Cat On The Edge Part 13

But both officers remained silent, glancing at each other amusedly. Maybe she was the best laugh they'd had that morning.

She daren't look behind her. Who knew how many cops, by now, were watching her four-footed progress? But maybe no one would feel the need to pet the nice kitty, or to chase her away. What had made her think she could walk past a bunch of cops without every eye on her? She held her breath, and moved on quickly.

Catching up to the boy, she pressed so close to his heels that his pant legs brushed her face. And then ahead she heard Clyde's voice coming from the last conference room.

She swerved away from her companion and slipped inside.

Clyde sat with his back to her, at a conference table. She nipped under a line of straight chairs that marched along the wall.

Max Harper stood beyond the table, copying something on the Xerox. She backed deeper into the shadows, watching his lean back, his long sun-weathered hands delicately flipping over each page of Clyde's notebook and placing it carefully in the machine.

When Harper finished, he handed the notebook across the table to Clyde. She felt deeply relieved that Clyde wasn't into this ugly business with Jimmie, that Clyde had come to Harper.

Clyde dropped the notebook in his pocket. "Could you get to those four before they're sold? While they're still in the shop?"

"I'll call San Francisco this morning, see if we can get a man down here. If we can make those four, we'll start contacting everyone on the list."

"You can't keep it in the department, to save time?''

"We can check out the VIN numbers, but we can't check for any change in the motor numbers. We need a man from the National Crime Information Bureau for that. They won't tell anyonea"not even law enforcementa"where the numbers are on the various cars and models."

Harper grinned. "Just as well. Let that information leak out, and the punks start using acid on the motor numbers, and it all hits the fan."

Clyde said, "Can you give me a few more days before you contact them? Another week? I still think there's something more."

"If you had one shred of evidence, Clyde ..." Harper leaned back, lit a cigarette. He exhaled such a heavy reef of smoke that she had to press her nose against her leg to keep from sneezing. "You know I need sufficient cause for the judge to give us a warrant. If you had some indication of hidden cash, of laundered money ..."

A jolt shook her. Laundered money. As in foreign bank accounts.

Clyde shook his head. "I've searched Beckwhite's office. Nothing. Nothing in Osborne's office. But I still think I'm right, that there's a money trail."

She waited while they discussed a deadline for Clyde, settling on three days, and finished their coffee. She could hear no sound from the hall, except the police radio. When they began making small talk about Harper's horse, which he kept up the valley, she nipped out, careened down the hall into the adjoining hall and through the inner door to the courthouse.

Crouched in the courthouse hall behind a concrete cigarette stand, hating the stink of stale ashes, she waited until two secretaries entered the ladies' room. She slid in behind them; and in a booth, she changed to Kate.

She came out of the booth straightening her s.h.i.+rt. She checked her reflection in the mirror, smoothed her hair. She wished she had a comb and some lipstick. She patted the checkbook and keys in her pocket, and stood staring at herself, thinking.

She could go back into the station now, as soon as Clyde left. See Max Harper, tell him about the foreign bankbooks. Take him home with her, get the evidence he wanted.

But probably Harper would have to ask her questions, and right now she didn't want to answer any questions. Who knew, maybe he'd need a search warrant to take the bankbooks, even if it was her house. She wished she knew more about the law. The bankbooks weren't hersa"they were Jimmie's property.

Or were they community property? By being married to Jimmie, was she somehow involved in his crimes?

And if Harper's questions and police red tape slowed her, the whole thing could take hours. She didn't want to stay in Molena Point, even for a few hours. She needed to get away, as far away from Jimmie as she could, away from the village.

She left the ladies' room and stood looking out the gla.s.s courthouse doors at the bright morning. Clyde's car was gone, the parking s.p.a.ce beside the Suburban was empty. The courthouse clock said nine-forty.

She could be home, get the bankbooks and her purse, stuff her clothes in the car, and be out of there by ten-thirty. Bring the bankbooks back to Harper, then leave town. Drive up to the city, get lost in San Francisco.

Excited, and scared, she swung out of the courthouse and headed home, walking fast, hoping no one she knew saw her. It hit her hard that she was finally leaving him, but that no matter where she went, Jimmie might find her.

