Cat Seeing Double (2 page)

Certainly Joe Grey was no trained cat, she thought, smiling. Clyde wasn't even able to train a dog effectively. She'd heard about the fiasco with the two Great Dane puppies that Clyde had raised, a pair of huge adolescent dogs with no hint of manners, two canine disasters until Max Harper and Charlie took over their training.

She wondered idly if Max and Charlie's romance actually began up in the hills at his ranch as they taught two misbegotten puppies some manners and trained them to basic obedience. Charlie had never said. But if that was the case the pups really should be ring bearers, she thought, amused, imagining the two big dogs trotting down the aisle with little satin pillows tied to their noses bearing matched wedding rings.

She had to get hold of herself. She really hadn't had enough sleep.

Charlie had stopped by this morning on an errand despite the fact that it was her wedding day, and they'd had a short, comfortable visit. Ryan had liked the freckled redhead from the moment they first met, had liked that Charlie didn't talk trivia and that there was no friction between them because Charlie had recently and seriously dated Clyde and now Ryan was seeing him.

She admired Charlie for starting her life over after a false beginning, chucking an unsatisfactory career as a commercial artist at which she'd realized she'd never be tops, tossing away four years of art school education. Moving down to Molena Point to stay with her aunt Wilma, Charlie hadn't wasted any time in putting together an upscale housecleaning and repair business, a service that Charlie now ran so efficiently she found time not only to do her wonderful animal drawings, but had launched herself into a brand-new venture writing fiction for a national publisher.

Charlie took the attitude that if you were hungry to do something, give it a try. If you fell on your face, try something else. They'd laughed about that because Ryan had been hungry for such a long time to be free of Rupert and on her own. Charlie's understanding had been very supportive, had sustained her considerably as she established her own firm.

Cracking the door wider for a better look at Clyde's practical joke all laid out on her doormat, she didn't protest when the tomcat immediately shouldered past her into the kitchen—sans mouse. Both cats strolled in with all the pomp of a well-dressed couple stepping from their Rolls-Royce in response to her formal invitation to tea. Even the cats' glances were unsettling,
Dulcie's green eyes and Joe's yellow gaze far too imperious and self-possessed. Were all cats so self-assured and bold? Padding past her into the big studio room they lay down in the center of the Konya rug, the most beautiful and expensive furnishing she owned, and simultaneously, as if on cue, they began to wash.

Watching them, she decided the two cats added warmth to the room, as well as a sense of whimsy.

The studio was large and airy, its white walls bathed with late afternoon sun. Only on the north side of the twenty-foot-square room did the ceiling drop to eight feet where one long barrier wall defined the kitchen, bath, and closet-dressing room. The studio's sleek, whitewashed floor showed off to perfection the rich colors of the Turkish Konya rug that she and Clyde had found at an estate sale, its thick pile and primitive patterns glowing in vibrant shades of deep red and turquoise and indigo.

That shopping spree had been their first date. Clyde had brought a fabulous deli basket for an early, presale picnic breakfast along the rocky coast. Sitting on the sea cliff where the salty spray leaped up at them, he had served her wild mushroom quiche, thin slices of Belgian ham, strawberry tarts, and espresso—a very sophisticated meal for a guy who often seemed ordinary, even cloddish. That morning, teasing her about being a lady contractor, he had made her laugh when she'd badly needed to laugh.

After breakfast, returning to the handsome villa, they were among the first group to tour the estate. They'd found wonderful bargains that they loaded into her truck. Her few furnishings had all come from that sale
except her new drafting table. The desk that faced her front windows was a handsome solid oak unit with a dull, pewter stain and an ample wing for her computer. The two tomato-red leather chairs occupied the back of the room facing a wide wicker coffee table, and a wicker daybed covered with a handwoven spread and an array of tapestry pillows—all were from the sale, even the carved, multicolored Mexican dining table and four chairs that were tucked into the kitchen alcove. She'd brought nothing with her from the San Francisco house but her clothes and files and books, had wanted as little as possible from her old life, had wanted to start with everything new after what seemed an endless term of enslavement.

