Cat Deck the Halls
Page 23
He glanced at his watch. “It’s nearly six, she’ll be there now, for the children-the adult party starts at seven.”
She tried to look sideways toward the windows to see if it was still daylight, but that hurt. “And the contest? The girls…?”
“Their house is all in place. The judging is tomorrow.”
“Clyde, I can’t miss Charlie’s opening. I could just…?”
“You’re not supposed to talk so much. You need to rest, and mend.” He kissed her on the cheek and rose. “The doctor will be in around six. He’ll have the CAT scan and X-rays. He’ll want me out of here, he’s not happy about so many visitors.”
He picked up a gym bag that he’d set on the floor beside his chair. “There’s a guard outside. When Dr. Hamry leaves, go to sleep. They’re bringing a cot in for Hanni, for the night. She’ll be along later, after the opening, in case you need anything extra. I imagine she’ll bring you some party food.” He kissed her again, tenderly. “I’ll be back in the morning.” He turned away and was gone, disappearing into the hall with his heavy gym bag. Why would he bring a gym bag to the hospital, he didn’t work out in the evenings. As he swung the door halfway closed, she glimpsed a uniformed officer sitting on a straight-backed chair, just outside.
What had she done to deserve a police guard? Or, what had she seen? That she did not remember?
She guessed she slept, because the next thing she knew, more lights burned, the room was bright, and Dr. Hamry stood beside her bed, touching her shoulder. His voice was very soft and caring for such a clumsy-looking big man. She had dreamed about cats. Cats talking. She imagined she could still feel warm fur against her neck and cheek.
N OT UNTIL HE was back in his yellow roadster did Clyde open the gym bag. “I hope you didn’t leave cat hairs on the bed.”
The tomcat stuck his head out, sniffing the cold wind, then stepped out onto the creamy leather seat, stretching luxuriously. “That’s better. I thought I’d smother in there. Did you have to zip the damned thing?”
“It has air vents. What do you think that screen is? That’s why I used the gym bag, so you could breathe.”
“This is your gym bag, Clyde. You put your sweaty clothes in here. The damn thing smells like a jockstrap.”
Clyde glared, and started the engine. Joe, as they headed for Ocean and home, was still wondering how that bogus, look-alike blue van had been slipped into the school and successfully hidden back in the trees behind the Stanhope house with not one of Harper’s patrol guys seeing it. He looked up when Clyde started to laugh. “What?”
“She thought you were Rock. On the bed.”
“Watch the road. You don’t have to look at me to talk. What’s so funny about that? Rock isn’t some scroungy mongrel, I don’t see being mistaken for Rock as an insult. Anyway, the woman’s half out of it.”
“You have a lot of sympathy. I should have left you in the car.”
Joe looked a long time at Clyde. “You think she’ll be all right?”
“If she lies still and does what she’s told.” Clyde glanced at Joe. “She kept talking about cats. You heard her. About talking cats, Joe.”
“She was out cold, after Betty hit her. Well, we thought she was.”
Clyde turned to glare at him.
“When she’s better, how much will she remember?” Joe said diffidently. Then, “You heard her, her thoughts are all mixed up.”
“Let’s hope,” Clyde said.
“She thinks too much like a cop to believe that stuff,” Joe said. “Talking cats? No way.”
“Charlie figured it out.”
“Charlie’s an artist and a writer. Charlie encourages her imagination, it’s part of her work. With someone like Ryan, who’s all facts and reality, something that far out would never wash. Not for a minute.”
“Ryan isn’t all facts and reality. That’s really unfair. Don’t you think it takes imagination to create the houses she designs?”
Joe looked at Clyde, and shut up. For once, Clyde was right. “Just for the record,” Joe said, “you were so shaken over Ryan that you damned near asked her to marry you.”
“I didn’t do any such thing. Now whose imagination has gone wild?” Turning into their drive and killing the engine, Clyde reached to stroke Joe. “That would screw up our lives. You could never utter another word in your own home.”
“Sometimes even a cat has to make sacrifices.”
Clyde looked surprised. “Not you.”
