Cat Seeing Double

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  "Possibly. I've heard hints, from our lumber people, but nothing specific. A sense of things unsaid, an unease." He laughed. "If I were a local, they'd talk more. You asked about Larn Williams. He and Ryan had dinner to discuss a possible remodel. I don't think she considered it a date. He had come around to look at her work, seemed to like it. Small-time realtor. Works on his own, I gather. She wasn't real taken with him."

  "Have you heard anything …off, about him?"

  "Nothing. I see Williams sometimes in town when I go for lumber. I've seen him a couple of times talking with Marianna Landeau. Once on the street, once in the door of his office. They seemed-easy with one another. And the Landeaus are into real estate, or at least her husband is. Apparently a big-time operator."

  Charlie watched Scotty with interest. Everything he said was soft-spoken, but he wasn't shy, he seemed bursting with male energy. She liked this "second father" of Ryan's, already she felt comfortable with him. She could imagine growing up under the humorous eyes of a man like this, so different from her own reserved and austere father whom she had known only until she was nine. As Scotty refilled their coffee cups, she rose. "Could I take a quick look at the new wing?"

  Scotty waved his arm toward the large living room that she could glimpse beyond the kitchen, and she moved on through, into a space that took her breath away.

  The room was the size of a triple garage, but with a high-raftered ceiling that made it seem much larger. It was still empty of furniture. The north side was dominated by a river-rock fireplace that rose from the pine floor, soaring ten feet up to the cedar beams. To her right, the floor-to-ceiling windows looked at the mountains, but to her left the tall glass panes embraced a view of the yellowed hills against the sky, hills dotted with dark oaks and with a scatter of grazing cattle.

  Stepping out onto the stone terrace, she could see a fence line far below, and as she watched, three deer wandered across the pasture among the black Angus steers and stopped to graze.

  Turning back inside, she imagined the room furnished with Navajo rugs and soft leather couches and, in the shelves that lined the back wall, hundreds of books. Through an alcove into the dining room she could see a rough-hewn table set before another fireplace and, on the plain white wall, a collection of small framed landscapes. For a long moment she imagined herself and Max there having supper by the fire, watching their horses down in the pasture.

  Oh, the stuff of dreams.

  But she and Max had what they wanted, they had a nice home and plenty of room for the horses, and soon, probably under Ryan's skilled hand, they would add a studio where she could work. But, most wonderful of all, and amazing, was that she and Max had each other.

  Slipping into the older part of the house she admired the way Ryan had converted the original living room into a handsome master bedroom and turned the old, smaller dining area into an ample dressing room. There were fireplaces everywhere. The original rough-stone fireplace now faced the bed beside window seats where one could look down on the hills. Charlie wondered how Ryan would approach their own building project. Maybe they could turn part of the existing house into studio space, and build a new great room. That possibility was even more exiting.

  As she returned to the kitchen, Max was saying, "You're guessing the kids know about the bombing, know that Curtis is in jail?"

  "Those kids are secretive about something," Scotty said. "But maybe only about their own situations. There's a lot of petty crime back in these hills, a lot of guys with small marijuana patches. Whatever the problem, the kids sure wouldn't open up about Hurlie. I hope you turn up something more at Little Fish Creek."

  Harper nodded, and rose. Charlie touched his arm. "Can you take a minute? To walk through the house? It's quite wonderful."

  "Guess I'd better," he said, grinning, "if we're going to hire this gal."

  Charlie sat with Scotty, letting Max look on his own without her comments. She told Scotty about Max's ranch and the studio they planned to add.

  "A studio," Scotty said, "where you will draw animals. Ryan says you're the best she's seen. You'll be wantin' to draw that big dog that hitched a ride with her, he's a fine, well-bred fellow. He should be hunting. Someone's a fool to have lost a dog like that, and not look for him." Scotty frowned. "Those boys know more about that dog too than they're saying. Maybe something they're ashamed of?" He gave her a puzzled look. "Can't figure out what it might be. The dog was sure easy with them all, not like they'd hurt him."

