Cat Seeing Double (25 page)

“Ryan, it's Dad. Sounds like I woke you. I'm in San Francisco, just got back, checked into an airport motel. Catching the early shuttle down to the village in the morning. You want to meet my plane?”

“I…I'd love to. You're coming because of me, because of the murder. You haven't been home.” How strange she felt, talking to her own father. How uncertain—because of what Williams had said. But how silly.

“I'm coming because I have a few days leave and need to rest up after running that training session, before I go back to work. Can you meet my plane or shall I…?”

“Yes, I can meet it. What time?”

“If it's
on
time, five
A.M.
”

“I'll be there but I can't wait past six-thirty, I promised Hanni. An early installation, one she refuses to put off.”

“If you're not there, I'll take a cab or call Dallas. You sound—tired? A bit stiff. You okay? You're not letting this thing get to you? I haven't talked with Dallas. What kind of leads is he getting?”

“It's not that. I…He's working on it, has a couple
of guys in the city checking out Rupert's…Rupert's women. And, they know my gun didn't kill Rupert.”

“Then you should sound very up, not like you just lost your last friend.”

“I'm fine, really. Very very up. Just…dead tired, Dad. That's all. I'll see you in the morning, bright and early. We can have breakfast, if you're on time.” But her voice caught, and the tears were just running down. What was wrong with her?

“Ryan? What?”

“Nothing. Honest. Pancakes and bacon. See you at five. G'night.” She hung up, choking with tears. She wanted to bury her face against her father's chest and hear him tell her that everything Larn said was lies, that everything about her father was just as she had always believed, just as it should be. She felt like she was six years old again, badly needing comforting by her dad. Did anyone ever get too old for such comforting?

But the worst thing was, he'd heard exactly how she felt. He'd heard all the dismay and uncertainty that she didn't even know was there, all the stupid questions.

This wasn't
like
her, to let Williams lay this kind of trip on her. Williams was lying, there was no way she was going to believe
him
.

And, suddenly, she buried her face against Rock and bawled.

It was
4:40 in the morning when Ryan pulled into Peninsula Airport, parking in the short-term lot. She left Rock in the cab of the truck, cracking the windows and locking the doors, and hurried into the lobby hoping Dad's flight was on time. She didn't like leaving Rock very long on that expensive leather upholstery.

The big dog hadn't offered, so far, to do any of the damage his breed was famous for, but she couldn't forget the horror stories. Before she entered the small terminal she removed a police badge from her purse and pinned it on her jacket, a procedure highly irregular and illegal. Entering, she nodded to several security people, gave over her purse for perusal when requested, glad she'd remembered to remove Hanni's gun. She stood reading the schedule, then approached the security desk. The guard on duty was maybe thirty, good-looking, clean shaven, with nice brown eyes and no wedding ring.

“I have a security dog in my truck, I'm meeting his handler.” Ryan widened her eyes, looking deeply at him. “This is…a sort of surprise for him. Mike worked with the dog for a year and then…well, he
was wounded on the job and now he's coming home.” She took a step closer to the counter. The guard did the same. “Would it…would it be okay if I bring the dog inside, just until flight six-oh-two-seven lands? My boss will be so thrilled. I promise the dog won't be a problem, I've been training him since Mike was hurt….”

The guard grinned at her and waved her on in. She touched his hand briefly, smiling up at him and headed for the truck.

Rock was as thrilled to see her as if she'd been gone for weeks. She hugged him extravagantly because he hadn't torn up the upholstery then leashed him and slipped the yellow vest on him that she had made with felt and a marking pen, neatly lettering
Working Dog
on both sides. Commanding Rock out of the truck she told him to heel, praying that he wouldn't let the strange sights and sounds of the terminal undo him. She didn't yet know this dog very well, he might have all manner of behavior problems that could surface suddenly in the very different environment of the airport.

Before taking him into the terminal she walked him a block up the sidewalk and back. He honored every command. Heading for gate B she glanced across at the guard. He gave her a bright smile and a thumbs up, openly admiring Rock. Outside the gate she settled down at the end of a bench, feeling strangely nervous at meeting her dad, trying not to hear Larn Williams's words:
I don't believe the gossip…I thought of course you'd heard…It's common knowledge…The women…you have to know about the women…I can't believe you never heard…Flannery had plenty of women…affairs with more than a few female parolees…

None of that was common knowledge, none of it ever happened. Not Mike Flannery, who had been totally committed to raising his girls the way their mother would want, totally committed to their high morals and to keeping alive the memory of their mother. Not this thoughtful man who had said to them a thousand times,
What would your mother have done at your age, in that situation?
Not Mike Flannery who had spent every free minute with his daughters working the dogs or hunting or riding, who had never had any free time unaccounted for, not Mike Flannery who had never given Ryan or her sisters any tiniest cause to doubt him. Growing up in a law-enforcement family, Ryan and Hanni and their older sister were not naive, they had all three been wise beyond their years, any of them would have noticed, would have known if their dad was fooling around.

