Cat Deck the Halls (13 page)

A
S
W
ILMA
G
ETZ
sipped her coffee in bed, and Kit snuggled down between her and Dulcie telling all about the Greenlaws' break-in, up in the hills at the Harper ranch, Charlie Harper hurried to do her morning chores, feeding the horses and dogs, turning them out into the pasture and cleaning the stalls. The sky was barely light, the time not quite seven. Max had left for the station some time ago, warmed by a breakfast of buckwheat pancakes and thick sliced bacon. Charlie, seeing him off, had stood in the stable yard watching his truck move away up their long, gravel road, worrying because he never got enough sleep. At the far end of the road, as he turned onto the highway, Max had blinked his lights once and then he was gone over the rise, heading down to the village.

He'd been up late the night before with the Greenlaw break-in, and the night before that he'd gotten to bed later still because of the missing body. Max wasn't the kind of chief to stay in bed and leave his men to do all the legwork;
but it was hard sometimes to rein herself in and not fuss at him that he needed rest.

Last night's late rain had left the ranch yard muddy and squishing under her boots. As she entered the barn, dawn was beginning to brighten the sky. The air was as cold and fresh as springwater. Soon, as the sun rose, the pasture grass would gleam emerald bright—this time of year the four horses were wild to get out of their stalls, hungry to get at the new sweet grass. Besides Max's big buckskin gelding and her own sorrel mare, they were boarding the kids' horses now, a dun mustang that young Dillon Thurwell's parents had bought for her, and a small, borrowed mare called Parsnip, named for her color, who had been a fine teaching pony for younger Lori Reed.

Lori was experienced enough now for a bigger and more challenging mount, but she so loved Parsnip that Max and Charlie had hesitated to return the little mare to her owners. As Charlie fed the horses and the two big dogs and then turned them all out to the pasture, her thoughts moved from the disappearing body to the Greenlaws' mysterious intruder, her head filled with a tangle of questions. The department would come up with the answers, given time—but how much time was there for that scared little girl?

And was there a connection between the child and the break-in at the Patty Rose Home? It seemed to Charlie there had to be, if someone was secretly taking pictures of the orphan children.

As late as it had been last night when Max got home from the Greenlaws', he'd described the break-in and the photographs; he had been royally irritated that Lucinda
had refused to press charges. Without charges they couldn't arrest the woman, nor could they officially do much to investigate the incident. Max said Pedric had tried to reason with Lucinda, but Lucinda wouldn't give, and that wasn't like her at all. She'd said she wanted a few days to see what the woman was up to, and had promised not to put herself in danger. But why did Lucinda care about a woman who'd broken into their home?

When Max pointed out that there could be a connection between this woman, the neighbors, and the break-in at the school, Lucinda had shrugged it off. That, too, was not like sensible Lucinda Greenlaw. Lucinda knew the woman could be violent, but she wouldn't listen.

It wasn't as if the older lady didn't believe bad things could happen; Lucinda's first husband had turned out to be a thief and philanderer. After he'd deceived her for years, Lucinda had grown far more wary.

She'd been so lucky to meet and marry Pedric; he had helped her through that time, and was a dear. But then, while the two were on their extended honeymoon trip in their RV, they had been kidnapped and nearly killed. Pedric's cleverness, and the toughness of both old folks, had saved them.

That was when they changed their minds about building their new home up on the crest of isolated Hellhag Hill, and decided to settle instead in the village, closer to law enforcement and to medical facilities. The Greenlaws weren't cowards, far from it, but at eighty-some, it can be nice to have certain support services near at hand. Their biggest consideration, however, had been the fact that Kit would be closer to Joe and Dulcie, that the little cat wouldn't
have that long and sometimes dangerous race up and down the hills to the village.
So
, Charlie thought,
when Lucinda is usually so levelheaded and sensible, why is she suddenly so protective of this housebreaker? Well, maybe I can talk to her
.

 

J
AMES
K
UDA THOUGHT
again about the moves he had made, about the car and the body. Not likely they'd be found for a while—not until he was long gone, had put the West Coast behind him.

Having left the garage of the empty house, driving at a normal rate through the dark village streets, he'd headed south down Highway One, the waves thundering high and violent below the dropping cliffs—big, hungry waves. To his left, though he hadn't been able to see much in the dark, were the rolling hills dotted with small, scattered ranches; he'd glimpsed only a couple of lights up there, at that predawn hour. With his window open he'd enjoyed the cold wind and the roar of the crashing sea, the smell of salt and iodine—had relished the sound of the extra-high tide. He always read the tide schedules, as well as the society page that offered up a nice working bible, a regular menu of lucrative possibilities, more than one man could ever make use of. Driving slowly, he'd watched the cliff carefully for the turnoff, which was nearly invisible in the dark.

