Cat Cross Their Graves (5 page)

N
o one knew the kit was trapped in the old cottage.
Lucinda and Pedric, Wilma and Clyde searched half the night for the little tortoiseshell. They looked everywhere they could think to look—underneath porches, through any open windows, into the back gardens of shops and cottages, and in all the little alleys. Clyde had climbed fences and Wilma had hurried up exterior stairways onto private balconies. Several times she'd stepped out from the balconies to wander the rooftops like a cat herself. She heard Lucinda and Pedric calling, too, calling and calling the kit. But at last they had given up, had all turned toward home, silent and worried and angry.

 

Charlie would have been out searching, but she was unaware of the small cat's absence; she and Ryan had left the murder scene early, before anyone had begun to search for Kit. Now, this morning as Ryan
turned her red pickup into the long lane, Charlie was just coming out of the barn leading Max's big buckskin, turning the horses out for the day. Charlie looked up and waved.

Ryan waved back, but her mind was on the weather that so stubbornly dictated the work on this job. California winters could be windy and nasty, but this bout of storms seemed to have gone on forever. She had been able, between heavy rains, to pour the foundation for the Harpers' new living room and frame and dry-in the new mudroom; and now, this morning, the weatherman promised their first clear day, so maybe they could get on with framing the living room.

Of all those who complained about the extended wet weather, the building contractors had grown perhaps the most irritable, cursing the succession of storms that decisively halted construction schedules. All through the Christmas season, construction jobs had waited while cold storms battered the California coast, wind and rain lashing Molena Point until the village seemed ready to wash out to sea. The Molena River rose so high that many lowland houses flooded, their carpets and furniture soaked with mud, driveways washed out, streets closed. South of Molena Point, on Highway 1, rock slides shut down both lanes for over a week, just before New Year's Eve. The wet weather had caused Ryan to put off not only the larger portion of the Harper job, but the start of a new house in the north hills, and had forced her to give three carpenters unwanted vacations. This, coupled with the obdurate reluctance of the county building department to issue any permit on a
timely basis, had left her highly ticked. Not until after New Year's had she been able to sweet-talk the county inspectors into issuing the Harper permit, employing what charm she could muster. Ask any Molena Point contractor, working with their county building department was like working with bureaucrats from hell.

But now, in the wake of the murder, her irritation seemed only petty and without substance. The death of someone who had done wonderful things in her life, things that made a difference in the lives of others, that death seemed to Ryan an enormous loss.

She and Charlie had left Otter Pine Inn around one last night, leaving Max and Ryan's uncle Dallas and a handful of officers interviewing witnesses. She'd lost track of Clyde—her date, she thought, amused, had gone off on some serious errand with Wilma and the Greenlaws. Now, as she swung out of the truck, Charlie came out of the barn again and hurried toward the house, having apparently finished with the horses. Ryan let Rock out the passenger side, gave him a command, and the big weimaraner raced for the house.

Charlie moved ahead of Ryan into the kitchen to pour fresh coffee, letting Rock in. She stood warming her hands around the coffeepot, then knelt down to give Rock a hug. He was so sleek and healthy, and so much the gentleman, it was hard not to hug him. Rock had been good for Ryan, and the big dog had had his own part in spotting Ryan's husband's killer and thus clearing Ryan of the suspicion that had surrounded her.

Of course no one except Charlie herself, and
Clyde and Wilma, knew that the gray tomcat and his two ladies had, as well, pointed the department toward evidence that convicted the real killer. Charlie hoped the cats would stay out of this murder—though she wouldn't lay money on it.

Leaving Otter Pine Inn last night with Ryan, Charlie had wanted only to be quiet, to grieve for Patty alone until Max got home and could hold her and they could comfort each other. Setting the alarm, she had fallen into bed wondering if Max would get home at all, if he'd get any sleep. The next days would demand a lot of everyone; this was not just a remote police investigation. They were all grieving; certainly Max was. Patience would be required of them all. This was not like the murder of a stranger, and not like a natural death, where after a few days there would be a funeral and some kind of closure.