She startled suddenly when Rock whined. Looking down at him, she realized she'd been rubbing his ears so hard she'd hurt him. She stroked his head softly and apologized. He whined in return, never offering to move from the sit-stay command she had given him almost ten minutes ago. Ten minutes…and as she looked out at the empty runway here came a plane landing.

As it taxied out of view to the south, she waited, heart pounding, for it to return up the long field. Watching it slowly pull up to gate B, she felt queasy in her middle.

This wasn't going to be easy, telling him what she'd heard. But then it wouldn't be easy, either, facing her dad with a murder charge hanging over her, a charge that, even if it was a setup, could affect both Dad's career and Dallas's, could ruin both their futures.

Standing out of the way she watched people flock as near to the doors as they were allowed, watched and waited nervously with her hand sweating on Rock's leash. She felt far more nervous than when, at twelve, she'd struck a ball through the neighbor's window, or when she'd let one of the pups run off and nearly get hit by a car, or the time she had accidentally fired a round through the roof of the firing range. She was far more nervous now, at seeing her own father.

Make a fuss over him, Rock. A fuss and a diversion. And don't make a liar of me, in the eyes of that security guard.
Who knew when she might need to rely on that guard for some yet unimagined emergency? When he looked up, watching her, she smiled and petted Rock.

Her dad was among the first off the plane, right behind the first-class passengers. She waved to him but kept Rock out of the crowd, letting Dad come to her winding his way through, his tall, lean frame easy in a suede sport coat and jeans and boots, his familiar grin, his pleasure at seeing her.

He didn't hug her or touch her until he knew what the dog was all about.

“Make a fuss over him, a big fuss, he's supposed to be your dog. I'll explain later. His name's Rock.”

Mike Flannery took in the badge on her lapel, and Rock's vest, and let Rock smell his hand then talked softly to him until Rock was dancing around him, whining and so happy with this new friend that any minute he might start barking. Dad glanced at her, laughing. “This better be good. I'll get my bags. Where's the truck?”

“New…red Chevy king cab. Short-term parking,
aisle three.” She grinned at him and headed for the door, the big dog looking back longingly at Mike Flannery—and so did she. Just being with Dad had chased away her stupid doubts.

She had settled Rock in the backseat when Dad came across the lot with his all-purpose, scarred and battered elk-hide bag. She stowed it in the backseat beside Rock, but where Mike could keep an eye on it so the big dog wouldn't chew. “We have plenty of time for breakfast. We'll go to the Courtyard where Rock can lie under the table—he doesn't need elk-hide for breakfast.” Wheeling out of the airport, she headed for the freeway.

“So why is he supposed to be my dog? What's with the working dog getup? All that fuss just so you could take him into the airport?”

She grinned. “Weimaraners are famous for tearing up the inside of a car.”

“So I've heard. This is the stray Dallas told me about? Looks like he's not a stray anymore.”

“I guess.”

“You've had him vetted? Had his shots?”

“Um…Not yet. Haven't had time.”

Her father looked at her sternly.

“It's just two days. Maybe I can—”

“You want me to do it? I'm hanging around for a few days. I can drive one of Harper's surveillance wrecks.”

She turned off the highway into the village. “Would you? It's Dr. Firetti, up near Beckwhite's Automotive.”

“I know Firetti. Shall I have him check for an ID chip?”

She was surprised at the sinking feeling that gave her, that maybe Firetti would find Rock's owner with that
simple electronic scan. “I guess you'd better.” As she pulled up before the Courtyard, Flannery looked intently at her, and patted her knee. “It'll be all right. Outside of being afraid you'll lose your fine hound, what else is bothering you? Besides, of course, Rupert's murder?”

She swung out of the truck, saying nothing, and unloaded Rock, moving ahead of her father into the restaurant. When they were seated, he gave her a questioning look. “You don't want to talk about it, this early in the morning.”

“Not really. Not here. Just…gossip.” The longer she put it off, the harder it would be.

“Gossip about you, because of the murder? Well I wouldn't—”

“Could we talk about it tonight?”

“Shall I pick up some steaks?”

“Perfect.” Fishing in her purse, she found the extra key Charlie had given her, and watched him work it onto his key ring. They talked about the remodel she was starting for Clyde, about Scotty moving down to the village to work for her, about the rug she and Hanni were laying and how excited Hanni was, about all the inconsequentials. They enjoyed waffles and sausage and quantities of coffee then she dropped her dad and Rock at the police station. But, heading for the Landeau cottage, she was again tense with unease. Too many things going on, too many problems butting at one another.

