With whiskers and ears forward and her fluffy tail carried high she padded into the brick patio to wind around friendly ankles, smiling up at tourist and local alike, at whoever might feel generous.

The kit was not an opportunist. But having spent most of her short, transient life running with bigger cats who took all the garbage, leaving her with none, she viewed the matter of food seriously. Not until she met Joe and Dulcie and her first human friends, did she realize she could stop snarling over every morsel, that some cats and humans enjoyed sharing.

Now in the café's patio she soon bagged a fine breakfast of sausage and fried eggs and thin Swiss pancakes, all laid out on a little saucer by a kind tourist. Life was good. Life was very good. The kit's purr reverberated beneath the table like a small and busy engine.

But then, having eaten her fill, she slipped away before her benefactor knew she'd gone. Prowling the village, nipping into shops, wandering among antique furniture and displays of soft sweaters, she soon entered a rug gallery where she paused to have a little wash on an expensive oriental carpet. Wandering out again, she slipped into a gift shop, drawn by the scent of lavender. Then down the street threading between the feet of tourists and in and out of shops, alternately petted or evicted according to the shopkeeper's temperament. When the sun had warmed the rooftops she wandered there, across the tilting shingles and peaks until she was hungry again, then followed the aroma of broiled shrimp to a nearby patio restaurant. It was here that she heard the news of a body in Ryan Flannery's garage.

As the kit gobbled shrimp from a little plate beneath the table, rubbing against the ankles of the gallery owner who had provided the delicacy, that lady remarked to her companion, “He was a womanizer, you know. Rupert Flannery. It may be crude to speak so of the dead, but Ryan's lucky to be rid of him.”

“Maybe that's only gossip,” whispered her friend. “Maybe he…
Do
you think she killed him? Right there in her own garage?”

“If she did, I wouldn't blame her. You know, my dear, one of my gallery clients is Ryan's sister, decorator Hanni Coon. Well, of course Hanni never said anything, but her office manager told Bernine…You know Bernine Sage, she worked for Beckwhite's until after
he
was killed, then she worked for the library for a while. Well, Bernine knows some friends of the Dannizers in San Francisco, and she told me all about Rupert. She says he does like to sample the herd, as my husband would so indelicately put it.”

The kit wasn't sure what that meant, but she certainly understood about the murder in Ryan's garage. As soon as she'd finished all the handouts that seemed forthcoming she galloped down the street three blocks to the library and in through Dulcie's cat door, and leaped to Wilma's cluttered desk.

She waited in Wilma's office for perhaps three minutes before she grew impatient and trotted out into the reference room. Hopping onto a library table, then to the top of the book stacks, drawing smiles from several patrons who were used to seeing her and Dulcie among the books, she trotted along the dusty tops of the stacks looking down on the heads of patrons and librarians un
til she spotted Wilma behind the checkout desk. Wilma stood shelving reserve books. Her long silver hair, bound back in a ponytail, shone bright against the dark bindings. The kit, hanging down over the shelves above Wilma's head, mewed softly, the kind of small mutter she would use when speaking to another cat.

Looking up, Wilma reached to take the kit in her arms. She didn't speak, the kit was too impetuous; Wilma was always afraid the little tattercoat would forget and say something back to her, blurt out some urgent message in front of other people. Certainly the kit had something vital to say, she was all wriggles, she could hardly be still.

But Wilma was not to be hurried. With the kit settled across her shoulder she finished her shelving, stroking the kit's back and scratching her ears to keep her quiet. Taking her time, she at last headed for her office.

The moment the door was closed the kit launched into her story of murder, into every smallest detail she'd overheard. “…and Ryan hasn't been arrested yet, but that woman who gave me the shrimp thought she would be. She said Ryan's husband liked to sample the herd. What does that mean? Is that why someone killed him? Oh, Ryan didn't kill him, Ryan wouldn't kill anyone.”

Setting the kit on her desk, Wilma held her finger to her lips, and immediately she called the station. As the phone rang the kit jumped to her shoulder and settled down with one tortoiseshell ear pressed against the headset. She tried not to wriggle or purr as she listened.

When Dallas came on he gave Wilma the particulars of the death. Ryan had not been arrested. She was on her way to the station to interview the Farger boy.

Wilma had hardly hung up when Clyde called from the shop. As they talked, the kit left quietly again, through Dulcie's cat door, and galloped over to the police station to hear what she could hear. That boy in jail didn't need to see her, that boy she had jumped on and made to set off his bomb. She would just slip into the station past the dispatcher, she would be just a shadow, no one would see her.

 

In Ryan's truck the dog sat cutting his eyes at the paper bag that lay on the console between them, sucking in the scent of charbroiled hamburger and fries. He made no move to touch it, and Ryan stroked his head. “You have lovely manners.” She studied him as she waited for a stoplight. “Where
did
you come from? How could anyone abandon you?” This was a valuable dog, not one of the registered “backyard bred” animals whose owners had given no thought to what such a mating would produce. That happened too often when a breed became popular. This big, strong fellow was far above those ill-planned mistakes. He looked like he could hunt from dawn until dark and never tire. His breed had been developed for all-around work and stamina, to retrieve on land or on water, to point, to track, to hunt big game, to work by both sight and by scent. Watching him, Ryan was more than smitten, she was overboard with desire. This was a fine, intelligent animal, a hunter's dream.

But she couldn't keep him. When would she hunt him? When would she work him? It wouldn't be fair to the dog.

Pulling up beside the little park she dropped the choke chain over his head, fastened on the leash, snatched up her sandwich bag as she stepped out, and gave him the command to come. He was immediately out of the truck sitting before her as she closed the door, then moving to heel.