He supposed he could have dumped the body somewhere up there beyond those ranches where the land turned wild, dumped and buried it. Days before, he'd driven all around up there, and looked. Had spotted that cop's ranch, too—saw the chief's truck and a couple of squad cars parked
there, saw lights blazing in the house and heard music and laughter. Wouldn't that be a joke, if he buried it on that police chief's land?

Yeah, it would. Tantamount to teasing a maddened rattlesnake. And what was the point? No, that Max Harper would come after him with a vengeance.

He'd left no ID on the body or in the car, no prints but the victim's own and the kid's. Anyway, his own prints weren't on record; he'd always been careful about that.

Making his turn in the pitch-dark, and dimming his lights to park, he'd eased along the edge of the cliff, pulled up where it dropped smoothly down. Setting the hand brake, he'd sat there a moment thinking, then swung out of the car, on the highway side. Found a long heavy rock just the right shape, careful to walk only on the bare stone outcroppings where the cliff had been cut to build the highway.

Pulling the body over into the driver's seat, he'd retrieved the bike from the trunk and set it upright on the asphalt. Then, returning to the car, he'd set the rock ready, reached in and started the engine again, and in one practiced motion had shoved the rock in place against the gas pedal, slammed it in gear, released the brake and dove away fast, clearing the door as the car shot over the side.

He'd stood listening to tons of metal thudding and dropping against the rocks, the scrape of metal on rock, the sudden explosive crash into the sea—listening to the altered rhythm of the breakers suddenly as the vehicle sank, the sucking sound, and then the rising waves returning again to their own cadence, breaking only against the cliff.

Still stepping carefully only on the stone outcroppings, he'd returned to the highway, swung onto the bike, and
headed back toward the village, the sky still dark, heavy with cloud. He'd almost cheered aloud when he felt a few drops of water on his face, and heard the rain start to pelt behind him—a good rain to wash away the tire marks. The way the weather had been, nothing was sure, but he'd lucked out, this time. Nothing in life was sure, he thought, smiling. You took it the best way you could.

H
AVING FINISHED HER
stable work, Charlie loaded the big portfolio of her newest etchings and drawings into her Blazer, changed her muddy boots for cleaner ones, hastily brushed her hair and clipped the red mass back out the way. Making sure the house was locked, she headed down the hills to deliver the last pieces of work to the framer, driving slowly, drinking in the morning, enjoying the emerald-bright pastures dropping ahead of her. The sky was a clear azure above the dark blue sea, the tide high and wild. Where the hills rose darker with scattered pines and brush, a long white streak of fog trailed across their brightening crests, a veil as thin and delicate as a chiffon scarf. It was on such a dawn as this that she imagined flying in that clear air, that she wished she could see all the earth at once reeling below her, the next emerald hill and the next, on forever. No wonder some wild souls couldn't stay out of the sky, sacrificing all luxuries and many necessities for a way of life that counted for far more. But, horse-poor or airplane-poor, such folks were content and happy.

She arrived at the framer's so filled with the morning's beauty that she didn't want to make small talk; she was glad Jim Barker wasn't a big talker, that this slight, graying man understood silence. He spoke only to promise he'd have the eight pieces of work ready by Friday, when the gallery would be hanging her show. “With Sicily Aronson,” the thin, balding man said gently, “one has no choice but to be on time.”

Driving the few blocks from Barker's to the gallery, enjoying the festive shop windows with their holly and wreaths and beautiful wares, she parked two car lengths behind her own blue Chevy cleaning van. She guessed the girls were cleaning up the gallery after the last of the remodeling. Hurrying in, she stopped to talk with Mavity Flowers, who was mopping the Mexican tile floor. She could hear the water running in the powder room, where one of the girls would be cleaning the fixtures and tile. Little wrinkled Mavity Flowers was sixty-some but she liked to work, and she liked the work she did, liked making things bright and clean; and she was certainly healthy and strong. As one of Cora Lee's housemates, she did much of the cleaning at home, too, while Cora Lee and Susan took care of the shopping and garden.

But this morning, Mavity seemed distracted. Setting aside her mop, she looked up at Charlie. “You're not going to sell the van?”

“Of course not. What made you think that? Not after Clyde rebuilt the engine and we fitted it all out for the cleaning and repairs. Why…What did you hear?”

“Susan
said
that was silly. I was going to tell you about it, but then decided it was nothing. I was leaving the Johnson house, Monday a week ago. There was a man looking at
the van, walking round and round it. I stepped back inside, I don't think he saw me. He looked and looked, wrote down something on a pad of paper, and then he left. He was walking, he had no car that I saw. I wish I'd asked him what he was doing.”