  Charlie watched him a moment, wondering, then Max returned. Rising, Scotty held out his hand to them. "You have the kids' descriptions. Sorry I didn't learn more. I'll be headin' back for the coast mid-afternoon.

  Ryan's ready to jack up the roof, in the morning, and that takes six men-five men and Ryan. She's got a couple of off-duty officers coming over to help out- for pay of course," Scotty said, watching Max.

  Max nodded. "Nothing wrong with that. They earn little enough. I hope they do good work."

  "She'll see they do," Scotty said. "I'll be staying with Dallas down there, if there's anything I can do. You want to take my old truck? You'd be less conspicuous up in the Little Fish neighborhood than with that late-model king cab."

  "Thanks for the offer," Max said, shaking his head. "But we'll stick with this one. At least it's respectably dusty."

  Scotty walked to the truck with them, lifting his hand as they backed out then bending again to his sprinkler pipes. Pulling down the drive, Max glanced at Charlie. "I like the new addition, like what Ryan did. You want to talk to her about enlarging our place?"

  "I'd like that. And I'd like to work with her on the project. That could save us a little money, and would be good for my carpentry skills. What if we find Hurlie Farger? Do you have cause to arrest him?"

  "I don't have a warrant, but I sure have one for Gramps Farger. Maybe Gramps is in Molena Point as Dallas was told, and maybe he's not. And if I have cause to think Hurlie had something to do with the bombing, I can get a warrant in a hurry. Now watch for Little Fish Road. I'd like to bundle up the whole Farger family and take them out of circulation."

  At his words, the same icy chill touched Charlie as when she'd heard the blast and saw the church wall broken out. She was filled again with fear for him. And with cold anger. Because Max had done his job well, had seen Gerrard Farger sent to prison, the Fargers had begun this nightmare.

  But she'd known the shape of their future together. Had known it far too well after the Marner murders last winter, when she realized the killer had set up Max to take the rap. She knew what Max's life was about. She meant to be a part of his world, exactly the way he wanted to live it, and she didn't intend to back off. She would not let herself cringe from what the future might hold.

  She spent the rest of the morning, and midday, sitting happily in the cab sketching whatever she found of interest, as Max made his calls at every general store, feed supply and hardware, returning to the truck to fill out his field sheets. They ate lunch at a ma-and-pa cafe of questionable cleanliness, but with wonderful berry pie. Around 2:00 they headed for Little Fish Creek, on a road that dropped suddenly down between steep hills, through tall yellow-dry grass.

  Below them, little shacks were scattered among animal pens and old car bodies, the small wooden houses and sheds bleached pale, the fences wandering and leaning. The occupants had been creative, though, fashioning some of their fences from rows of old bedsprings wired together, or old camper covers placed on their sides, each concave interior floored with scattered straw as a shelter for pigs or chickens. The whole settlement looked bone-dry and scrubby, except for the vegetable gardens. These were dark with rich earth and green with luxuriant crops, though some of the rows were fading to brown now in the September heat. Each property boasted a mixed collection of mongrel dogs and nondescript farm animals too, with scruffy, dust-dulled coats. Charlie glanced slyly at Max. "Which is the honeymoon cottage? Did you make reservations?"

  "You can take your choice." But his
tone was cool. Something about her remark didn't sit well, and she was sorry she'd said that. Max didn't like that kind of sarcasm. As a matter of fact, neither did she. Not everyone in the world had a choice about where they lived, certainly the children didn't. When she glanced at Max, he looked back at her grinning, knowing very well what she was thinking.

  Sitting in the truck while Max went from door to door talking with different families trying to get a line on Hurlie, she watched the mangy dogs and dirty children and thought about Curtis living there and wondered uncomfortably about his life. If Curtis had run away from his mother, what had his life been like, with her? And as the afternoon dulled and began to dim, Charlie felt sad, and unaccountably angry.