Arriving home alone to the few lights she and Max had left on, she had brought the two big dogs inside from where they roamed the fenced-in yard around the house. She'd wanted them inside with her as she crawled gratefully into bed. She had soon slept, the dogs sprawled on the rug snoring. But she did not sleep well; she kept waking, seeing Patty's torn face in the harsh, glaring lights, the officers and coroner moving around her, busy at their work. Seeing the awful pain in Max's eyes.

She had dozed and waked until Max came in about four. He had crawled into bed ice cold. She had clung to him, warming him, had held him close, not talking, until he slept.

This morning, letting him sleep, she had risen with some renewed strength and resolve. She had
quickly showered, then gone out to feed the horses and clean their stalls. Returning, pouring a cup of coffee, she heard Max get up. She had stood at the kitchen window looking out at the morning, letting the long, unbroken view down the hills strengthen her. The first early light, when the broad expanse of sea and hills was dressed in rich, dawn colors, seemed always new to her. Leaning against the counter sipping coffee, she'd heard Max get out of the shower, the silence as the water stopped pounding in the pipes. Putting bacon in the skillet, she'd mixed the pancake batter listening to the dogs' impatient barking. Going to the door, she had made them be still. Max's buckskin gelding, not to be outdone, began banging his stall, wanting to be in the pasture, making her laugh. She tested the griddle that was heating, flicked water on the hot metal, and watched the drops bounce and dance. As she poured pancake batter, the sea wind blew harder, rattling the tarp that covered their stacked lumber. If they got any dry weather, she wondered how long it would hold.

Setting the bacon and pancakes in the barely warm oven, she went to turn the horses out. They had finished eating and were eager for the sunshine that the clearing sky promised. Looping a rope around Bucky's neck, she led the big buckskin out, letting the two mares follow him. As she was shutting the gate, Ryan's red truck had pulled off the road and into their long lane, Rock with his head out the window. Above Ryan's truck, the sky over the sea was truly brightening.

 

“We can start framing the living room this morning,” Ryan said. “Don't know how far we'll get. Don't know whether Scotty will want Dillon to help us or work with you—you can rip out the Sheetrock between the two bedrooms this morning, take out that wall.” It amused her to be giving the owner of the house orders. Charlie was, with some experience behind her, turning into a fair carpenter. The tear out would be an exercise in violence that might help Charlie work off some of her anger at Patty's death. And they were both eager to finish Charlie's new studio. Charlie couldn't wait to bring her desk and easel over from the barn, her drafting and work tables and boxes of art supplies that were stacked in the grain room inviting the mice to sample her inks and paints and her expensive drawing paper.

The kitchen was warm, its bright colors always welcoming. Red and blue pillows were scattered on the window seat, and the breakfast table was set with red place mats. Charlie was dressed this morning in a pale blue sweatshirt and jeans; blue always helped to cheer her.

“You sleep?” Ryan said.

“A little. You have breakfast?”

Ryan nodded. “Rock and I had leftover steak. I had an orange and some kiwis, but he likes his kibble.” She sipped her coffee. Standing in the kitchen, the two women looked out at the increasing brightness as the clouds blew south, and watched Ryan's uncle Scotty pull in, his old white truck muddy halfway up the sides. Dillon Thurwell was with him, the girl's red hair catching the light as he turned in the yard to park. Someone usually picked her up in
the village; she couldn't drive yet and it was a long bike ride. Dillon worked with them on weekends and when she wasn't in school. With their fiery red hair, Scotty and Dillon might have been related, though they were not. The big, burly Irishman and the slim young girl got along like a pair of redheads, too. The two waved, pulled on their work gloves, and headed for the covered lumber pile, where they began pulling out two-by-fours, stacking them along the foundation for the new living room. When they had maybe two dozen placed, Scotty stood explaining something to Dillon, talking with his hands as he always did, making Ryan laugh. In a minute they headed around the far side of the house where their tools were stored underneath.

Dillon, having worked with Scotty through Christmas vacation, seemed to like this new twist in her life. The fourteen-year-old had learned quickly once she had knocked the chip off her shoulder. She'd settled in well to help with cleaning up the debris, filling the tarp-covered Dumpster that had been hauled up to the site; and in the old living room, which would become the new master bedroom, she was learning to mud and tape drywall. With the constant rain, all work seemed twice as hard—taking out the demolished drywall and wood scraps, hauling new building materials into the mudroom, trying to keep the house halfway clean. And then draining the foundation for the twenty-by-thirty-foot living room so they could at least frame the walls. The earth within was still a pool of mud, but the concrete foundation was firm and deep.

