“She called the medics, too,” she said, laughing. “Baby boy, born on the medics’ stretcher before they even got her in the ambulance.
“She said the man was dressed in dark gray and a tan jacket, old jogging shoes, cap pulled down over dark shaggy hair. She didn’t see his face, he fled around a corner and she didn’t see or hear a car.” Charlie pushed back her red hair. “Max was mad as hell that they lost him.” She lowered her voice when a black limo pulled up in front of the tea shop, the driver in black uniform, black cap; they could see someone tall slumped in the backseat, only a shadow behind the dark glass.
The driver got out and came in, crossing the room directly to Thelma Luther’s table. Dark auburn hair, liver-colored freckles running into his sideburns and scalp. He sat down, they said nothing but looked at each other comfortably. The moment he appeared, the shop cat woke, hissed fiercely at him, and fled for the kitchen.
Mindy, having had little response from Joe Grey but a growl, raced at once for the older cat. She snatched him up near the back door; but she held him gently, petting him despite his angry snarls. Joe Grey, with the window seat empty, flew across the room and jumped up on the padded bench that stood against the window, sitting tall as he took silent possession, smugly defending the warm place the old cat had abandoned.
The driver was a middle-aged man, of middle height. Joe didn’t like his eyes, they were small and mean. He ordered coffee and a sweet roll, a second one to go. When the waitress had left, he turned to Thelma. “We’ve changed our plans, we’re moving on for a few days.”
Her look was puzzled, questioning.
“Too many tourists. I thought Car Show Week would be good cover, tourists thick as cockroaches. I’d counted on cops everywhere, but not this many and not at three in the morning. Early last night, Maurita began to get edgy, there was a big fight. She doesn’t like the crowds, either, you know how temperamental she is.”
Thelma looked at him nervously.
“The bars close at one,” he said. “I thought the village would quiet down but it doesn’t.”
Of course it quiets down, Joe Grey thought. Last night—this morning—I was out at three, middle of town, all over town. Quiet as a tomb. The thought of a tomb made him claw nervously at the seat cushion.
“But you’ve . . .” Thelma began.
The man nodded. “We’d already done the casing. Maurita did the inventory, she knows her business. But then afterward when she was done . . .” He paused, looked uncertain. “Afterward, she just fell apart, lost her nerve. She was shaking and she started crying. They fought, and she began throwing things in her suitcase. He stomped out, called her some pretty raunchy names, and left the motel. She took off alone in one of the backup cars, headed for San Francisco, she said. He let her go. They’ll both cool down by morning.
“We’ll put it off until the crowd eases up. Hit San Francisco for the rest of the week, until these tourists thin out and the cops pull back, and pull back their part-time crew.” He was speaking softly. He glanced several times at Ryan and Charlie but there was no way they could hear him; it would take a cat, a cat sitting alert and close to him, to hear the auburn-haired man’s whisper.
Max had brought in extra forces, because of the trouble they’d had at last year’s car show: robberies, three small riots that filled up the jail, and despite the tight surveillance at the show itself, two thefts of antique cars that had been parked on the village street, each worth over a million.
The driver rose. “Got to get to work. We’ll be in touch. Our little company, getting this gig with ALS, we don’t want to blow that.” American Limo, which served Molena Point and up the coast, was a big corporation, but even they hired smaller companies to fill in during the busiest times. The man paid his check, picked up the wrapped sweet bun, and left.
Little Mindy was still in the kitchen, waitresses stepping around her as she restrained and petted the old cat, some of the women frowning because she was in the way, some just smiling; the shaggy old cat looked somewhat happier now that he was being petted, until one of the waitresses reached to pick him up and toss him out and he started snarling again and striking at her. Joe abandoned the scene, turning back to the window as the limo pulled away. He got the license number and just caught the little sticker with the name of the company, Maitre D’ Limo.
Whatever that’s about, he thought, it’s sure as hell dicey. It can’t hurt to give the chief a call. I wish Thelma had mentioned the guy’s name. They seemed casual enough, almost like family. Or does Thelma have something going, on the side?
3
As Joe leaped into Ryan’s red king cab she pulled her notebook from the center console and wrote down the license number he gave her: the make of the limo, the logo that said ALS.
Driving home, they caught a glimpse of Charlie’s red hair in her SUV, headed toward the gallery that handled her work, and Joe told Ryan about the man who’d been casing the library. Ryan and Charlie had already heard the rough details in Max’s office before the chief left for lunch, and she knew that Jimmie McFarland was tailing the stalker or whatever he was. She looked over at Joe, frowning. “It could be nothing. Some guy doing research for a college class or a private project, that’s the way Max seemed to take it—except,” she said, “he does have McFarland keeping an eye on him.”
“And what has Jimmie found out?”
“Not much so far,” Ryan said. “He’s checked for prints—but in a library? Fingerprints all over the place. And when the guy took the books from the shelf he was wearing pigskin gloves. That’s what set Max off. Do you know how clumsy it is to flip through books and try to write down notes while wearing gloves?”
Joe snorted. “Try that with cat paws, see what you get.”
She couldn’t help grinning. But then, looking over at him, she turned solemn. “What’s happening to the village, Joe? We always have some crime, a murder or two, a few burglaries, just like every town—a few really bad ones, that you’ve helped solve, that might never have been sorted out without our phantom snitch, without the evidence you’ve tipped to Max and the department.”
She turned a corner, stopping for a half dozen giggling young tourists, and turned to look at Joe. “That poor beaten woman, half buried alive, that gives me the sick shudders. It was you who tipped Max off?”
“Yes, and scared the killer off,” he said, “when I stepped on a dry twig. I couldn’t see much of him in the fog, just his shadow, heavyset or heavy coat; hard to tell much, except he was tall. Did anyone find the shovel? Did they find anything after I belted out of there?”
“Max didn’t say. Except there was dirt on the curb where the snitch . . .”—she grinned—“where you said her attacker had parked.”
“Did anyone report the torn screen across the street,” Joe said, “where I made the call?”