Cat Seeing Double (14 page)

The Landeau
cottage stood among live oaks in the rising hills north of the village, its leaded windows set deep into white stucco walls, reflecting the mossy, twisted branches. A ray of late-afternoon sun shone down through the trees illuminating the domed skylight and tile roof. The clearing in front of the cottage was planted with a variety of drought-resistant native shrubs artfully arranged among giant boulders. Beneath a grandfather oak a wide parking bay was paved with granite blocks, and a granite drive led back to the garage, which was hidden behind the house in the style of 1910 when cars had just begun to replace horses and were put in the barn at night like their predecessors. The neighboring houses were hardly visible, just a hint of roof to the north between the dense trees, and on the south a few feet of blank garage wall; a private and secluded retreat, for an undisturbed weekend. As Ryan pulled her truck onto the parking next to Hanni's blue Mercedes, Rock went rigid, sniffing warily through the partially open window, his gaze fixed on the house, and the next mo
ment leaping at the glass, barking and fighting to get out.

Easing open her door, Ryan meant to slip out and leave him inside until she knew what was the matter, but he exploded past her jamming one hard foot into her thigh, half knocking her out of the truck. He hit the drive roaring. She piled out behind, hanging onto his leash. He lunged again, up the drive, charging ahead with such force that she had to turn sideways jerking the leash tight across her legs to keep from being pulled to her knees.

The cottage door opened. Hanni stepped out watching the dog and glancing toward the back of the house where Rock was staring as if to launch for someone's throat—the dog looked toward the house too, his lip curled over businesslike teeth, but then returned his attention to whoever stood, out of sight on the drive. Ryan thought of Hanni's gun tucked in her purse, which she'd tossed on the seat of the truck when Rock bolted past her.

But this was a small, quiet village, not the streets of east L.A. Even with Rupert's murder and the church bombing, as horrifying as both had been, Molena Point wasn't a crime zone. Yet, watching Rock, watching the drive, she was deeply chilled.

 

From the woods where they had hidden when they dropped out of Ryan's truck, Joe Grey and Dulcie watched the big dog too, the fur on their backs rigid, every muscle tense, ready to scorch up a tree out of harm's way.

But then suddenly Rock relaxed, raised his head and cocked his ears and gave a questioning wag of his short tail. And as Ryan eased back, seeming to let out
her breath, Rock trotted eagerly forward, all smiles and wags.

The old man who came up the drive was tiny, dressed in faded work clothes and carrying a stack of empty seedling flats. He seemed not much taller than the hound; and surely Rock's teeth were sharper. What dog would think of growling at Eby Coldiron? The cats slipped closer toward the drive as Ryan hugged Eby. Eby stroked Rock then backed away to have a look at him.

“This is a fine animal, Ryan. When did you get him? Will he hunt?”

“It's a long story, Eby. Complicated—the kind of story for over a cup of coffee when Louise is here too.”

Eby grinned at her and nodded and continued to pet Rock, who wriggled and danced under the small gardener's hand. Typical canine behavior, Joe thought. So hungry for acceptance. Eby and his wife were Ryan's landscaping contractors and they worked with Hanni, as well. The Coldirons were in their eighties, Eby no bigger than a twelve-year-old boy, white-haired and frail-looking, but as strong as coiled steel. The skilled landscaper shared Ryan's liking for native plant environments in an area where water was often scarce. He was dressed this morning in his usual khaki shirt, his jeans rolled up over muddy jogging shoes. Eby bought his clothes in the boys' department of Penny's or Sears.

“Where's your truck?” Ryan said. “Where's Louise?”

“She took the truck, went to shop. Said she'd bring back a pizza but she gets in those stores, forgets the time.”

Eby's wife was as minute as he, and nearly as wiry.
Like Eby, she bought her clothes in the children's section, size ten-to-twelve. Eby maintained a capable gardening crew, but he and Louise liked to do the new landscaping themselves. They might be old and wizened, the cats thought, but Ryan said she had never seen a happier marriage. The Coldirons not only handled the landscaping for half-a-dozen builders, but now and then they purchased a decrepit old house and refurbished it, doing much of the work themselves. And they took a nice cruise every winter to Hawaii or to Curacao or the Bahamas. As Eby stacked his flats at the curb and returned to the back of the house, and Ryan and Hanni disappeared inside, Joe leaped into Hanni's open convertible looking for her cell phone.

