Cat Bearing Gifts (19 page)

“Secrets within secrets,” Pan said as they moved away, wondering where else to look for the stolen vehicle. “This old place reeks of secrets. Only a few months ago, you and Dulcie find Sammie's body buried right down there under her own house. Then Emmylou inherits the house and starts finding money hidden in the walls. Those two tramps come here looking for it, too. And then those same two men wreck the Greenlaws' car or are involved in the wreck, one of them attacks Pedric and Lucinda and could as well have killed them both.”

“And,” Joe said thoughtfully, “even Sammie's death itself might be tied in. It was her money.”

“Tied in how?

“The department's file on Sammie says she was killed because she saw Debbie's husband, Erik Kraft, kill Debbie's younger sister after he got her pregnant. Killed his own wife's little sister. But did Erik kill Sammie because of the money, too? Could he have known Sammie had hidden money? If he found out somehow, could he have tried to find it himself, tried to force her to tell him where it was? When she wouldn't, he killed her?”

“Maybe,” Pan said thoughtfully. “I guess we'll never know. Whatever happened, Erik Kraft is scum, I always hated him. With a father like that and a mother like Debbie, it's no wonder Tessa has problems. Do you think,” he said, “Vic hid the Lincoln nearby, where he can get at it in a hurry?”

Both cats glanced down the hill where the little cottages stood crowded close together beneath their overgrown cypress trees. “Come on,” Joe said, “it's worth a look, half those places are empty.” And off they went, past Debbie's house, down among the
FOR RENT
signs and the neglected foreclosures, to peer into garage windows and under doors, searching for a car worth maybe twenty thousand but loaded with treasure worth many times more.

25

R
YAN DROVE HOME
from Debbie's feeling dead for sleep and out of sorts, wishing Debbie Kraft had never returned to the village, and cursing her stupidity that she'd allowed Debbie to entrench herself rent-free in the little spec cottage. She had no idea whether her ultimatum to Debbie would have any effect on the woman. If it didn't she'd give the department a heads-up—if they weren't already watching Debbie. She hated that this would jeopardize Tessa. Even rude little Vinnie didn't deserve to be swept into the maw of Children's Services. Looking at her watch, she saw it was only mid-afternoon, just after two, but she'd love to crawl under a quilt for a few hours. Last night's desperate phone call from Kit seemed like weeks ago, a whole lifetime seemed to have passed since Kit's lonely cry for help.

Racing up to Santa Cruz, searching the dark cliffs and then that business with the coyote, their relief at finding Kit unhurt and then hurrying to the hospital and their long vigil there, had left her limp with fatigue. Their trek home this morning behind the ambulance, getting Lucinda settled, and finding that lowlife had been in there pawing through their personal things, stealing Pedric's clothes, that was enough without Debbie's sour defiance to top off the long and exhausting drama. Was she getting old? she thought crossly. But no long day on the job, no amount of hard physical work on a construction project, exhausted her as these stressful hours had done. Now, pulling into her own drive and killing the engine, she glanced in her side mirror to see Clyde turning in behind her, in one of the shop's loaner cars.

He had put in less than an hour, since she'd dropped him at work to clear up some irksome detail about Jaguar parts lost in shipping. She watched him step out of the silver Mercedes, yawning. Despite his aggravation at a delay in the repair schedule and, consequently, an annoyed client, it was nice to own your own business, to feel comfortable taking some time off when you needed to. The minute she opened the truck door, Rock bolted out and straight for the house, nearly upsetting Clyde as he unlocked the front door. When he pushed it open, swinging it wide, Rock bolted through heading for the kitchen.

Grinning, Clyde put his arm around her and they followed Rock in, found the big silver dog checking the kitchen floor for stray food. They stood watching him lick Snowball's empty bowl clean then sniff along the countertop—whatever enticing trail he found led him out of the kitchen again and up the stairs to the master suite. They moved up behind him, Clyde carrying their duffel and backpacks, to find Rock had followed the scent of the old yellow cat.

On the love seat in Clyde's study, Misto and Snowball woke only a little, curled together sleepily. On the desk the message light was flashing, but neither Ryan nor Clyde wanted to listen to messages. They watched Rock nose at the two cats, licking them all over. The little white cat was used to the big dog's attention, his wet caresses made her smile. Misto batted at Rock with velvet paws, hissing halfheartedly—but then the yellow tom caught a whiff of the backpacks where Clyde had set them on the floor. He rose to investigate. He smelled the canvas with a puzzled look, then looked up at Ryan, questioning. He sniffed the ocean smells the canvas had collected, the scent of fresh pine needles, the scents of Kit and Joe Grey and Pan. He dropped his ears and backed away.