22.

The sea wind scudded around Wilma's ankles like a seeking animal racing along the wet sh.o.r.e. The dawn sky was gray, the sea was the color of old pewter. She walked quickly, skirting just above the white foam and kicking through thin sheets of water that crawled black and sleek up the sand. Thinking of Dulcie, she felt ridiculously hurt.

The little cat had come home late last night but she had left again without ever padding into the bedroom to greet her, she had simply eaten and gone away again.

Around three-thirty this morning a thud had woken her. She had lain listening, wondering if she had a burglar, if someone was in the house. She thought it wasn't the first thud she'd heard; but it took a lot to wake her. As she lay trying to decide whether to get up, she heard the soft thump of the cat door.

She had expected that Dulcie would eat her kibble, then come on into the bedroom and settle down. She waited for quite a while, then swung out of bed and went to the kitchen. Before she could switch on the light she slipped and nearly fell. Backing up, she stepped on something sharp, a tiny object that pierced her foot like a splinter.

She flipped the switch, and in the blaze of light she froze, puzzled.

Chicken bones and greasy food were smeared across the floor. From the trash can protruded the white paper wrapper from the roast chicken she had brought home from Jolly's. And when she looked more carefully into the garbage, there was the stripped chicken carca.s.s, as well as a plastic container that had held some oyster stew, and an empty pie tin. Greasy pawprints were everywhere. She sat down at the kitchen table puzzled, and then amazed. Then shaking with uncontrolled laughter.

There were two sets of pawprints, of different sizes. Both trails led to the living room, and up onto the desk. There was a smear of cream pie on the phone, and pawprints all over the phone book. The book lay open to the map of Molena Point. She stood at the desk remembering vividly Clyde's description of Joe Grey's telephone style.

She found a stain of grease on the couch, too, and the blue afghan was matted into a round nest which, when she laid her hand in it, was still warm. She was amused, but she was hurt that Dulcie had been there and gone away without even coming into the bedroom for a pet; and she was embarra.s.sed at her resentment. It was childish and was silly.

She stroked the afghan where cat hairs clung, Dulcie's chocolate and peach hairs, and Joe's short gray hairs, sleek as silk. She should call Clyde later, at a decent hour, tell him Joe had been there. She sat stroking the afghan, trying to imagine how the two cats had opened the refrigerator. And she was caught again in the haze of childlike astonishment that had haunted her for days.

But she was frightened, too. She couldn't stop thinking about Lee Warka"Wark and his mysterious interest in cats. Something about the man troubled her deeply. She did not like the pattern which was taking shape.

She had gone back to bed at last, but she didn't sleep. She rose before six, made a cup of coffee, drank it restlessly, and left the house, needing to walk off the tangle of disturbing thoughts which had descended. Shake them off or try to make sense of them.

She was well beyond the village, now, where big older homes sat atop the low cliff, their lawns and gardens glistening with sea spray. At the front of most of the houses, a large and well-appointed gla.s.s room had been added. Or, in the newer homes, a big sunroom had been integrated into the original design. These provided warm retreats all year from the ever-present sea winds, but offered a wide view of the changing sea. She liked to glance in at the expensive wicker furnis.h.i.+ngs, at the carefully tended houseplants and the bright fabrics.

Sometimes she thought she'd love a house out here, if she could afford it. But these beachfront houses ran up into six and seven figures. When a hard storm hit the coast, however, she was glad enough to have her snug stone cottage away from the worst of the blow. And this stretch of beach, open and windy, and busy with running dogs, was not a good place for cats. There wasn't much shelter here, away from trees and the concealing hills, not enough shelter for Dulcie from dogs or from people. Nowhere to hide from Lee Wark, she thought darkly.

It wasn't coincidence that Lee Wark had spent hours in the library, researching cats. She kept seeing his angry eyes that day, when he looked up and saw her. Why would he be so startled, and so angry?

He was angry because he knew she belonged with Dulcie. For reasons still unclear, he hated the little cat. Hated her enough to try to poison her. Oh, that poison came from Wark. She was convinced of it. She didn't much believe in coincidences.