It wasn't there. Not on the seat, not under the seat, not in the console that he managed to flip open, nor in the glove compartment. Dropping out of the car again, he headed for the house beside Dulcie. On the porch the dog lay obediently, his leash hooked around the six-by-six stanchion that supported the sweeping line of the roof. Ryan had left the door open, apparently so she could watch him.

Seeing neither Ryan or Hanni inside, the cats padded casually across the stone porch, facing the big weimaraner, ready to run if he lunged at them.

Rock looked at them with doggy amusement, not offering to attack in a sudden game of catch-the-kitty. Quickly they slipped inside, to crouch behind a carved Mexican chest beside the front door.

The room was big and open, the floor on several levels. The seating area was the lowest, with glass walls on three sides, a glass cube set against the oak woods. Its
fourth side stepped up to the tiled entry. Its high rafters rose to the skylight, where the mid-morning sun sent diffused light down across the tall fireplace. The built-in, raised seating was covered with bright pillows tossed against the glass walls. With the woods crowding in from outside, the sunken room was like a forest grotto, the embroidered pillows brilliant against the leafy background. Ryan knelt before the fireplace examining the wet rug.

She glanced up at the skylight, and studied the face of the fireplace: the plain white slab that rose from floor to vaulted ceiling showed no sign of water stains. Its surface was broken by three tall rectangular indentations, painted black inside, each holding a stainless-steel sculpture of abstract design.

From behind the Mexican chest, Dulcie drank in the beautiful room with twitching tail and wide eyes. The tiled entry stepped up again to the raised dining area, which gave the impression of a cave. To the right of that, and two steps higher, rose the master bedroom, its bank of white, carved doors standing open, its bright bedspread mirroring the colors of the sitting-room pillows. Looking and looking, Dulcie had the same rapt expression on her tabby face as when she made off with a neighbor's cashmere sweater, the same little smile in her green eyes—a greedy female joy in beauty, a hunger for the lovely possessions that no cat could ever truly own.

 

Kneeling in the sitting-well examining the wet rug, Ryan wondered who Marianna had sent down to install
the three pieces of sculpture. Maybe the sculptor himself? He lived fairly near, some miles south of San Francisco. The job wouldn't have taken long. One didn't have to drill, just install and tighten the tension brackets, but certainly it wasn't like Marianna to lift a hand. Marianna had left no message on Hanni's tape, as she might if she'd been down. When Ryan felt the rug, it was wet all along the fireplace and back about three feet. Already it smelled of mildew. Using a screwdriver, she pried up a corner to feel the pad beneath.

The pad was sopping. Looking up at the skylight, she studied its pleated shade that had been drawn across the transparent dome. Not a sign of water stain, nor were the white walls of the skylight-well stained.

Rising, she fetched the pole with which to open the shade. When she accordioned it back, there was no spill of water, only sunlight fell more brightly into the room. Fetching a ladder from the truck she covered its ends with clean rags so not to mar the wall, and climbed to examine the Plexiglas dome at close range.

Finding no tiniest streak or discoloration, she frowned down at Hanni. “There's no leak, never has been.”

Hanni stared up at her. “But the Landeaus haven't been here. And it did rain last week. Go up on the roof, Ryan. Have a look up there.”

“When you called them, told them the rug was wet, what did they say?”

“My god, I didn't
tell
her it was wet. I just casually asked if they'd been down. She said
no
. I should tell that woman the roof leaks? You want her all over you?”

“But it hasn't leaked. Either they've been down or someone else has been here. Did you check for a break
in? Call her again. Make her tell you when they were here, and what happened, or if they loaned out the key.”

“
Make
Marianna tell me?” Hanni stared up at her, then went to check the windows. Soon the cats could hear her phoning. Ryan came down the ladder, telescoped it, and carried it outside where she extended it full length against the house.