“Coyote,” he said, scowling up at them. “And blood,” he added, drawing his lips back at the metallic scent.

“The Greenlaws had a wreck,” Ryan said. “They're in the hospital. Kit ran off and was lost and called us, and we went after her. We found her, she's fine, but . . .”

Behind her, Clyde had flicked the replay on the answering machine; she paused until it had played its messages. The first two were about problems with the house she was just finishing, but nothing serious. The third call was from Dr. John Firetti; his recorded voice brought Misto to full attention. Leaping onto the desk, he nosed at the machine.

“We're home!”
Firetti said.

“We're home
,” Mary chimed in, “shall we come get Misto? We so missed him, could we—”

But Misto was already on his way, leaping up to the rafters like a young cat and through Joe's cat door, his yellow tail vanishing as he bolted out through Joe's tower. They heard him thudding across the roof at a dead run, his gallop soon fading and then gone; they imagined him flying across the peaks above Ocean, making for the veterinary clinic and the cottage that stood beside it, making for home.

He'd left the Damens' without knowing much at all about the wreck or about Kit's fearful adventure, and with no idea the Greenlaws' car had been stolen, that the black car he'd seen pulling into the stone shed did, indeed, belong to Lucinda and Pedric. He left Ryan and Clyde equally ignorant, as well, of where the Town Car might now be hidden.

D
EBBIE'S CLUTTERED AND
smelly station wagon was a big change for Vic, from driving the pristine new Lincoln. He'd quickly grown used to the heavier, smoother ride, and even with the Town Car's dents and coat of mud its interior had been better suited to his new, cleaned-up persona. Though in truth the Suzuki, stinking and littered, was more what he was used to, more like the comfortable old truck with trash on the floor, discarded socks, the smell of accumulated dust, stale crackers, and empty drink cans.

Heading for the hospital, he meant to use patient Michael Emory's name to enter the ER through the locked doors, to be admitted without a hassle. He planned to head for Emory's cubicle as if to visit, but then move right on by to Birely's room. It wouldn't take a minute to do Birely, inject the air the way the book said, bending the IV tube to keep air from going up into the bottle—just stick the syringe in below the bend, and push the air in. As simple as that, the air goes down through the IV, through the vein and up into Birely's heart. Half a second and he's dead, his life snuffed like a match in a blast of wind.

Vic knew he'd have to move fast, get out in that split second before the alarms went off and the place exploded into action, nurses and doctors running in with their expertise and their machines to bring Birely back to life; that part worried him, hoping he could escape before anyone saw him or realized he'd been in Birely's room at all.

And who knew how long it would take before he could even be alone with Birely without them nurses going in and out? The hour he'd spent in there before dawn, when he'd followed Birely's ambulance and pushed on in, the place had been pretty quiet. But now later in the day he imagined it might be real busy, people in scrubs hurrying every which way, phones ringing, maybe gurneys pushing by him coming or going from X-ray, white-coated doctors moving with deliberation from one cubicle to the next. If it was like that, he'd be lucky to get half a minute alone. He could hardly hang out there for hours waiting for the right moment without someone asking questions.

Pulling into the underground, he found a parking slot near the glass doors into the ER. He figured no one would take a second look at the old Suzuki, would think, just one more patient with no money and no insurance, going into the ER with the flu or a backache, going for help where the doctors wouldn't refuse to treat you even if you couldn't pay. The wide glass doors opened automatically. At the admitting desk, he gave his name as James Emory, told the nurse he'd come to see his cousin Michael.

“Mr. Emory has two visitors, that's all we allow at one time. If you'll have a seat here in the waiting room, we'll call you when you can go in.”

“No problem,” Vic said. “You got a Coke machine handy?”

“There's nothing on this floor. You can go up to the cafeteria, they have Cokes, coffee, and sandwiches.” She pointed down the short hall, where he could see the lower steps of a stairway leading up. “That's the shortest way. At the top just keep going to the big central atrium.”