  20

  At each small, paintless shack, Max stepped out, hallooed the house, then asked the same questions of the occupant, about where he might find Hurlie Farger. He had already found Hurlie's farm, from the directions the sheriff gave them. The place seemed deserted. No sign of anyone home, no resident animals, no recent footprints across the dirt yard, the garden dried to the color of scorched paper. Though Max had not been fully satisfied that Hurlie wasn't living there among the rubble he could see through the uncurtained windows. He had continued to look, wading through the dust of countless yards making nice to a motley assortment of suspicious dogs, and cajoling their scowling masters who didn't trust a stranger and could smell a cop ten miles away even when he was wearing jeans and wrinkled boots. Charlie sat in the truck watching Max and making quick sketches of the assorted livestock, pausing only to wipe sweat from her forehead; the thermometer was in the nineties.

  Far above them, up the last dry hill of Little Fish Creek, Hurlie Farger sat in his old truck looking down the falling land watching Harper ply the narrow roads and switchbacks. He had been there for three hours, killing a six-pack of beer and wagering with himself how long would it take the tall skinny cop to grow discouraged and leave, not accomplishing what he had come for. Knowing cops, he expected Harper might keep looking until nightfall, until it was too dark among the hills for any cop with good sense to hang around, when he was out of his own jurisdiction.

  Hurlie Farger, at thirty-eight, was the spit'n image of how his gramps had looked at that age. And he could almost be the twin of his younger brother Gerrard. Certainly anyone running across Gerrard down in San Quentin, and knowing Gramps Farger from the old man's sojourns in various California prisons, would see at once that the sullen, wiry inmate with the muddy brown eyes and pitcher ears was a Farger, and they'd know Hurlie just as easily. All the Farger men had the same chicken-thin neck, the same narrow bony shoulders and lank, muddy hair. Maybe the Farger clan wasn't handsome, but the family genes were strong. In the long haul, Hurlie knew, it's blood that counts.

  Watching the newlyweds ply the Little Fish Creek neighborhood, Hurlie had eased down comfortably in his old, rusted-out Ford truck drinking a warm Coors and cradling his cell phone, following Harper's progress not only with binoculars but via the wonders of modern electronics. From his good neighbors he had received a running account of all conversations. He had watched Harper circle his own place peering in the windows, and knew that Harper had gotten the address from Sheriff Beck. But Hurlie had made very sure that the visiting law would find nothing of interest.

  Though Harper had the rural-route mailbox numbers of Hurlie's two cousins, he learned nothing from either, or from their kids. Hurlie spoke with and laughed with each of them after Harper left the premises. When Harper drove out of Little Fish Creek, surely hot and thirsty and short-tempered, and headed up the mountain in the direction of the Landeau place, Hurlie tucked the phone on the seat under his folded jacket, started the rattling Ford and headed down the road to meet him.

  "They're covering for him," Max said with an amused grin as he turned onto the upper road the sheriff had described. "The laughter hidden down behind those sour faces. Hurlie's cousins nearly busted a gut trying not to laugh at me." He glanced over at Charlie. "See that occasional flash of sunlight up there atop the hill, see where that old truck's sitting?"

  "You've been watching it."

  "I'd say that's Hurlie up there." Max eased the truck steadily up the rutted, one-car road. Five turns later he slammed on the brakes.

  The rattletrap truck sat in the road crosswise. Hurlie stood beside it resting on the fender like the heavy in an old B movie, a small-caliber rifle leaning beside him. Max touched his holstered Glock, wishing he'd left Charlie at the inn. He stepped out of the pickup. "Good morning, Hurlie. You want to move your truck out of the way?"

  "I heard you was looking fer me. Thought I'd save you any more driving around, in this hot weather. What exactly did you want? You some kind of law?" Hurlie glanced in at Charlie with an insolence that made Max step closer to him.

  "Right now I want you to move your truck. You're blocking the road."

  Hurlie stared, his chin jutted out, his eyes on Max but glancing down at the Glock. "You were lookin' fer me you musta had a reason. I do somethin' wrong?" Gently his hand eased toward his pants pocket.

  In one move Max grabbed Hurlie, spun him around and shoved him against the rusted truck, kicking his rifle into the dust. Pressing the Glock into Hurlie's ribs he patted him down, removing a snub-nosed Saturday night special from his pants pocket, two hunting knives and a straight razor from various pockets.