Somehow, Wark had known where Dulcie lived; he must have been watching the house, so probably he had seen her, too. Very likely he saw her leave the night he poisoned Dulcie's food.

She had found the buried bowl in late afternoon, when she went out to work in the garden. Puzzled by the mysterious ravages to her pansies, she had dug into the flower bed to replant them. Her shovel hit the bowl, hard and ringing.

When she uncovered it, the salmon was still in the bowl, rotten and stinking. Its smell had gagged her. But there was another smell, too, like bitter almonds. She had shoved the whole mess into a plastic bag, grabbed her car keys, and taken it to the vet.

Jim Firreti was certain the smell was cyanide, but to make sure, he had sealed up the food, bowl and all, and sent it up to San Francisco for a.n.a.lysis.

It was then she realized how dangerous Lee Wark was, and knew that she had to find out more about him. Before she left Firreti's office she called Clyde and told him about the poison, then she phoned Bernine Sage and made a date for lunch. Bernine was the only person she knew who might give her a clearer picture of the Welshman.

She left Firreti's office promising to keep Dulcie in the house, but she had no intention of doing that. How could she? Nor did she need to. Who else but Dulcie would have buried that reeking mess? Dulcie knew very well about poison.

She just hoped Bernine Sage would give her a clearer picture of the man. Bernine had lived with Wark, she had to know something about him. One way or another, Wilma thought, lunch would be informative.

The Bakery Cafe had opened five years ago in an old house a block above the ocean, a gray s.h.i.+ngle structure with a deep veranda, which was now furnished with small tables. On nice days the veranda tables were all taken before noon. When Wilma arrived at twelve they were full, but Bernine had snagged the last one. She was just sitting down, her red hair flaming like a beach fire above a pale pink blazer.

Bernine Sage was forty-three, a natural redhead who showed off her coloring with tangerine lipstick, orange sweaters, hot pink silk. Today's cool pink blazer topped a white T-s.h.i.+rt and jeans, and flat sandals. Bernine's face was thin, her smile quick, though it seldom touched her eyes. She was tall, five-eight, and imposing enough to work a room without ever moving from one spot.

Bernine had left the San Francisco Probation Office at age thirty-eight, with twenty years and a nice pension due her. In Molena Point she had taken a job as curator for the Sentina Gallery, then later had gone to work for Beckwhite. Bernine knew how to run an office smoothly, and Beckwhite had paid nearly twice what Sentina could afford. She was personable, polished, skilled. To Bernine, appearances were everything. And manipulating the facts to enhance her work and her life was as natural as breathing. They had shared a few laughs over Bernine's past untruths, though Wilma didn't go along with Bernine's philosophy.

They made small talk while they studied their menus. When they had ordered, Wilma kept up the pointless chatter for a respectable interlude before she asked Bernine about Lee Wark. She would have preferred to cut right to the bottom line, but anything direct made Bernine nervous. Bernine liked the oblique approach. After ten minutes of idle conversation, Wilma got around to computers, at which Bernine was a whiz, and then to discussing the on-line system at the library, and the recent addition of the Internet. At last she got around to Lee Wark. Maybe her approach wasn't smooth, but it did the job. "There was an interesting man in the library the other day using the computer, doing some kind of research. I think you may know him. Thin, one of those solemn, hungry, artistic-looking types." Artistic was not the way she thought of Wark. "He had a fascinating accent; I think he may be Welsh."

Bernine's green eyes went agreeable and expressionless. "That would be Lee Wark," she said pleasantly. "He sells cars to the agency. He's a freelance car buyer, travels all over. What kind of research could he be doing? Something about foreign cars?"

"I didn't help him. It was his accent that caught my attention. Didn't you date a car buyer for a while?"

Bernine waited a moment, a.s.sessing her. "I dated Wark, a few years back. He used to bring me cactus candy from New Mexico, pralines from Atlanta, stuff he bought in the airport gift shops." She laughed. "I broke it off, it got too fattening."

Wilma smiled. "You were bored with him?"

"Sometimes."

"I'm not sure I understand about the car buying. Can't the agency buy the used cars it needs locally, with so many foreign cars in the village?"