“I always wanted a swimming pool,” Charlie said,
looking out at the mud where the living room would rise.

“Don't knock it. Bring in a masseuse, add a steam room, you can make a bundle. Harpers' spa, restorative soaks in Molena Point's rare and rejuvenating beauty clay.” But Ryan looked at Charlie shyly, a bit embarrassed by making jokes this morning. “You promised to help the senior ladies with their garden today, if it didn't rain. Will they go on with that, after last night? And even if they feel up to gardening, will the ground be dry enough?”

“Should be nice and soft to get the weeds out. They've never had a problem with slides on that hill; there are railroad ties to retain it. Somewhere underneath there's supposed to be a shoulder of granite running along above the canyon.” Charlie pushed back her unruly red hair. “The ladies will be up to it. Work is better than sitting around grieving. While they weed, I'm going to take out whatever geraniums they don't want; I can pot them until we finish building. Those overgrown pelargoniums are magnificent.”

“You have so much time to garden. Five commissions pending for animal portraits, the picture book you're working on, your own repair and cleaning business to oversee, to say nothing of the fact that you're working for me on the house.”

“You can't spare me this afternoon? Call it my lunch break.”

Ryan laughed. “I can spare you. It comes out more even, for framing, with just Scotty and me, and Dillon doing the odd jobs.”

Finishing her coffee, Charlie rinsed her cup and
headed for her soon-to-be studio. Ryan and Charlie and Max had planned the renovation together, the three of them taking their time, paying attention to how the sun would slant into the new great room with its high rafters and stone fireplace, how much more view down the falling hills the raised floor would allow. Standing in the front yard on ladders, they had made sure how much of the sea and the village rooftops would be visible.

While the old living room became a large new master suite, their present bedroom would be Max's study. The two smaller bedrooms would become Charlie's spacious studio, and she could hardly wait. The renovation might seem wild to some, but to Charlie and Max and Ryan, it made perfect sense. By the time the phone rang at eleven-thirty, Charlie had finished the tear out and, with help from Scotty, had finished putting up the new drywall. She was drunk with the big new space; she wanted to whirl around shouting and swinging her arms, she could hardly wait to cut through the wall for the large new windows with their north light; but that would have to wait until the weather settled. Hurrying into the kitchen, she picked up the call.

“It's Wilma. We haven't found Kit, no one's seen her. I just…” Wilma didn't sound at all like herself. “She disappeared before…right after the murder. I didn't tell you last night, I thought…” Charlie's aunt, a tall, capable, no-nonsense former parole officer, was not given to a shaky voice and tears. “We're headed out to look again, Lucinda and I. Pedric is already out, after just a few hours' sleep.”

“I can join you. I—”

“No. I just…wanted you to watch for her as you head down to the seniors'. Dulcie and Joe aren't nearly as concerned as we are. They say she's been gone before.”

“The last time, she turned up in the middle of a double murder,” Charlie said. “I'll look out for her, and leave my cell phone on. Call me if I can join you.” Charlie didn't like to see her aunt so upset. Those three cats were so dear, so very special. And Kit was so damned headstrong. How could Joe and Dulcie not worry? And how did you look for one small cat, if she didn't want to be found?

In the mudroom she pulled on a pair of rubber boots, then hurried out to her van. Her cleaning crews didn't need it today; when they did, she had to use Max's old wreck that he'd kept for emergencies and which, they agreed, laughing, was an emergency in itself. Heading down toward the village, she drove slowly, watching the roadside and the hills, searching for that dark little hurrying tattercoat. Praying the kit was on her way home, praying she was all right. Several times she stopped to scan the trees, looking for a dark lump perched among the branches. Below her, the hills glowed brilliant green against the indigo sea. The grass, fed by the heavy rains, had sprung up tall and lush, as vibrant as living emerald. The horses could think of nothing but that tender new growth, all they wanted to do was race out and gorge on it.