Nine years with Rupert. Why had she stayed so long? Cowardice? Fear of Rupert? The forlorn hope that things would get better? Chalk it up to ennui, to lack of direction—to stupidity. She felt, now, that she could whirl in circles swinging her arms and shouting and there was no barrier to force her back into that confining cage—a cage wrought of Rupert's vile rages that burned just on the edge of violence, and of his drinking and womanizing.

No more barriers in her life.

Except that this morning when she ran her phone tape she'd had not only the welcome message from Clyde saying he'd pick her up for the wedding, but a tirade from Rupert, a communication she had not expected, hadn't wanted and didn't understand.

You didn't think you'd hear from me, Ryan. I can't condone what you did running off and trying to take half my business that I owned before we were married.
I can't condone what you did to Priscilla but I feel obligated to tell you….

That had made her smile. What
she
did to
Priscilla?
That day before she left him she'd arrived home from a week in north Marin County finishing up an apartment job, had opened the garage door and found, in her half of the garage, a little red Porsche parked next to Rupert's BMW. She'd thought, thrilled and amazed, that Rupert in some uncharacteristic fit of generosity or guilt had bought her an anniversary present two weeks early.

But, opening the unlocked door of the Porsche, she had smelled the stink of cigarette smoke and perfume and seen another woman's clutter in the backseat—hairbrush, pink fuzzy sweater, wrinkled movie magazine. Checking the registration, she'd tried to recall who Priscilla Bloom might be.

And then in the house she'd found the woman's belongings all over the conjugal bedroom, Priscilla's clothes in the closet jamming her own garments to the back. That was the moment she ended the marriage.

Hauling out every foreign item from the bedroom, all of it reeking of cigarette smoke and heavy perfume, she had dumped it all in the little red car. Seven trips from house to garage, then she had backed her truck up the drive, hooked her heavy-duty tow chain to the back bumper of the Porsche, and pulled it out into the middle of the street blocking both lanes and seriously slowing traffic. What she'd wanted to do was move her truck up behind the Porsche and push it right on through the front garage wall, effectively wrecking the structure and the car in one move. Only the legal aspects of such
an action had deterred her. She didn't need any further court battles.

The car sat in the middle of the street until the police came to issue a ticket, impound the vehicle, and haul it away. She hadn't answered the door when the officer rang; she'd been busy cleaning out the room she used as an office. When at last she came out to load her truck, the police and the Porsche were gone. Smiling, she'd locked the house and taken off for Molena Point.

The message she'd listened to this morning had badly jolted her
…tell you that someone's been asking questions about you…about your plans this weekend. Are you going to some wedding? As little feeling as I have left for you, Ryan, I have to say be careful. I don't want anything on my conscience….

There'd been a long pause, then he'd hung up. She'd sat at her desk staring at the phone trying to figure out what he was talking about. Did his call have something to do with Priscilla Bloom getting back at her? But surely not. Why would the opportunistic Priscilla or any of Rupert's female friends have any connection to Max Harper and Charlie's wedding or even know about it? How would she know them at all?

Maybe Rupert had heard about the wedding and wanted to upset her by implying there was some kind of danger. That would be like him. Innuendo was just the kind of meaningless warning that would highly amuse him. She was so tired of his stupidity. Even the court battle now in process, that Rupert's attorneys had managed to delay endlessly as she fought for her rightful half of the business, even Rupert's testimony in court had been all hot air, all fabrication and lies—silly delaying tactics.
She'd worked hard to help build that business into what it now was. She wasn't dumping it all and walking away from what she'd earned. The Molena Point attorney she'd contacted had recommended an excellent San Francisco firm, and they were handling the case with minimum fuss for her despite the antics of Rupert's slick lawyers.

She rinsed her empty cup and lay it in the drain rack, glancing in at Joe and Dulcie, treating the two cats to a string of rude remarks about Rupert Dannizer. Then she went to finish dressing.

Ryan didn't see behind her the two cats' response to her longshoreman's description of Rupert, didn't see Joe Grey's yellow eyes narrow with amusement, and Dulcie's green eyes widen with laughter at her characterization of the man she so despised.