Joe gave him a long yellow-eyed gaze.
“You’d do that for me?”
“Would I have a choice? If things got too uncomfortable, I could move in with Dulcie and Wilma.”
“I wouldn’t ask her to marry me without settling it with you. We’re family, Joe.”
“Maybe,” Joe said, “it’s time you got married. You’re not getting any younger. You would be acquiring a live-in carpenter, electrician, and plumber. And Rock is a very nice dog, as dogs go.”
Clyde swung out and headed for the front door. Unlocked it, flipped on the lights, and scowled down at Joe. “I’m not marrying anyone for her talents at home maintenance.”
Joe leaped to the couch. “You’re not marrying her at all, yet. You haven’t asked her properly. She won’t remember that half-assed hint at marriage when she was just coming to. Talk about a coward’s proposal.” Leaping up onto the mantle, he looked hard at Clyde. “The problem is, you’re not sure Ryan wants to get married. And you’re scared to find out.”
Clyde sat down on the couch. Confirmed bachelor and tomcat looked at each other. It was Clyde who glanced away, and rose again, and headed for the kitchen.
And his bachelor mind was indeed full of questions. There were a lot of reasons why Ryan might not want to get married, at least in the near future. She was still recovering from a bad marriage. She wanted some peace and independence. She was a self-sufficient woman, busy building her own design/construction business. She rented a nice big studio apartment with the room and solitude to work uninterrupted on her blueprints and architectural drawings. Did she really need, or want, to be jammed into the same house with him, on a full-time basis?
He had talked with Wilma about this. Wilma was as close to an older sister as he’d ever have, he’d known her since he was eight and she was twenty-some, and he’d sought her opinions on many matters. Wilma’s judgment was clearly thought out, and sensible.
But in the matter of Ryan Flannery, Wilma had said only “I don’t know, Clyde. Just ask her. If she says no, don’t trash what you two have. Just swallow your pride and go on as you are. Stay the distance, and see where it leads. I like Ryan. Don’t blow your future chances.”
Wondering for the hundredth time what the hell that really meant, Clyde pulled a Mexican dinner from the freezer, stood staring at it, then realized how late it was getting and put it back-Sicily would have sumptuous party food. And anyway, frozen Mexican was reserved only for moments of extreme desperation, when the real thing was inaccessible. As he headed upstairs to change clothes, Joe trotted up past him, hit the desk, leaped to the rafter, and was gone through his cat door. Clyde could hear him galloping across the roof, double-timing for the gallery, the little freeloader.
33
A N HOUR BEFORE Clyde and Joe Grey left Ryan’s hospital room, the tortoiseshell cat sat alert behind a fuchsia vine just outside the SPCA resale shop. The time was nearly five, and the shop would be closing soon. Kit sat quietly listening to Juana Davis speak on her cell phone with the chief. The alley smelled of bayberry from the candle shop across the way. Juana and the little girl sat close together on a hand-carved bench, a small fat duffel bag at Juana’s feet, the child clutching her angel doll tight in her arms, its ragged wings flopping against her.
“Clerk says the doll and clothes, and a small duffel bag the child recognized, were in plastic garbage bags,” Juana said. “Four black bags that were left at the front door before they opened. She remembers because of the doll and the duffel.
Kit knew about that. Sometimes, during her predawn prowls, she would sit among the shadows watching a car pull to the curb, watch someone hurry into the alley loaded down with boxes or bags or perhaps a small piece of furniture. Leaving their discards at the locked door, they would hurry away again as if late for work. Once, someone left a nice baby crib complete with mattress, and Kit had enjoyed a little nap before the shop opened.
But this early-morning donation had not been because someone was late for work. Hastily depositing the evidence concealed among other donations might, in the killer’s view, be far more efficient than hiding the clothes in a Dumpster.
But not so, Kit thought smugly. Not this time, my friend! This time you didn’t count on a little kid and her favorite doll.
Nor did you, Kit thought, smiling, nor did you count on the power of a cat’s nose- but the information Kit had uncovered, however, had left her indeed very frightened.