Oh, yes, a dream dog, a treasure.

Leaning over the truck bed she opened the kibble bag and scooped a large serving into one of the two bowls she had bought. Carrying the bowls and a bottle of water and her own breakfast she headed for a sprawling cypress tree near the edge of the park, settling down beneath it on the grass. The cool fall morning was silent except for the cries of the gulls and the faint
whish
of a few passing cars. The dog lay down beside her alertly watching the kibble bowl that she still held. At the other end of the park some children were playing catch, their voices cutting the silence. A few tourists wandered across the grass or sat on the scattered benches, and a pair of joggers passed her. When she put the bowls down, the kibble vanished quickly, as did half the water. She didn't offer more food, she didn't want him throwing up. Their alfresco picnic apparently presented an interesting study because several cars slowed to have a look. She savored her hamburger and fries, wondering if she was stupid to take the dog over to the jail.
Would
his presence encourage Curtis to talk, or was that wishful thinking?

Whatever she thought of the kid, up in San Andreas he had seemed so tender toward the dog. But knowing now what he was capable of, that he had tried to kill half the village, maybe this visit was futile. And she
wondered if, when she faced Curtis again, she could keep her anger under control.

Still, if Dallas didn't find the old man, Curtis was the only lead they had to unraveling the full story of the bombing. Her preoccupation with that urgent matter served very well to ease her own fears, to put in perspective her own precarious position. This boy, son of the man Max Harper had helped prosecute for drug making, had nearly killed Max and Charlie and maybe the entire wedding party.

The silence of the early Sunday afternoon was broken suddenly by Dixieland jazz blaring from an approaching convertible, and a pale blue Mercedes pulled to the curb, parking illegally in the red zone, the top down, her sister Hanni behind the wheel. Hanni's short silver hair was styled to a flip of perfection, her long silver earrings caught the sunlight, her million-dollar grooming made Ryan feel, as always, all ashes and sackcloth, made her snatch uselessly at her uncombed hair and stare down at the stain on her sweatshirt.

Hanni remained in the car quietly observing the dog in a way that made Ryan bridle with possessiveness. Then she looked up at Ryan with such concern that Ryan knew she'd heard about Rupert, that probably Dallas had called her. Hanni would know every detail: Ryan's gun found in the trash, the bullets embedded in her garage wall, the fact that Ryan had no witness to her own whereabouts during the time that Rupert was killed.

“Private picnic?” Hanni called, turning the CD down to a soft rhythm and swinging out of the car. Her long, thin legs were encased in faded blue jeans that matched
exactly the blue of the Mercedes, her slim, tanned feet cosseted in expensive handmade sandals. Above the denims she wore one of numerous handmade sweaters, this number a bright rainbow of many colors that set off Hanni's prematurely gray hair. She stood looking at the dog with wide-eyed admiration.

“Where did he come from? He's beautiful. Dallas didn't mention a dog.” She waited impatiently for an explanation, watching Rock, not Ryan. Then seeing that no answers were forthcoming she sat down on the grass oblivious to dirt or grass stains—she wouldn't have any, and Ryan didn't know how she did that. Watching Ryan, Hanni searched gently for an exact reading to the morning's events, making Ryan's throat tighten. Sympathy always made her cry.

“You can tell me the bad stuff later,” Hanni said. “Except, is there anything I can do?”

Ryan shook her head. “It…I don't think I want to talk about it.” She looked up at Hanni. “The dog isn't mine. Well, maybe he is if I can't find the owner. If I could figure out how to keep him,” she said hastily. “He showed up this morning, he was up in San Andreas.”

“You brought him back with you?”

“No, I told you…he showed up on his own. He was in the kitchen when I went up after…after Dallas left.”

Hanni frowned, puzzled.

“He was hanging around up at the trailer, with those kids. They said he was a stray.”

“A dog like this?”

“We tried to find his owner.” She told Hanni the
story, and how she thought the dog had found his way to Molena Point.

“And now you're going to reunite him with that Farger boy? See if you can get the kid to talk?” Hanni stared at her. “You think you can soften up
that
kid? You think if he joined that old man in setting a bomb, you can get the kid to spill on him?”

“I need to try. The dog
might
make a difference.”

Hanni just looked at her; but then her gaze softened. “If I can help, I'm here.” Rising, she rubbed the dog behind the ears then opened his mouth with easy familiarity and looked at his teeth. “Young. Maybe two years old.” She gave Ryan a clear, green-eyed look. “If you can't find the owner, you have a real treasure. He's some handsome fellow.” She rose and backed away watching him move as he followed her. When she sat down again the dog dropped down beside her stirring a hot surge of jealousy in Ryan. To look at her and Hanni, anyone would pick Ryan as the rough-and-tumble dog person, not impeccably groomed Hanni Coon. Yet it was Hanni who seemed able to train the roughest dog and still look like she was dressed for a party, not a smear of dirt, not a hair out of place.

Hanni lifted the dog's silky ears and looked inside, checking for ear mites and for a possible tattoo. She avoided mentioning Rupert directly. They both knew Ryan would be under investigation for his murder and that Ryan too might be in some danger. Picking up Ryan's purse Hanni opened it, reached into her own purse and, shielded by the dog and by Ryan, she slipped an unloaded revolver into Ryan's bag with a box of
shells. She looked up at Ryan. “Until this is over, until you get yours back.”

“Did Dallas…?”

“No. He doesn't need to know,” she said, ignoring the intricacies of California gun laws that gave a person a carrying permit for only specified models. Hanni patted Ryan's hand with sisterly tenderness. “I'm headed for the Landeau house. You have time to come along?”