She was
reaching for her suit jacket when she remembered she'd have to change purses, that she couldn't dress up for a wedding and carry a canvas backpack. Crossing the studio in her slip, Ryan glanced again at the two cats sprawled across the blue-and-garnet rug, admiring Dulcie's chocolate stripes and Joe's sleek silver gleam. Quietly they stared up at her, Joe's gaze burning like clear amber, Dulcie's eyes as bright green as emeralds. But the intensity of their concentration forced her to step back. And as she moved away toward the dressing room she was certain that behind her they were still watching.

Strange little cats, she thought. Why was their interest so unsettling?

“Strange little cats,” she had once told Clyde.

“How so? Strange in what way?”

“There's something different about them. Don't you notice? I've never had cats, only dogs, but…”

“All cats are strange, one way or another. That's what makes them appealing.”

“I suppose. But those two, and the black-and-brown one you call the kit, sometimes they behave more like dogs than cats. The way they follow you around. And all three cats seem so intense, their glances are so…I don't know. The way they look at a person, the way the kit looks at you, they're not the way I think of cats.” She had watched Clyde, frowning. “Neither Wilma nor you finds your cats odd? Doesn't Wilma ever comment on how different they seem?”

Clyde had shrugged. “I don't think you've observed cats very closely. Cats
are
strange, cats
stare
at you, and every cat is different in some way. Unpredictable,” he'd said. “Dogs are more alike, easier to understand.”

“I see,” she'd answered doubtfully, wondering why he sounded so defensive.

Glancing in the dressing room mirror, she slipped on the beige linen suit without a blouse. The deep V of the neck set off the best of her tan—perfect for cleavage if she'd had any. Well, her tan
was
good. No one could tell it was a farmer's tan, ending where her shirt collars and sleeves began. With jacket and skirt in place, and pantyhose, most of her little bruises and cuts from working construction were well enough hidden.

The thought did nag her that she ought to do something about her general appearance, the most pressing item being her hair, which badly needed cutting. Two months on the job without stopping to get a haircut had left it longer than she liked, and ragged. Her nails were rough too and her skin felt as dry and leathery as an old carpenter's apron. What she could have used was a week at some cushy spa with luxurious daily massages,
perfumed oils, professional hairstyling, steam baths, manicure, pedicure—a complete overhaul guaranteed to put all emotional and physical parts back into working order.

It amused her to wonder what those high-class masseuses and beauty specialists would make of her calloused, torn hands and cut thumbs and assorted body bruises—little marks of hard labor earned by toting heavy lumber and plumbing fixtures, and leaning into two-by-fours to hold them in place as she nailed them solid. At least her fancy masseuse could have admired her slim butt and super muscle tone, even if the skinny package was as full of bruises as the dents in an ancient farm pickup.

Fastening on an ivory pendant, she brushed back her dark hair into some semblance of order and sprayed it, and applied lipstick. So much for elegance. She'd leave the pizzazz to her sister. Hanni would arrive at the wedding dressed in something that caught all eyes, something almost too wild, too far out, but that would look great on Hanni, with her prematurely white, wildly curling coiffure, her long lean body and her total self-assurance. Hanni was the show-off of the family, the onstage personality, the would-be model, Ryan thought warmly. She'd missed Hanni and Dallas, just as she constantly missed her dad. She hadn't seen much of him since she left the city, but she missed him more now, knowing he was so far away, on the East Coast. He'd been gone for nearly a month, conducting training sessions; she'd be glad when he was home again.

She found herself looking forward eagerly to the wedding, to a bit of social life, to being with friends, and with at least two members of her family. And looking forward too, to the quiet and meaningful ceremony.

Just because her own marriage had been ugly didn't mean she had to rain on others' bliss.

The marriage of Max Harper, that wry-witted police captain who, Clyde said, had seemed so very alone after his wife died, was a cause of celebration for the entire village—or at least for all those who didn't hate Harper, who didn't fear Harper's thorough and effective response to village crime.

