Cat Under Fire (23 page)

Leaving her old van parked in front of the Aronson Gallery, Charlie walked down to Jolly's Deli to take delivery of the picnic hamper Wilma had ordered earlier in the day. She liked the deli, with its clean, whitewashed and polished woodwork, its tile floors of huge handmade tiles glazed pale as eggshells, its hand-painted tile counters decorated in flower patterns; she loved the smell of the deli, a combination of herbs and spices and baking so delicious it was like a little bit of heaven reaching out into the street, pulling in passersby. The tiny round tables set before the windows were always full as villagers enjoyed Jolly's imported meats and cheeses, homemade breads and delectable salads.

She liked old George Jolly, too. He was always happy, seeming sublimely satisfied with the world. She imagined him in his old truck making early-morning trips to Salinas to buy the best produce, imagined trips to some exclusive specialty wholesaler for his fine imported meats and cheeses. She wondered if he did all the baking, at perhaps three in the morning, or if he delegated that task to one of his efficient assistants. She knew Jolly did his own roasting of hams and sides of beef, in a large brick room behind the deli kitchen. She wondered if he had grown up consciously striving to live up to the name of Jolly, or if his name was only coincidental. Too bad he couldn't dish out to others some of his optimism, dish out helpings of cheerfulness as he dished up Greek salad and salmon quiche.

Too bad George Jolly couldn't sell a pound or two of happiness to Beverly Jeannot. That bad-tempered woman could use it.

Beverly had been at the gallery when Charlie left. She'd seen Beverly come in as she sat at the back, at a card table, preparing a work proposal, bidding for the gallery's cleaning account. When she looked toward the front windows, Beverly was coming in, pausing for a moment just inside the glass door as if for maximum effect, before making her way to Sicily's desk.

She was dressed in a pink suit reminiscent of a bowl of strawberry ice cream. Pink shoes. Her hair in perfect marcel waves. Of course Beverly would be coming to the gallery, Sicily was her sales agent now, Sicily would be marketing—for fabulous prices—the last of Janet's canvases.

Sitting down opposite Sicily, Beverly spied Charlie at the back and beckoned imperiously.

Summoned like a servant, Charlie stood waiting beside the desk while Beverly made herself comfortable, settling securely into her chair, arranging her pink handbag carefully in her lap. She didn't waste time on social niceties. “Your cleanup work, Miss Getz, still cannot begin. The police have not released the house. I find this delay intolerable. I presume there is no help for it.”

What was she supposed to say? That she'd clean illegally after midnight?

“Now, with this case dismissed and with a second trial pending, I have no idea when the work can start.” She looked Charlie over. “I presume that when the police do give me a release, you still intend to perform the work immediately.”

“Whenever that occurs,” Charlie said. She wanted to tell the woman to stuff her damned job. Beverly didn't seem to care about the trial itself, or that the man who really murdered Janet would now be punished. Didn't seem to give a damn that an innocent man had been freed. What an insufferable woman. How could she be Janet's sister?

“If you will call me, I'll have my crew there as soon as possible.” Of course she'd given Beverly no hint that her crew had consisted of three people including herself—or that now she'd lost a third of that staff. With James Stamps in jail, she'd have to hustle to find enough help to do a decent job—or any job. What a joke that one person made up a third of her entire work force.

Returning to the back, she had filled in, for Sicily, a multiple-copy work proposal for weekly maintenance of the gallery, number of hours per week she would give Sicily, exactly what that would include; and her weekly fee and what items, such as repairs, would be charged extra. She could hear clearly the conversation at Sicily's desk.

“I am anxious that the paintings be removed from that locker right away. Such a place does not seem suitable. All this impounding is most inconvenient.”

“There are new, heavy-duty locks on the doors and gate,” Sicily said. “And there is a guard on duty. The moment the locker is released, the moment the police give me permission, Janet's work will be brought here. My storeroom has a metal-shielded door, fire alarms, and frequent police surveillance. I must admit I'm somewhat surprised.”

“Surprised at what?” Beverly said, bristling.

“Surprised and interested that you do not appear to be grieving for your dead sister.”

Charlie hid a smile.

Beverly squared her shoulders, dangerously stretching the pink fabric. “Janet and I were not close, not even as children. When our parents were divorced she went with our father, I with Mother. We did not see each other often after that. Were, in fact, like strangers. I would be hypocritical to pretend more distress than I feel.”

But you were still related
, Charlie thought.
You were sisters
. And she wondered why Janet had left all her assets to Beverly, when they weren't close. But maybe Janet had felt differently about blood relationships, about family.

“I knew Janet so very little, she was more an acquain
tance than a sister. I am deeply sorry she died so horribly, and I do feel eased now that the real killer seems to be in custody. I did not think that Rob Lake person was capable of killing anyone, but it was not up to me to decide.”

Charlie signed the proposal and tore off her copy. Placing the gallery's copy in a white envelope, she left it at Sicily's desk, not stopping to disturb the two women, and headed for Jolly's.

Now, standing at the counter in the bright deli, she accepted the picnic hamper, wondering, amused, if she was going to be able to carry it. The huge wicker basket, covered with a red-and-white-checkered cloth, looked big enough to supply the entire street with supper.

Signing the tab, she exchanged small talk with Mr. Jolly. She had, as she'd passed the alley, seen two cats scoffing up some delicacy from a paper plate—not Dulcie or Joe. It amused and pleased her that Mr. Jolly fed the village cats. Not that the cats of Molena Point were exactly on welfare status. But they must enjoy those special treats; she thought of Jolly's alley as a sort of feline social club.