Earlier, in the shop, the child, clutching the doll to her, had gone along the rack carefully picking out her own clothes, pulling each little dress off a hanger and handing it to Juana, looking up at her with trust. From the shadows Kit had watched, impatiently shifting from paw to paw, her whole being filled with the secret she had discovered, with the scent of the man who had handled the doll, the same scent that was on the child’s discarded dresses. Shocked and distressed by what she knew, she was hardly able not to blurt it right out to Juana Davis. How she longed for a phone, longed to make just one urgent phone call of her own.
But, afraid she might miss something, she was unwilling to leave Juana. The detective was saying, “They go over them, put aside those that need mending or washing. Clerk said the doll was too fragile to wash, that they’d thought of throwing it away. Said it was too pitiful, too appealing. Clerk wiped it off, put it in the sunshine for a few hours, then laid it on the stack.”
Juana listened; then, softly, “Not a word. But she cried, Max. Silent tears. Cried and clung to the doll.” She listened again; then, “You think that’s smart? She does seem stronger, but…”
Kit could hear the indecipherable murmur of the captain’s voice, then Juana said, “Okay, we’ll give it a try. Sicily’s ‘little snack for the kids’ should be a sumptuous supper, so maybe that will appeal. She hardly touched her lunch.”
Silence; then, “That should be safe enough. We’ll stop by the apartment, give her a little rest and clean up, then we’re on our way.”
As Juana hugged the little girl close, and the child in turn hugged her doll, they rose and headed for Juana’s squad car. Kit watched Davis buckle her into the backseat and tuck a blanket over her knees, then swing in behind the wheel. She spoke on her radio and drove off, turning right at the next corner in the direction of her apartment.
Behind Juana’s car, Kit crossed the briefly empty side street and scorched up an oak tree to the roofs. And she ran, her whole being fixed on what she had learned, and on telling Max Harper, on calling the department. She was crouched to leap a narrow alley, heading for home and a phone, when she stopped so abruptly she almost fell. Clinging at the edge of the shingles, she watched the man on the sidewalk below.
He had stepped from the shadows as Davis’s patrol unit disappeared up the street. Now he was jogging quickly after her, keeping to the late-afternoon shadows along the buildings, his gaze never leaving the patrol car.
Forgetting the phone, Kit followed him, her tortoiseshell coat a dark smear racing across the windy rooftops. As evening drew down and darker clouds moved in over the village, bringing the storm that had threatened all day, and as Joe Grey slipped in through Dulcie’s cat door to escort her as formally as any human paramour to Charlie’s book signing, Kit alone followed the killer. Racing over the roofs, she followed the man who, moving fast along the shadowed street, trailed Detective Davis and the little girl. The man who, Kit was certain, the child could pick out of any lineup.
W HILE KIT FOLLOWED the killer, and Charlie’s human friends spiffed up for the party, Charlie hurried home from the hospital to get dressed. Her visit to Ryan had been brief, and worrisome. Dr. Hamry would know more in the morning.
She hadn’t wanted to leave the hospital, had wanted to call Sicily and say that they’d have to have the opening without her, that to please tell Jennifer Page, the gracious owner of the bookstore, that she’d sign books later for those who bought them, would mail them or deliver them in person. But Clyde, sitting by Ryan’s bed, said she was being foolish. And on the phone, Sicily scolded her and told her to go home at once, get herself dressed, and get her tail over there, that children were already lining up for the signing and that she’d better not show up smelling like horse and wearing boots and jeans. Clyde, gripping Ryan’s cold hand, said that if Ryan had her wits about her she’d tell Charlie more than that, and that she’d better get moving. She’d left the hospital with the sick, illogical feeling that if she left Ryan alone and she got worse…
“What could you do if you stayed?” Clyde had said. “You’re a doctor, now? A healer? Ryan couldn’t have better care. Even if she took a worse turn, which she won’t, you’d only be in the way.”
“But I’d be here.”
“Go,” Clyde had repeated. “I’m here.”