To see Charlie and Max marrying pleased Ryan very much. The two were just right for each other. Two no-nonsense people who, despite their down-to-earth attitudes, were each in their own way dreamers. Though you'd never know that about Max Harper; he'd never let you know that.

Charlie and Max had wanted a small, private wedding that better fit their approach to life and was in keeping with Max's low-key style as chief of police. But the villagers were so excited about the occasion, everyone wanted to be a part of the wedding. The couple had settled for a ceremony in the small village church with the wedding guests mostly police officers and their wives and a few close friends, but with all the village crowded around in the adjoining rooms of the church and in the garden, and at the open patio doors where they could hear the couple's vows. The garden buffet afterward would be for the whole village.

She thought about Rupert's message.
Someone's asking…about your plans for the weekend…Are
you going to some wedding?…I don't want anything on my conscience….

She shook her head. That was all talk. She was stupid to let Rupert worry her, that was exactly what he wanted. Rupert's warped sense of the melodramatic was inappropriate and embarrassing.

Finished dressing, she decided to make fresh coffee for Clyde; he was usually early, a quality that had at first annoyed her but that she'd come to find reassuring. Clyde didn't like to be late and neither did she. Having not seen each other for over two months, they could sit and talk for a moment before being swallowed up in the crowd and the ceremony. The coffee was brewing when she heard him double-timing up the stairs. She opened the door eagerly, before he had time to knock, forgetting the mice on the mat.

He stood at the edge of the mat staring down without expression. She remained silent, unwilling to respond to his corny joke, and wondering again how he'd accomplished it.

Looking up at her, he started to grin. His short, dark hair was freshly cut, his shave smooth and clean, making her want to touch his cheek. She loved the scent of his vetiver aftershave. She had never seen him in a suit before, only in jeans and a polo shirt or, for evening, jeans and a sport coat. Today, as best man, he
had
dressed handsomely, choosing a dark navy suit, a pale, pinstriped shirt and a rich but subdued paisley tie. He seemed truly surprised by the dead mice.

“That's what your tomcat brought me.”

“He does that,” Clyde said casually. “He does that at home.”

“Leaves mice on the mat? Lines them up like a pack of sausages? Come on, Clyde.”

Clyde looked at her innocently. “All in a row. I haven't been able to break him of it.” His look was blank and serious.

She didn't pursue it. Maybe the cat had done it on his own. This was not the day to discuss the vicissitudes of Clyde's cat.

But as she turned to pour the coffee, she glimpsed the look he shot the tomcat. A glare deeply indignant, as if the cat should have used better judgment. And Joe Grey was staring back at Clyde with amused indulgence, with the kind of silent look that might pass between a dog and his trainer. She'd seen Dallas exchange such a glance with his pointers or retrievers, not a word spoken, or maybe a single word so soft that no one but man and dog heard it—a close, perceptive contact between man and animal.

Was such contact with a cat possible?

Well, why not? Maybe cats
were
as intelligent as a well-bred pointer or retriever. Whatever the case, Clyde was apparently more skilled with cats than with canines.

Stepping over the mice and into her kitchen, Clyde fetched a plastic bag from the drawer beside the refrigerator and returned to the deck to dispose of the bodies, shaking them from the mat into the bag, and carrying it down to the drive and around behind the garage to the garbage can. She heard him rinse his hands at the outdoor faucet. She listened to him come up the stairs, still wondering how many cats would line up their mice on the mat, or would think to do such a thing. Maybe she
should learn more about cats. The subject might be entertaining. Clyde returned as she poured the coffee. Pulling out a chair, he glanced in once more toward Joe Grey and Dulcie. “The kit wasn't with them?”

“No. Just the two of them.”

He shrugged. “She's getting big, growing up. I guess she can take care of herself.”

“You and Wilma have to worry about your cats. They wander all over the village. And the hills…it's so wild up there. I can hear the coyotes yipping at night. Don't you—”

“How many times have you asked me that, Ryan? Yes, we worry.” He looked at her intently. “Cats are not dogs, to be fenced and leashed. I went through this with Charlie. She couldn't believe we let the cats wander. She understands them better, now. You can't shut them in, they'd die of boredom, their lives would be worth nothing. They're intelligent cats. They need to pursue—whatever weird little projects cats pursue. They need to hunt. They're careful. I've watched them crossing the streets; they look, they don't just go barging out.”