He didn't know what an atrium was but he guessed he'd know when he saw it. He went up the steps into a wide, bright corridor, glass walls on his left looking out to manicured trees and gardens. Passing well-dressed people who looked like they belonged there, he felt out of place until he remembered he looked just like them now, no more shabby clothes, he was so cleaned up it took him a minute to recognize his own reflection in the tall windows. Hell, he looked pretty damn good, for a hobo.

The atrium was high ceilinged, with a towering round skylight at the top, and a big indoor fishpond with a small tree growing in the middle. He bought a Coke in the cafeteria, sat down at a table beside the pond. All kinds of space led away into bright halls and more open spaces, and he could see two more sets of stairs leading down. All so damn clean it made him uncomfortable. What kind of money did it take to build a fancy place like this? Molena Point was even richer than he'd thought.

He drank his Coke watching some kind of large, brightly colored fish swim back and forth, then got himself a sticky cinnamon bun and a cup of coffee. How long would it take for those people down in the ER, visiting Michael Emory, to get tired and leave? He felt edgy to get back down there and get this over with, and nervous, too, not wanting to go back. What time did the nurses change shift? Maybe better to wait until then, when they were hurrying to go home, others hurrying in to work, looking at records, playing catch-up to which patients had checked in or checked out or died—best to get down there when they were all distracted, do the deed, slip out to the parking garage again and vanish.

He got more coffee and settled back, watching the circling fish, checking his watch every little while. Just before four, several young women dressed in scrubs hurried out, and several others double-timed in from another parking lot that lay beyond the gardens. Young women walking fast, all businesslike, they knew where they were going and were in a hurry to be on time. Rising, he left his trash on the table.

He was headed for the stairs when he saw that woman contractor come in through the glass front doors, and he stepped back, frowning. No mistaking her, same jeans and red sweatshirt she'd had on at Debbie's, only now she was wearing one of those backpack purses, an expensive leather model. Looked like, the way she held her head, she was talking to the damn purse, but then he saw she was talking on her cell phone. He turned away and sat down at the table again. Did she recognize him from around Emmylou's place?

As far as he knew she'd probably never noticed him there—yet when he glanced around again, she was looking straight at him. She saw him looking, said something into the phone, and went on past the pond toward a set of stairs that descended on the far side. Well, he'd seen
her
for sure, around Debbie's and up at Emmylou's, too, helping out with the old woman's carpentering. Were these women all friends? He didn't rise until she had disappeared, moving on down the steps, making him wonder where she was headed, what was down there in that direction. He waited a while and then descended the other way, to the ER, trying to calm his jumpy nerves.

R
YAN HAD AWAKENED
in late afternoon to the ringing of the phone. Clyde, sprawled beside her on the king-sized bed, hadn't stirred. An afternoon nap was a rare occurrence in their lives, she didn't like being woken up. Grabbing the ringing instrument, she'd eased out from under the coverlet that she'd tossed over them.

“It's Kate. I hope I didn't wake you.”

“Only a little.”

Kate laughed. “I'm sorry. Pedric called, he's feeling better, he asked if I could bring Kit over, he misses her, he wants to know if I can smuggle her in. I don't want to leave Lucinda alone yet when she's on the pain meds, but he sounded so forlorn. I think Kit's ordeal up on the cliffs has left him more upset than she was, he wants her close to him, he asked if Lucinda could spare her for a while. Could you . . . ?”

“Of course I'll come, I'll take her over there to him.” Beside her, Clyde turned over, mumbling but hardly waking; Clyde had sat up the longest last night with Pedric, he deserved to be sleepy.

“I'm just running Kit up to the hospital,” she said, “Pedric's asking for her.”

“Take the Mercedes,” he said, waking fuzzily. “Keys are on my desk. I'll drop the truck off at the shop before the mechanics go home, I don't like the way it's running.”

She thought it was running fine, he was so picky about their cars. She grinned at him, nodded, pulled on her boots, and found her purse. She dropped her keys on the desk, took the Mercedes keys, and told Rock to stay home. The Weimaraner, having hauled himself from sleep and surged off the love seat, was more than ready to go with her. She told him, “No,” and hugged him, but he looked after her ruefully. She moved on down the stairs and out, slipped into the silver Mercedes, and headed for Lucinda's house.

When she pulled up into the Greenlaws' drive, tortoiseshell Kit was waiting on the steps shifting from paw to paw, lashing her fluffy tail with impatience. Ryan set the emergency brake and then opened the driver's door. Kit leaped up into her lap, her expression a strange mix of eagerness and sadness.