Sighing, she had left. Had hurried home feeling shaken and vulnerable. She’d quickly fed the horses and dogs and put them up, a chore that could never be neglected; but she hadn’t taken time for a shower. She’d made a quick phone call, then had dusted on some talc, praying she didn’t smell too much like horses, or that the children liked that sweet aroma. Had hurriedly pulled on the lovely gold lamé gown her aunt Wilma had given her. She’d meant to take a nice hot shower, put on fresh new silk lingerie, spend time on a fancy hairdo. Instead she pulled on the gown, quickly bound up her hair with the gold clip, put on a little lipstick, and she was out the door again-until she’d remembered the necklace Wilma had given her, and she raced back to slip it on, too.
Now in the car heading back down the hill, hoping she’d locked the door when she left, Charlie was still cursing the Wickens for nearly killing Ryan-if Ryan didn’t mend quickly, Charlie wouldn’t be responsible for what she did to those people. And she was cursing them, too, for making Max miss this special evening. This was the one night that he’d promised to leave work early, get spiffed up in civilian clothes, and escort her to the opening in style-hand her out of her car at the door, offer his arm as they entered, bring her champagne. Promised to forget the department for a few hours. How unrealistic was that? He’d even promised to make nice to people he didn’t much like.
With the window down and cold air streaming in, she scanned the village below, wondering if the chase was still on for the blue van and the tan Suburban. It enraged her that they’d copied her van. She could hear no sirens from below, could see no whirling red lights moving through the village on the dusky streets or above on the hills. Had Max’s officers already cornered them? The last she’d talked with Mabel-she’d called when she first got home, from the secure line-the department had a tip that the mural panels had been transferred to the SUV. It was against department regulations to communicate information on a chase, but Mabel was careful. She knew, from the way Charlie spoke, that she was on the secure line. She said Max wasn’t part of the chase, that he was down the coast where wreckers were pulling a car and body up the cliff. Was that the body from the plaza? And was that another part of whatever convoluted crime these Wicken people had set in motion?
C HARLIE WOULD NOT learn that Dallas had been shot until she arrived at the gallery and Sicily told her that the detective was, in Sicily’s words, “Just slightly hurt. He may be delayed, they’re taking out the bullet. Just a flesh wound.”
Flesh wound or not, the news sickened Cha
rlie, made her wish someone had shot both the Wickens and that good-for-nothing Leroy Huffman. She spent the evening smiling and trying to be charming and answering hundreds of questions, while inside her worries about Dallas and about Ryan were eating her up, and she wanted only to be at the hospital with them.
S O, THAT WOMAN detective found the kid’s doll and the duffel. Must have found the clothes, too, the way the duffel bag was stuffed full. Standing in the shadows of a doorway half a block up, on the other side of the street, he’d watched her coming out of that used shop, heading for her police unit. That angered him, that she’d found the clothes, he thought he’d disposed of that stuff pretty well. Damn cops.
In a Dumpster, the kid’s pretty clothes would have stood right out. He’d figured they’d dive the Dumpsters. But what made them bring the kid to search the used shops? Sure as hell, no one else but her could spot that stuff, mixed in like it was with all the castoff pants and shirts-he really hadn’t thought they’d drag her around the shops, as puny and sick-looking as she was.
But what the hell? So they had her clothes. What were they going to find? Penney’s and Kmart labels. He hadn’t handled the clothes, except with gloves. This was just cops’ busywork and amounted to nothing.
Worse luck that she’d found that old doll-but why let the doll bother him? So it was handmade, so it might be traced. By the time they’d ID’d the body, if they ever did, or by the time anyone at the other end thought to look for father and child, he’d be long gone where they’d never find him.
Looked like that detective was headed back to her condo with the kid, just as he’d hoped she’d do when the day was done. Earlier in the day, he’d parked his vehicle two blocks from her place, had walked down around the PD and waited a while, hoping to spot her and the kid-then saw them coming out of the charity store. Now, moving fast to keep up with the squad car as she drove through the crowded streets, he paused in the gathering shadows of a doorway as she swung into the parking garage beneath her condo.