Part 12 (1/2)

She smelled coffee, then, as if it had just started to perk, and heard from the kitchen the metallic sound of the can opener. She heard Clyde's voice, low and irritable, then heard the dogs' toenails scratch the linoleum, scuffling, as if he had set down their food. She heard a cat mewl.

She didn't want to face Clyde this morning. She'd just dress and slip out, go away somewhere. Maybe around nine o'clock she'd call the shop, disguise her voice and ask for Jimmie. Then, a.s.sured that he was at work, she'd go home, throw her clothes in the car.

She guessed she'd left Clyde's robe in the bathroom. She pulled the sheet off the bed, wrapped it around herself, and headed down the hall to wash. She wished she had her toothbrush, wished she had her comb and lipstick. Pa.s.sing the door to Clyde's bedroom, she stopped to look in.

Last night when he was so upset, why had he been sitting on his bed calmly reading a bunch of papers? The briefcase and notebook lay in plain sight on the dresser.

She could hear him in the kitchen talking to the animals. She slipped in, walked to the dresser, and flipped open the notebook.

The pages were filled with short entries listing foreign cars: the year, the make, then particulars as to model, color, type of upholstery and the various accessories. All were expensive models. Each entry listed a state and county, a license number, then a date and the name and address of a Molena Point resident. That could be the purchaser. Twelve pages were filled. She put the notebook down, opened the briefcase, and drew out a stack of papers.

They were photocopies of book and magazine pages. All were articles about cats. She read quickly, at first amazed, and then eagerly as one would read a letter from home filled with welcome news.

She read until all sound from the kitchen ceased. She stuffed the papers back in the briefcase, laid the notebook on top as she had found it, and fled for the bathroom.

She turned on the shower and stepped into the welcome warmth and steam. Why did Clyde have all that amazing stuff about cats? Where had he gotten it? And why, if he'd read it, was he so upset with her last night?

He must be trying to find out about Joe Cat. In her own distress, she'd almost forgotten Joe. Clyde had gone to some trouble to put together that remarkable information. But if he'd read those amazing articles, he shouldn't have been so upset last night.

She got out of the shower, brushed her teeth with her finger and Clyde's toothpaste, and brushed her hair with his hairbrush. When she came out, glancing down the hall, she could see him in the bedroom standing at the dresser.

He was dressed to go out, wearing tan jeans, a dark polo s.h.i.+rt and an off-white linen jacket. As she stood looking, he slipped the little notebook into his jacket pocket.

He moved to the nightstand and picked up the phone, and she backed away into the guest room. Through her open door she listened to him punching in a number.

He didn't ask for anyone, he just started talking. ”Can I meet with you this morning? Yes, two days ago.” He listened, then said, ”Don't do that. That could mess us up real bad.”

He listened, then, ”No, nothing. But I'm not done with it. It's the money ...”

Then, ”Yes.” He laughed. ”Ten minutes,” he said softly. ”Soon as I can get there.”

She shut her door quietly, dropped the sheet, and pulled on her clothes. She heard him pa.s.s her door going down the hall, then heard the back door open, heard him talking to the dogs as if letting them in. Quickly she slipped out to the living room and out the front door.

In the carport she slid into the open Packard, thankful that he kept the top down most of the time. The bright red car was an antique, valuable and lovingly cared for, always clean and well polished. Well why not? The men at the shop kept it washed. Sitting in the front seat she took a deep breath, whispered, and in an instant she was little again, four-footed, her tail las.h.i.+ng with nerves.

She leaped onto the back of the seat, then down to the floor in the back; she did it all so fast she thought she was going to throw up. Crouching on the floor among a tangle of jogging shoes, automotive catalogs, rags, paperback mysteries, and what smelled like stale peanut b.u.t.ter, she heard the front door slam, heard his footsteps. She hoped he wouldn't throw anything heavy on top of her. She heard him calling Joe. After a long silence, he came into the carport.

Standing beside the car, he called Joe again, and waited, then grumbled something cross and slid in. As he started the engine and backed out, Kate smoothed her whiskers and stretched out behind his seat, hidden on the shadowed floor. Stifling an excited purr, she smiled. Wherever he was going, whomever he planned to meet, he was going to have company.

20.

Dulcie led Joe a fast pace home through the misty night; crossing her own yard she wasted no time but bolted straight in through her cat door and made for the refrigerator.

Coming down the fog-shrouded street, sniffing on the damp air the distinctive scent of Wilma's garden, of the geraniums and lemon balm, she had streaked blindly on, skimming past the big old oak trees, racing across the fog-obscured lawns, then careening inside far ahead of Joe.

The intricately broken front of the charming stone cottage, the deep bay windows, and the incorporation of the two porches deep beneath the peaked roof lent the cottage a warm and cozy appeal. Wreathed in fog, the house, Joe thought, looked like a dwelling in one of Clyde's favorite Dean Koontz novels, a house both mysterious and welcoming.