  Hurlie, facing the cab of Max Harper's pickup, his hands pressed against the vehicle's roof, looked around at Harper. "So what's this about. I ain't done nothin'."

  Max glanced at Charlie where she sat with her hand on the phone. He nodded.

  As Charlie called the sheriff, Hurlie's expression remained one of puzzled innocence. Max arrested him for impeding the duties of a police officer, and cuffed him. "Sit down on the ground, Hurlie."

  "It's dusty. Dust makes me cough."

  "Sit down now."

  Hurlie sat, stirring a cloud of dust.

  "Why were you waiting for me? Why were you blocking the road?"

  "You're that police captain from over to the coast."

  "So?"

  "So I heard you wanted to talk to me. I was just being cooperative, waiting here."

  "Where's Gramps Farger?"

  Though Dallas had a lead on Gramps, he hadn't found him yet, and there was no harm in shaking Hurlie up, see what he could jar loose. "Gramps staying with you, Hurlie? You'll feel better if you don't lie to me."

  "What you want with him?"

  "Is he living with you?"

  "I ain't seen him since you sent my brother to prison."

  "I don't believe that. And I know Curtis has been living up here with you."

  "Ain't seen neither one. Can I get up? Like to smother in dust down here. Ain't no call to make me sick."

  "Your shack is full of dust. You have everyone in that hollow covering for you. If I find Gramps up here, I'll lock your ass up for good, along with his. How long was Curtis here? Why did he go home? Be straight with me, Hurlie."

  "You can't lock me up for nothin'."

  "Harboring a delinquent, for starters. How long was Curtis here? What was he doing up here?"

  "He wasn't here. I ain't seen him."

  "You working up at the Landeau place?"

  "What'd I do up at that fancypants place? Polish the silver? Where'd you get that notion?"

  "Are you working for them up there?"

  "Doing what?" Hurlie snapped. "Them high mucky-mucks wouldn't have me." As he scowled up at Max, a dust cloud appeared down the hill, the sheriff's car at its center winding up the twisting road.

  The kit might be in exile, but her luxurious accommodations quite suited her. Wilma had left work at the library early in order to get her settled, and to visit with Cora Lee. She had brought Dulcie along for the ride, though Dulcie wouldn't be staying.

  Following Cora Lee through the big, high-ceilinged living room, Wilma looked around with pleasure. The tired old hillside house, under the ministrations of its four new owners, was more
charming each time she saw it. The four senior ladies were doing wonders, most of it by their own hard work.

  The two women made an interesting contrast, both tall and slim, both in their sixties. Wilma's gray-white hair was done in a long, thick braid wound around her head. She was dressed in jeans, a red turtleneck T-shirt and red blazer. Cora Lee wore pale cream chinos and a mocha sweater that complemented her dusky complexion. She never understood why women of her coloring liked to wear plum and purple, the very shades that picked up all the wrong highlights. Moving toward the stairs, she was eager to see Wilma's reaction to how she had decorated her own room. The four ladies had drawn straws to choose their rooms, but Cora Lee suspected the outcome had been fixed. The upstairs room was the only one that offered a large alcove off the bedroom, which she could use as studio space.

  The house belonged in part to Wilma; she and the other four ladies of the Senior Survival Club had bought the property together as a private retirement retreat. The structure was large enough to give each a spacious room and bath, and to accommodate as well a housekeeper and perhaps a practical nurse or caretaker when that time arrived. It hadn't yet, for any of the ladies. While each woman's room was designed to her own taste, the common living, dining, and kitchen areas were a triumph of compromise, a fascinating eclectic mix that the ladies had put together with a minimum of harsh words. In their intelligent cooperation Wilma found great encouragement against the time, far in the future, when she would sell her own home and move in with them.

  The raftered great room with its raised fireplace and long window seat was done in a combination of wicker and leather, with contemporary India rugs, white plantation shutters and, scattered among the books in the wall of built-in bookcases, a collection of local, handthrown ceramics. Whoever had built the house had loved fireplaces; there was a raised wood-burning fireplace in nearly every room. Following Cora Lee up the stairs, Wilma was not prepared for her friend's decorating approach to her own large bedroom.