 

Swinging onto the roof, she removed her shoes and laid them in the gutter. Walking barefoot across the glazed clay tiles, she knelt beside the skylight. She examined every inch. There was no way this baby could leak. She checked the installation of roof tiles over its two-foot apron, where the roof slanted down. There was no hairline crack in either the Plexiglas bubble or in the casing. Intending to develop irrefutable proof, she went down to the backyard, got a plastic pail from the garage, filled it with water, carried it up, and slowly poured it over the unoffending skylight while Hanni watched from inside.

Only after four bucketfuls of water and no leak was Hanni willing to call Marianna again. She came back from the phone shaking her head.

“Not home. I got Sullivan. They haven't been down. Maybe it's from underneath the floor, maybe a broken water line.”

“There is no water line there,” Ryan said irritably. “The water lines, Hanni, are under the kitchen and bath.”

“Waste line?” Hanni said lamely.

“For a top interior designer, you awe me with your ignorance.”

“Just trying to be helpful.”

Ryan knelt, sniffing at the rug at close range, moving to smell several places. She looked up at Hanni. “I smell wine. Call her, Hanni. Ask her if she spilled wine. My god, if she tried to mop it up, with that amount of water—she must have spilled the whole bottle.”

“I don't want to call again. Let's take the rug up.”

Within ten minutes they had the wet rug up. Moving the car and truck, they spread it across the parking apron as if carpeting the driveway for royalty. While they were thus occupied, and Joe watched from the living room windows, Dulcie found Hanni's purse in the kitchen and pawed inside searching for Hanni's cell phone.

Not there.

The Landeau phone stood on the kitchen counter right above her, but she daren't use it. Even as Joe stood watch, Ryan and Hanni returned to the house.

“They
were
here,” Ryan grumbled, coming in. “And they spilled something. Did you tell Sullivan we're laying the new rug tomorrow?”

“I told him.”

“Why didn't he tell you what they did? We can't lay the rug until we know for sure what this is. The only other possibility is groundwater, and I have a deep trench clear around the hillside. Maybe Marianna came down alone and didn't tell Sullivan.”

Hanni raised an eyebrow.

“Have you checked your tape again? Maybe she left you a message.”

Hanni just looked at her, her short white hair catching a gleam through the skylight.

“Call your tape. Where's your cell phone?”

“Forgot to charge it last night,” Hanni said. “Left it home in the charger.”

“If you'd get another battery…”

Hanni shrugged, and headed for the kitchen as Ryan stepped outside to stroke Rock. The dog glanced in toward the space behind the carved chest where the cats crouched, but then he grew rigid, looking nervously around the room and pulling to get inside. Hanni returned, looking at her watch.

“Marianna called my tape half an hour ago. Said she just woke up, said she was down day before yesterday and spilled a bottle of pinot noir, that she came down to tend to some errands and to arrange a birthday surprise for Sullivan—that it was too late to call me, that she hadn't told Sullivan she was down here and she knew I wouldn't spoil the surprise. She took a lot of time explaining it all,” Hanni said, amused.

Ryan laughed. “So. Cold-blooded Marianna has a lover?”

Dulcie glanced at Joe, her green eyes equally amused. Sullivan Landeau was out of town a lot, was on the boards of half-a-dozen companies. She had heard Ryan and Clyde speculating on what Marianna did for entertainment.

“She said the wine bottle spun and fell before she could grab it, that there was wine everywhere, that she sopped it up with towels, and sponged the rug.”

“Can you imagine Marianna Landeau sponging a rug?”

“Dallas was on my tape too. He has the report from ballistics. He wants you to go on back to your place, he'll meet you there.”

Ryan had knelt to examine the wood floor. Looking up at Hanni, she stiffened. “Why my place, why not the station when it's only a few blocks away? Why doesn't he want me to come to the station?”

“He said he'd let himself in. Shall I come with you?”

“Why do I feel so cold? I have no reason to fear the ballistics report.”

“You didn't kill him, so what's the big deal?”

Ryan rose, biting her lip. As they turned to leave, the cats slipped out past them and dropped into the bushes, moving so close to Rock they brushed against his leg, startling the big dog. They were concealed among the lavender bushes when Ryan undid Rock's leash.