He felt uneasy, though, coming inside in the middle of the night, when Wilma would be sleeping. The intrusion made him feel unpleasantly secretive and stealthy. He would rather have had his supper at Donnie's Lounge cadging hamburger sc.r.a.ps, half-deafened by Dixieland jazz among the feet of happy drinkers.

He pushed into the dark kitchen behind Dulcie and found her stretched out on the linoleum between the dim counters and the refrigerator beside an empty kibble bowl.

She was still munching. ”Home,” she whispered, smiling. Her breath smelled of kibble.

”Thanks for leaving me some.”

”That was just an appetizer. As soon as I digest this, we'll have supper.”

He sniffed the scent of wet tea bags and onions that radiated from the trash; these were mixed with the smell of floor wax and of a woman's faint perfume. ”Will Wilma hear us?”

”The bedroom's at the far end of the hall. She sleeps like a rock. I can lie down across her stomach at night, and she doesn't wake up. Come on,” she said, getting up, yawning. ”When I open the refrigerator, hold the door open.”

Lightly she leaped to the counter and pressed her front paws against the inside of the refrigerator handle. Bracing her hind paws against the edge of the counter, she pushed.

The door flew open, and Joe pressed inside to stop it from closing again. Leaning into the chilly shelves, he smelled the mouthwatering scent of roast chicken.

Together they hauled out a package wrapped in the kind of white paper Jolly's Deli used. They pawed the paper off, tearing it with their teeth, to reveal a plump half chicken, its skin crisp and brown.

Joe braced the drumstick between his paws and tore off chunks of dark meat as Dulcie quickly stripped meat from the breast. Dulcie was way too hungry to think about manners. The notion that cats were dainty eaters was an amusing human myth, no less silly than Sick as a cat, or Cat got your tongue.

They cleaned every sc.r.a.p from the bones of the chicken, then they liberated from the refrigerator a foil-wrapped cube of cheese, a plastic container of oyster stew, and a wedge of cream pie. Dulcie lifted the aluminum pie tin out with her teeth, smearing her nose with cream. Joe hadn't realized he was so hungry. But as soon as the rich supper settled in his stomach he began to feel sleepy, and to yawn. He didn't want to sleep. If they planned to break into the automotive shop before dawn, he didn't need to pa.s.s out in a heavy, postsupper stupor.

He cleaned pie from his whiskers as Dulcie lifted what trash she could manage up into the trash receptacle. They left the floor a mess, but who could help it? They were cats, not kitchen maids.

They retired to the living room, to the top of Wilma's desk, where Joe pawed open the phone book and committed to memory Kate's number.

The room was old and comfortable. A worn blue afghan was thrown over the arm of the needlepoint couch. The big rag rug was thick and hand-braided, the desk was a nice rich cherry piece, carved and well polished. ”Wilma keeps talking about redecorating,”

Dulcie said. ”She keeps collecting pictures of rooms she likes.” She shrugged. ”Maybe she will, maybe not.” The painting over the fireplace was the best thing in the room, a loosely rendered, painterly study of Molena Point cottages as seen from the hills, lots of red rooftops tucked among rich greens, and a slash of blue at the bottom that was the sea.

Joe lifted the receiver by the cord, and punched in Kate's number. The phone rang for a long time. He gave up at last, and lifted the handset back. He hoped she had left the village, that she was safely away from Molena Point and out of Wark's and Jimmie's reach.

At the back of the phone book, in the yellow pages, he found the automotive shop. Then, in the map at the front that the phone company had furnished for newcomers, he located Haley Street. He wondered if the people who had put together the phone book would be pleased that a cat was using their map.

The automotive shop was a block off Highway One, at the corner of Haley and Ocean. He thought that was near the vet's where Clyde took him once a year to get poked with a very sharp needle. Now that he had a little say in the matter, now that he was totally his own person, he wouldn't be dragged back there so easily.

The desk clock said two-twenty as they snuggled down on Wilma's blue afghan, pawing it off the couch arm onto the seat, and into a comfortable nest. Dulcie yawned hugely and rolled over, wriggling deeper into the soft wool.

Joe rolled onto his back, and licked a bit of chicken that he had missed between his claws. ”I want to be out of here by four, up and headed for the shop.”

”I'll wake up,” she said sleepily. ”I always wake up.” Four o'clock was the shank of the night, the mysterious roaming hour; the time when her active imagination could soar into moonlit dreams; and, when the mice and small, succulent creatures come out of their burrows.

The warmth of the afghan seeped into their tired bodies, easing their tense muscles. But as Joe was dropping off, he felt Dulcie s.h.i.+ver.

He lifted his heavy head. ”What? What's the matter?”