“It's all right. What did he look like?”

“Thin face, short haircut that made his big ears look even bigger. A real narrow face, and black, bushy eyebrows.”

“Maybe a tourist,” Charlie said. “If you see him around the van again, let me know. Or call Mabel, have her send a patrol car around. Whatever he wants, that should put a stop to it. Where's Sicily?”

Mavity nodded in the direction of the new archway that had been cut into the adjoining café. “This is real nice, the way she cut through.”

Charlie smiled. “I like it, too.” She gave Mavity a little hug, and went on through to the restaurant to join Sicily. The gallery owner sat at a back table where a wall of windows looked out on the patio, each window decorated now with a border of holly. Though the gallery had been left plain and stark, to show off Charlie's work, the restaurant was all done up for Christmas, red swags from the rafters, a decorated tree in the far corner, and, of course, the scent of Christmas baking. Sicily, at her table, looked sleek and elegant, as usual, in black tights, a camel tunic, and half a dozen handmade necklaces—making Charlie wish, as she clumped on back in her jeans and boots, that she'd taken time to change her clothes.

“Coffee?” Sicily said, indicating a silver pot. “Have a cinnamon twist.” She pushed the plate toward Charlie. “It's their new recipe, and it's wonderful.”

The little café had opened only a month ago, when a dress shop moved out, to larger quarters. Sicily and the new owner had decided to join forces, and had been joined, as well, by the bookstore next door, which now opened to the café on the opposite side, through a second archway. The three owners had named their enterprise the Hub, and though the gallery had been there for years and was one of the busiest in the village, the new joint venture was an exciting addition. All three businesses opened to the back garden, where additional small tables welcomed patrons.

Some sour-minded people said a gallery and café and bookstore wouldn't mix, that none of them would do well. But the complex was indeed becoming a hub, as the owners had anticipated. Sicily's had already been popular; and the new bookstore was well stocked and cozy, with a warm, attentive staff who really knew books, who were eager to do special orders, and who paid a singular attention to all the local writers. Charlie, glancing from their table through to the bookstore, could see copies of her new book stacked high on a front table before a poster of the book jacket, awaiting Saturday's signing. Charlie's drawing on the jacket showed a startled, big-eyed Kit, one tortoiseshell paw lifted, whether in alarm or surprise, Charlie had left to the imagination.

“They already have a long reserve list,” Sicily said. “Customers wanting signed copies.” She sat observing Charlie. “You haven't said a word. Aren't you excited?”

“Excited? I'm ecstatic! My second one-man show, and my first book signing—and one of your wonderful parties.” She took in Sicily's costume, delighted as always by her friend's choice of clothes. Her jewelry today was sil
ver, wooden beads and small, handmade clay medallions, her tunic nipped in by a wood-and-silver belt, her dark hair piled high and held by silver clips.

“You've finished the gallery work,” Charlie said, looking back through the archway at the new, movable walls all freshly painted—all waiting for Charlie's drawings and prints, most of which were stored in the back.

“Cora Lee's cousin Donnie did the remodel,” Sicily said. “The arches, everything. Didn't he do a nice job? When I found I'd have to wait weeks for Ryan, that she'd be able to start only about now, Donnie stepped right in. He's good, Charlie. Someone's going to snatch him up for full-time work. Maybe Ryan herself, when she sees this. Look at the detail, and the molding.”

“He's cute, too,” Charlie said, watching Sicily.

Sicily grinned. “Those big blue eyes and that nice crew cut. I love blond hair with a touch of gray—when it's set off by a good build and a nice tan.”

Charlie laughed. “Donnie French has to be pushing sixty, he grew up with Cora Lee. He
is
cute, but…I hate to tell you, but Gabrielle is wearing his engagement ring. As of yesterday, I think.”

Sicily shrugged. “Well, cute is cute. And maybe I still have a chance. From what I hear he's a shameless flirt, comes on to every attractive woman he meets. Maybe Gabrielle won't tolerate that for long.”

“And would you?” Charlie said, teasing. “How long would that last, with you?”

“Not long,” Sicily said, laughing. “I just said he was cute, not that I have my sights set on him. Although…” They both laughed. But Sicily Aronson wasn't a fool over a
good-looking man; she was a keen businesswoman, clever and skilled and no pushover for just any cute guy.

“He has done nice work,” Charlie said, considering the beautiful plastering job around the archway and the smoothly installed, curved molding. The gallery was done in off-white, the tall white exhibit panels reaching, on one side, to within a few feet of the balcony where smaller paintings and drawings were hung. “He seems skilled at so many things. You're right, I don't know why Ryan hasn't hired him. She's always complaining about having more work than she has reliable men.”