“But the coyotes. And the dogs—big dogs.”

He sipped his coffee. “I'm sure they know when the coyotes are near, they can hear and smell them—and dogs and coyotes can't climb.” He gave her a little smile. “Those three cats will chase a dog until he wishes he'd never heard of cats. I once saw the kit ride the back of a big dog, raking and biting him, rode him from Hellhag Hill clear into the village. She was only a kitten, then. I'd hate to see what she could do now.”

The tortoiseshell kit had been with Charlie's aunt
Wilma and Dulcie for nearly a year while her owners were traveling. Ryan thought she was charming, those round, golden eyes in that little black-and-brown mottled face always delighted her. The kit's looks were so expressive that, more than once, Ryan caught herself wondering what the little animal was thinking.

“You're tan. It was hot up in the foothills.”

“Ninety to a hundred. Surveying, laying out foundation, and putting up framing in the hot sun.”

She loved the rolling hills at the base of the Sierras, the rising slopes golden with dry summer grass beneath islands of dark green pine trees, the kind of vast grazing country that had fed millions of longhorn cattle two centuries before when California was part of Mexico, and at one time had fed vast herds of buffalo and elk.

Rising, she fetched a pack of photos from her desk, to show him the added-on great room she had just completed. “Job went like a charm. No major delays in deliveries, no really critical battles with the inspectors, no disasters. But I'm glad to be home, after living with those two in that trailer.”

Dan Hall was a Molena Point carpenter who had been willing to work on the San Andreas job providing his young wife could come up on weekends. Scott Flannery was Ryan's uncle, her father's brother, a burly Scotch-Irish giant who had helped to raise Ryan and her two sisters after their mother died. Scotty and her mother's brother Dallas had moved in with them when Ryan was ten, a week after her mother's funeral. The three men had kept up the lessons their mother had insisted on, teaching the girls to cook and clean house and sew and to do most of the household repairs. Scotty had added
more sophisticated carpentry skills, and Dallas, then a uniformed officer with San Francisco PD, had taught them the proper handling and safety of firearms as well as how to train and work the hunting dogs he raised. While other little girls were dressing up, learning party manners, and how to fascinate the boys, Ryan and her sisters were outshooting the boys in competition, were hunting dove or quail over one or another of Dallas's fine pointers, or were off on a pack trip into the Rockies.

“Guess I'm getting old and crotchety,” Ryan said. “That big two-bedroom trailer seemed so cramped, I found myself longing for my own space. The whole time, I didn't see anyone but those two, and a real estate agent who wants me to do a remodel—and a couple of kids underfoot.”

Clyde looked at his watch and rose to rinse their cups. “Neighbor's kids?”

She nodded. “I never did figure out where they lived. They said up the hills. Those houses are scattered all over. You know how kids are drawn to new construction.”

Clyde picked up Joe Grey, who had trotted expectantly into the kitchen. “So did you take the remodeling job?”

“I think I'll let that one go by,” she said briefly.

Slinging the tomcat over his shoulder, Clyde scooped up Dulcie too, cradling the little female in the crook of his arm.

“You're taking them to the wedding,” Ryan said. It was not a question. Clyde took the gray tomcat everywhere.

“Why not? It's a garden wedding. If they don't like
it, they can leave.” He grinned at her. “Max has a thing about cats. I like to tweak him. I thought it would be amusing to bring the cats to his wedding, let them watch from the trees. Charlie will appreciate the humor.” They moved out the door and down the steps to his antique yellow roadster, where Clyde dropped the cats into the open rumble seat.

“Bring them up front with me, Clyde. You don't want them jumping out. I'll hold them.”

“They won't jump. They're not stupid.”

“Bring them up here. They're cats. Cats don't…” She shut up, looking intently at Clyde and at the cats. Joe Grey and Dulcie lay down obediently on the soft leather rumble seat, as docile as a pair of well-mannered dogs—as if perhaps they
had
been trained to behave.