Dulcie had lived with Wilma since she was a kitten; she was less than a year old when she discovered that she could speak. Her first words, blurted out without thought, had shocked them both. They had stared at each other in frightened silence. That moment had changed their lives forever.
They were alarmed and frightened, but then all at once they found themselves talking up a storm, both woman and cat wild with delight at being able to communicate.
Soon their household was a different place. They shared every thought, every memory. They were like long-lost roommates newly reunited, trading every secret. Or nearly every secret. Dulcie might leave out some of her and Joe’s most frightening adventures, though Wilma eventually learned about most of them and either scolded or laughed at them. Dulcie had learned to read, as Wilma read to her, the pretty tabby picking out the sound of each word, then of each letter. She learned the written word fast, took great delight in that new joy as she learned to pick out words on the computer. Soon Dulcie, listening to her own muse, found her head full of poems that she had to write down, and they were both amazed. The word pictures were simply there, something in her cat nature heard the cadences and had to save them, had to read them back to herself.
Even now, trying to ease her fear of the prowler, she padded across the desk to the computer, clenched her paws tight, and gently touching the keys, she opened her own personal document and started a new page—seeking to drown her fear of the prowling man, to calm that fluttering feeling that made her paws tremble. Whatever he wanted, she hoped Jimmie McFarland nailed him, and soon.
Now, longing to bring back the fairy-tale joy of Narnia, wanting to return to that magical world and drive back the ugly parts of life, she began a poem,
White witch before the moon,
Cold witch, cold as moon . . .
Little animals turned to stone,
Moonlight on them
Cold, alone . . .
But these were frightening words, and no others would come. Despite the fun of the book, the evil in it mixed too well with the man on the balcony, driving the goodness away. She looked at Courtney, expecting to see a shiver of fear in her young daughter’s amber eyes—but Courtney was not upset. Courtney the dreamer was still deep in the wonders of Narnia, still in the ice and snow, still with the magical beavers, hardly thinking of the stranger in the shadows. “Anyway,” Courtney said, reading her mother’s look, “anyway, he’s gone now. And what harm did he do?”
Wilma, with a glance at Dulcie, took calico Courtney in her arms and they headed out the back door for her car. For home and safety, Dulcie thought. While at the same moment, up on the roofs Joe Grey was streaking for the police department, for his own brand of safety among MPPD’s family of cops.
The old man, having left his truck parked against the heavy bushes beside the grocery, was coming out of his lawyer’s office feeling better. Maybe he wasn’t as old and half dead as he’d thought. Finally getting his will and trust in order, signing the last papers. Wiping out everyone but little Mindy and the two trustees he had chosen, leaving her the house and land, the two horses, the tractor and haying machines, and what money he had—which was more than his three sons knew—he felt more like the old Zebulon Luther once more. He figured no one would take better care of Mindy than Police Chief Harper and Charlie, his redheaded wife. He lived close enough to the Harper ranch to ride over there sometimes, or to see Charlie riding by on her sorrel mare, to stop and talk with her for a while or ask her in for coffee. Sometimes Charlie would bake a carrot cake or bring him a bag of oatmeal cookies. He and Mindy kept that secret, the two hiding them and sharing them alone. Yes, Charlie and Max would make fine guardians, if it came to that. Zeb knew a lot about Max Harper, and all of it good except for what Thelma and Nevin said, and that translated easily into the real truth.
His attorney, Eric Lock, was an easygoing guy raised in Montana, and about Zebulon’s own age. It was mighty nice of him coming into the office on a Saturday. He insisted on getting the Harpers’ written permission before finalizing the trust. It didn’t give Zeb custody but it gave him a leg up, to take better care of his granddaughter. Lock took care of it all, and Zeb, leaving his office, felt pretty good.
He pulled back as Thelma and Mindy passed by, headed on down the block. He was so excited to see his granddaughter he started to run over and grab her up and hug her. Instead, he pulled deeper into the shadows of a camera shop, stood watching her sadly as she disappeared.
He could see a black stretch limo parked down the street and he got a glimpse of the driver, crew-cut white hair as his third and oldest son straightened his cap. What was DeWayne doing here in the village? He’d thought he was on the East Coast. Zebulon hadn’t seen his oldest son in more than three years and he never heard from him, never a call or a letter, nor did he expect any. DeWayne dressed the best of the three boys, was the slickest. Had a fancy girlfriend, everything he did was to act big-time—but Zeb never saw the boy. DeWayne had e-mailed the girlfriend’s picture to Varney, not to his own father.
DeWayne was in South America for a while, then returned to drive limos for a small company in San Francisco. Even when he came down here, he never called or stopped by.
Well, he was here now. Zeb guessed with the car show, with all the tourists in town, more limos had been hired.
Or did DeWayne’s presence mean something more? In this crowd, he could sure figure a way to pick up some loose cash. DeWayne had sticky fingers even worse than his brothers.
Zeb had tried for years to change them but they wouldn’t listen so what was the use? He and Nell had done everything they knew to keep them straight; their crimes were never anything too bad, as far as he knew: misdemeanors like minor stealing, shoplifting. He and Nell had ended up not prying into their business, life was easier that way. To talk about it only made Nell sicker.
He turned away when Charlie Harper and that young female building contractor, Ryan Flannery, came out of the PD and, some distance behind them, the chief. Max Harper was in uniform today, not in his usual jeans and boots.
He waited until Max had pulled out, and Mindy and Thelma had gone on. He didn’t want Mindy to see him here in town and shout “Grandpa!” and run up to him making a fuss, no matter how much he missed her. Heading back down the street for his truck, he felt in his pocket for his grocery list. Lonely old man shopping to cook for himself like so many single “seniors” in the village, left to waste alone; and his cooking never tasted as good as Nell’s had, or even Thelma’s, after she took over. Glancing back once at the courthouse, he saw a cat on the roof behind him but paid little attention; except he wondered if he should get a cat. For the mice. And, to be honest, for the company, a warm, friendly animal to cuddle down with at night.