Carrying the hamper back to her van, which was parked in front of the gallery, she placed it safely on the floor, where it wouldn't spill, and headed for Clyde's house. Driving slowly across Ocean beneath the lacy filtered shade, breathing deeply the aromatic scent of eucalyptus, she realized how at home she felt in Molena Point after only a few weeks; as if she had lived all her life in the small village. Molena Point just suited her, it was big enough and had enough well-to-do residents to provide her with the means for a thriving business, but was also cozy and friendly.

Clyde was waiting for her on the porch, wearing faded jeans and a padded red jacket. The gray tomcat was draped across his shoulder. As she slid out and came around the van, the big cat watched her intently, his yellow eyes wise and appraising.

This was a first for her, taking cats on a picnic. As she fetched out the deli basket and started up the walk, the
tomcat fixed on the basket, nose twitching, his gaze riveted. She supposed to a cat the scents were overwhelming.

Clyde took the basket, stashed it in the backseat of his big antique Packard. They didn't need to discuss which vehicle to take—no one wanted to share her van among the ladders, mops, buckets, and half-empty paint cans. He settled the basket on the floor of the backseat between some folded blankets, the tomcat edging forward off his shoulder.

“Leave the picnic alone, Joe. It's for later.”

The cat cut his eyes at Clyde with sly humor, and kneaded his claws in Clyde's shoulder. And as she swung into the passenger's seat, Clyde tossed Joe in next to her. The cat gave her a wide yellow stare and immediately climbed into her lap.

He turned around three times, getting settled, his hard paws bruising her thighs. She was flattered to be honored with his presence. She'd really expected him to jump in the backseat and tear apart the picnic.

When she stroked him, he smiled and purred like some potentate receiving obeisance from his subjects, his attitude insolent, imperious. This cat, Charlie thought, was very full of himself.

Clyde backed out of the drive, swinging up to Ocean, and turned left. Two blocks farther on he pulled into the ten-minute zone in front of the library. A lacework of light and shadows patterned the sidewalk around them, and painted the library's white stucco walls. When Wilma came hurrying out she was carrying a green book bag from which protruded two tabby ears—these two people were obsessed with their cats.

As Wilma slid into the backseat, Dulcie rose up inside the bag and peered over the top, her green eyes gleaming, her paws clutching the top of the bag, kneading softly as if with excitement.

Watching her, Charlie felt like she'd not only fallen into a delightful place to live, but maybe into Alice's wonderland, into a world of smirking cats and what promised to be a mad hatter picnic.

Heading up Ocean to Highway One and turning south, Clyde's old Packard received interested glances. Both villagers and tourists turned to look at the bright red antique touring car.

They drove down Highway One five miles, looking out at the sea, then headed inland a short distance. Turned right again onto a narrow dirt road that led off through a little woods, a deeply shaded stand of close-set saplings.

Parking in the woods where the road ended, they set off walking, carrying the picnic hamper and blankets. The cats surprised Charlie again by trotting along beside them as obedient as a couple of dogs. On the narrow, leafy path alone in the dim woods, the five of them made a strange little procession. They couldn't see the ocean, but they pressed ahead eagerly toward its thunder.

The woods ended at a flat green pasture spreading away like a green tabletop. And that velvet field ended abruptly a quarter mile ahead. Nothing beyond but sky and sea. And a gigantic rock thrusting up out of the sea. They could hear the waves crashing against it, wild and rhythmic.

The pasture grass was damp, soaking Charlie's tennis shoes. The cats raced away, chasing each other, stopping to sniff at rabbit holes. Neither Clyde nor Wilma seemed concerned that they would run away. Charlie had never seen cats who behaved like this. The three of them walked in companionable silence to the edge of the cliff.

Ten feet below, churning breakers foamed against the chimney rock. Directly below them at the foot of the cliff lay a white sand beach tilting down, falling away to a strip of dark, wet sand. Between that strip of sand and the chimney rock seethed a narrow neck of sea, foaming up, sucking back clear as green glass. They descended the cliff and spread the blankets on the warm sand, and the cats immediately settled down on the smaller blanket, expectantly watching the picnic basket.

Tucked into one side of the basket was a good Pinot Blanc and a tray of goose liver canapés. Wilma poured the wine into plastic cups, laid out the canapés. They
toasted the sea and each other as the breakers sucked out, lifted, crashed in again wild and foaming.

No one had hinted to Charlie that this picnic was a celebration, but she got the idea that it was. Some secret celebration, not so much a secret from her, perhaps, as simply a very private matter.

But what a strange thought.

Yet there was some odd little mystery here, clinging around Wilma and Clyde and the two cats.

Maybe when she had lived in Molena Point longer she'd learn to understand what it was that they sheltered so carefully. She felt certain it was nothing that would dismay her, she had more a sense of lightness, almost of whimsy. Something that, if she knew, should delight her. Meantime, their silent celebration was nice. She liked knowing people who had secrets.

But the strange thing was, the cats seemed to share in the secret, their eyes were filled with some keen feline satisfaction. Both cats had an after-the-kill look. The kind of look a cat had when he dragged a dead rabbit into the parlor and left it on the rug, the look of the triumphant hunter bestowing a priceless gift.

Puzzled and amused, she helped Wilma unwrap the feast that George Jolly had prepared. In insulated containers, the French bread was still warm from the oven, the large portion of Jolly's best Puget Sound salmon was admirably chilled. The assorted fruits and the big wedge of Brie were room temperature; and there was a pint of thick fresh cream, with two small plastic bowls.

Wilma fixed the cats' plates first, with a little bit of everything but the fruit, and Charlie poured cream into the bowls. And the cats feasted, each with that smug smile. And what cat could be more charming than these two? Even when they were smug, Dulcie's green eyes were laughing, Joe's yellow eyes gleaming with challenge. What cat could be more mysterious and charming?