Scotty said life wasn't full of problems, it was rich with decisions. He said a person was mighty lucky to have the privilege of making choices, even hard ones. That the more carefully you thought out your decisions, the more the good times would roll. All her life Scotty
had told her that if you did nothing but worry, if you were indecisive and scared to make decisions, then the good times would escape like a flock of frightened birds.

She guessed she'd better listen. If she got herself into a knot, she wouldn't conquer any of the present tangles. They would conquer her.

 

It wasn't yet dawn when the three cats arrived at the Landeau cottage, Joe fidgeting and pacing, consumed with getting inside for a look at the mantel. The kit too was wired, so excited to be out and free again and on an adventure. She had been home at Wilma's since the night before, when Cora Lee reluctantly returned her and was pleased to stay for dinner. Now that Dallas had arrested Gramps Farger, now that the old man was safely tucked away in jail, it had seemed all right to bring the tattercoat home.

The kit loved Cora Lee, and certainly she had loved Cora Lee's extravagant attention, but the kit easily grew restless. Cora Lee said she'd been peering out the windows with far too keen an interest. Having promised not to let the kit out, Cora Lee had worried at her unrest.

Now behind the Landeau cottage in the dark woods where the three cats crouched, the kit's tail lashed with excitement. Her eyes burned round and black, she could hardly remain still.

“Cool it, Kit,” Dulcie said softly. “We're not set to charge that cottage like a platoon of commandos.”

The kit eased the tail action to a slow twitch. But her eyes remained wide and burning. If they'd been hunting rats, her enthusiastic vibes alone would have cleared
the premises. As the cats watched for Ryan and Hanni, above them the sky faded from black to dark pearl. The moon hung low in the brightening sky, circled by a nimbus of mist. Within the cottage, beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass, there was no sign of Larn Williams. The bed was neatly made. The sunken sitting area shone like a softly lit stage. Joe watched intently the flawed black niche in the fireplace, but the moon's diffused light, from a different angle at this later hour, showed him nothing. He could smell on the breeze the stink of exhaust from the departed Jeep. The cats were dozing when Hanni pulled onto the granite parking.

She wasn't driving her powder-blue convertible but a white van with the dolphin-shaped logo of her design studio. Certainly the Mercedes wasn't made to haul the ten-foot rug that stuck out the back where the rear doors stood open and tied together. Swinging out, she began to unload some huge, Mexican ceramic pots that were wedged in beside the rug. She was dressed this morning in faded designer jeans and a tomato red velour top that set off her short, windswept white hair and her flawless complexion and dangling gold earrings.
“Smashing,”
Dulcie whispered. Hanni Coon had a wonderful talent for elegance. If Dulcie were a human, she'd kill to look like that.

Hanni had the pots unloaded when Ryan's truck turned in. Ryan swung out dressed in her usual nondescript work jeans, a navy flannel shirt over a cotton blouse, and rough work boots. Hanni looked her over, a quick assessment of how Ryan
might
dress herself, how Ryan
might
look, a hasty glance that seemed to the cats little more than habit. “Where's Rock?”

“Dad's back, he called last night, I picked him up this morning. He's getting Rock vetted.”

“He came directly here? Because of Rupert! We could have dinner. He's staying at the cottage?”

“I…There's something I need to talk with him about.”

“Personal? About the murder?”

Ryan looked at her helplessly. “That okay?”

“Of course it's okay. Can I help?”

“No, just…Could I explain later? It's…Makes my stomach churn. I'm trying to be cool.”

Hanni looked at her quietly, and began to ease the wrapped rug out of the van. They carried it into the house, one at each end as if, Joe thought, they were toting an oversized cadaver. Ryan opened up the sliding glass walls of the sunken sitting area while Hanni vacuumed the wood floor. Then, kneeling, they unwrapped the rug, stripping off the heavy brown paper. When at last they had it laid out on the wood floor, even Joe was dazzled. Dulcie caught her breath, creeping closer to the window through the fallen branches.

“I've never seen anything so beautiful,” she whispered. She and the kit stared and stared at the medley of brilliant colors, the thickly woven, intricate patterns. The kit crept closer still, watching the rug and watching Ryan and Hanni where they knelt in the middle pressing the rug gently toward the walls securing the edges with two-sided tape. Kit was so fascinated that her nose was soon pressed against the screen of the open window. Hanni's masterpiece, handwoven in England at a fortune per square yard, made all three cats want to sink
their paws in and roll with purring abandon. Silently Dulcie reached a paw, as if hypnotized, sliding the tall screen open, and padded delicately into the room.