“Maybe Donnie doesn't want to tie himself down,” Sicily said. “He was in, this morning, for a minute, to pick up some tools he'd left, said he was headed for the city on a job interview. He said something about a child, that Detective Davis had stopped by their place with a little girl in tow. What was that about?”

Charlie looked blankly at Sicily. “I don't think Davis has any grandchildren, but I could be wrong.” She shrugged. “Some of the other officers have little kids. Maybe Davis is babysitting. On company time,” she said, laughing.

She had no idea why Juana Davis or Cora Lee hadn't warned Donnie not to talk about the child, when Max wanted the little girl protected. “Well,” she said, trying not to telegraph her unease, “Donnie French
is
attractive, and he's just as kind and friendly as he can be.” She didn't know what it was about Donnie French that bothered her. Probably some pointless association that had no basis. Inwardly shrugging, she busied herself with her cinnamon twist.

“And what was that about, in the paper this morning?” Sicily said. “A body someone thought they saw, under the
village tree? That's pretty bizarre. Some prankster call, I bet. I heard the sirens—what a pity, to bring out practically the whole department for nothing, on a stormy night.”

“Max left so early, and I had the horses to feed—we didn't talk much this morning. I was hoping that, during Christmas, Max and the men might have some time off.”

“It would be nice if you and Max could have a little vacation. If you don't even have time to talk to each other…You're not…Having problems?”

Charlie laughed. “We're fine, Sicily.”

“You
were
cheated out of your honeymoon.” Sicily picked up the empty pot and signaled the waitress for more coffee. Then, more gently, “Maybe you'll have time, now, to get away. With the book long finished and this exhibit put together—and already three great reviews on the book—you do need a breather. When you leave here, go on over to the station, Charlie, see if you can entice Max away for an early lunch. He can't be that busy.”

“It's a thought,” Charlie said. She was used to Sicily's managing ways, they didn't usually annoy her. And she would like to stop by the station to see if anything more had turned up on the Greenlaws' break-in. She couldn't get her mind off the danger the two older folks might have been in last night, couldn't shake her sense of unease for them.

She didn't mention the incident to Sicily. That, too, was not yet public knowledge. She would talk to no one about it except those who already knew—including three nosy cats, she thought uneasily. Probably the cats were at the station right now, slyly absorbing newly arrived electronic intelligence—fingerprint information, DMV records…She was more than a little curious, herself.

“Why the grin?”

“Thinking about the show,” Charlie lied. “About Saturday night, about these rooms crowded with people, about the wonderful parties you always throw.” But then suddenly a wave of panic struck her. “What if…Sicily, what if no one…?”

Sicily laughed. “Have you ever been to one of my openings that wasn't packed, and with the most elegant and influential people?”

“Never,” Charlie said, smiling in return. “I just…”

“Nerves,” Sicily said, patting Charlie's hand like a solicitous mother. “Go have lunch with Max. Go shopping, spend some money, buy something frivolous, that'll brighten your day.”

But Charlie wasn't in a mood for shopping. Leaving the gallery, she headed straight for Molena Point PD. Maybe Max could tear himself away, if not for lunch, then for a late-morning coffee break—and maybe she'd see Juana, and the little girl. She wanted to tell Davis and Max that Donnie French was talking indiscreetly about the child.

The morning after the Christmas-tree incident, Max had looked distressed and angry when he told her about the three cats snuggled up with the little girl, and she could do nothing but brush it off. “Clyde lives right behind the plaza, Max. I imagine his cat does roam in those gardens, that's safer for a cat than the street.”

“And the other cats? Wilma's cat? Greenlaws' cat? Why would…?”

“They hang out together,” she'd said with a shrug. “You know how cats are.”

“No, Charlie, I don't know how cats are. I know dogs
hang out together. I know horses hang out together. I've always believed that cats were loners.”

“No.” She'd laughed. “Cats are just as social. They're simply quieter about it. You've never been around cats very much. Look how Clyde's cat hangs around the station. That's about as social as a cat can get.”

“That's because Mabel feeds him.”

She shook her head. “Joe
is
a very sociable cat. I've watched him, and I think he likes you and Dallas. Cats are fascinating, Max. They're all so different from one another.”

Max had to take her word for it. Charlie, having studied cats for her drawings and for her new book, had gained a reputation with him as an unchallengeable authority on the subject.
And that,
Charlie thought,
is just the way I want it.
As long as Max considered her an authority, she might be able to sidetrack his doubts.

But maybe I am an authority,
she thought, hiding a laugh,
considering what I know about the talents of certain felines.