"Molena Point people don't buy as many new cars as you think. Many of the BMWs and Jags and Mercedeses you see were bought from us used. And remember, Beckwhite's doesn't serve just Molena Point. We do two-thirds of our business with Amber Beach customers and with people all up and down the coast."

"And Wark s.h.i.+ps the cars to you?"

"He s.h.i.+ps them by truck, or sometimes he trucks them himself. He has a couple of trucks and trailers, those long, open ramps that you run cars up on."

"Interesting work. I guess he does this full-time, travels and buys cars?"

Bernine watched her carefully. "Wark travels maybe nine months a year. What's this about, Wilma?"

"Idle curiosity." Wilma laughed, sipped her tea. "What does he do the rest of the year? Didn't you vacation with him?"

"I'm over twenty-one," she said defensively. Then, more pleasantly, "He has a place in the Bahamas. Hea"it's very nice, very tropical and pretty."

"Sounds like a perfect relations.h.i.+p. He's not here often enough to get tired of him, and he takes you to a nice vacation resort. What made you break off with him?" She paused while the waiter set down their order, a chicken sesame salad for Bernine, a small saute of crab for herself. She knew she was pus.h.i.+ng Bernine, but Bernine, for all her bristling, would give in, if one kept at her.

But now Bernine seemed wound tight. When the waiter had gone, she said, "If you'd tell me why you want to know ..."

Wilma just looked at her.

Bernine sighed. "I broke it off because Wark wasa"so strange. Maybe it was his Welsh upbringing." She sipped her water.

"Strange, how?"

"Whatever this is about, Wilma, I really don't mind talking about him. Why should I?" She widened her eyes a little. "But I wish you'd tell me."

"I would if I could, Bernine."

Bernine sighed more deeply. "He made me uncomfortable. I never told him why I didn'ta"why I ended it. He has some really weird ideas."

"Ideas like what?"

Bernine nibbled at her salad. "It sounds crazy."

"Try me."

"I wish you'd tell me what you're after. Are you doing some kind of investigative work?" Half the retired probation officers they knew did some private investigation.

"I'd be breaking a confidence, Bernine. I can only tell you it's important. What was it about Wark that put you off?"

"He ... It was the cats."

"Cats?" Wilma swallowed back an excited little bingo. She tried to sound and to look puzzled. "Why would cats ..." She shook her head as if not understanding. "Cats, as in house cats?"

"Yes, cats. He'd get on the subject of. cats until I could scream, I got really bored with it. Sometimes he scared me, the things he said and did."

She tossed back her flaming mop of hair. "I don't much like cats, but he was . . . We'd be walking down the street, he'd see a cat. He'd stare at it. Right there on the street he'd sort ofa"stalk it. Would look and look at it, follow it, stare at it, try to see its eyes."

"How very weird. Did he ever explain his actions?"

"When he did explain, his ideas made my skin crawl. Superst.i.tious ideas. He was really afraid of them, fevered."

"It's a phobia," Wilma said. "Some people have a terrible fear of cats."

"With Lee, it's more than phobia. He has this idea that some cats area"I don't know. Possessed. He thinks that some cats cana"that they have, like a human intelligence or something."

Wilma laughed and shook her head. "He sounds very strange. Where would he get such ideas?"

"I don't know. His family was full of those stories."

"Family stories," Wilma said. "And he grew up believing them?" Then, "How does he get along with the men in the shop? I don't imagine he talks to them about his fixation."

"I doubt it. I guess the men like him well enough."

"How about Beckwhite? Did they get along?"

Bernine's salad fork missed a beat. "They got along fine, as far as I know."

"I heard there was tension between Beckwhite and Wark, some difficulty."

Bernine's eyes turned steely, then softened. "There's always some little difference of opinion, that's human nature." Her smile didn't hide an almost-frightened look. "You can't work in an office without differences. What is this? What are you into?"

Wilma poured the last of her tea. "I wish I could tell you. You know me, I'm incredibly curious." She looked at Bernine blandly.

The waiter took their plates, and offered the dessert menu. They ordered a flan to share. When he'd gone, Wilma asked her about procedures at the shop.