“I am not an invalid,” Maudie said. “I don’t want a caretaker. You are not to come, Jared. If we need you, I’ll let you know.”
Jared gave her a little grin and nodded. “Between school and work, I’d be gone a lot. But I’d be glad to come, and I’d sure be there at night, if anyone tried to break in.”
“You’re working where?” Maudie said, as if to retain control of the conversation.
“It’s a little used-car lot just up the coast. I do some detailing, painting, cleaning up the cars before he puts a price on them. Mr. Sutter, he liked the way I rebuilt my T-Bird.” Jared grinned at her. “He says it looks factory new.” He glanced at his brother. “Kent works there some, we like working together.”
Outside in the garden, Joe Grey sat very still, his stub tail twitching with interest as he considered the possibilities of Kent’s work situation among all those used cars.
“The good thing,” Jared said, “he lets me work pretty much the hours I want, depending on school. The accounting classes aren’t real demanding, but sometimes there’s a lot of history or English homework, and I can choose my work time. When he needs extra help, Kent can get in more hours, too.”
“The money helps out,” Kent said in a bored tone. As if he really didn’t give a damn about the money, or about working anywhere. Joe watched him, and then suddenly rose, flashing Dulcie and Kit a look that had them on their feet, too, and the three took off around the side of the house. Joe was in such a hurry, and the lady cats racing to keep up, that they never once glanced above them into the branches of the overhanging oaks to see the yellow tomcat crouched above, peering down watching them.
17
SUCH A STRONG hunch drove Joe as he raced for the Collettos’ garage. Maybe his idea was off the wall, but who was to say he wouldn’t find the old truck in there, the rusted truck that had nearly hit Maudie? The scenario was such a nice fit: angry Kent Colletto—angry at the whole world, it seemed—with access to any number of old vehicles that might later be painted and sold and never found. Those small car lots up the coast, tucked in among the fishing wharfs, had some really decrepit wrecks. He’d often gone with Clyde to look at some rusty “collector’s” treasure, a relic that Clyde would end up towing home, give it a pristine restoration, and quadruple its value. Only as he crouched to leap to the windowsill of the closed garage did Dulcie’s incredulous look stop him. “You don’t really think …” she began.
“It’s worth a shot,” Joe said impatiently.
“No way,” Dulcie said. “What could Maudie have possibly done to make even skuzzy Kent Colletto want to frighten her that way? A joke, a sick joke? I don’t think so.”
But, convinced he was right, he leaped and peered in, getting cobwebs in his whiskers.
Nothing. No truck. Only Jared’s shiny blue T-Bird, and a tan Ford sedan that was probably the family car. Dropping down, he looked at Dulcie, embarrassed. He’d been so sure, such a strong feeling. But she only grinned at him. “Good try,” she said, giving him a whisker kiss. And soon the three cats parted, Joe and Dulcie each heading home to their own supper, Kit dawdling along behind, puzzled perhaps by some faint scent, looking back over her shoulder.
Joe’s thoughts, as he raced over the rooftops, remained on Kent Colletto. The night was balmy around him, the soft breeze heavy with the smell of the sea; as he neared home, the breeze picked up the heady aroma of spaghetti coming from his own house, making him forget Kent Colletto and race faster, urgently licking his whiskers.
From his own roof, Joe looked down at the drive, surprised to see it crowded with cars. Clyde’s yellow roadster and Ryan’s red Chevy pickup stood in the carport; Dallas Garza’s tan Blazer and Charlie Harper’s red Blazer parked behind them; and on the street, Wilma Getz’s car parked behind a squad car. Was something wrong? He remembered no talk of everyone getting together for supper. Given the longer shifts the department had been working, there’d been little time for their usual impromptu gatherings.
But emergencies didn’t call for spaghetti; and as he hurried up the front steps and through his cat door, he heard only relaxed voices and easy laughter. Trotting through the living room to the big kitchen, he found them all at the table, Max and Charlie, Dallas Garza, Charlie’s Aunt Wilma, Ryan and Clyde, and Officers McFarland and Blake, both in uniform. The table wasn’t laden with spaghetti and French bread as he’d expected; supper was over, though the spaghetti pot still sat on the stove. The table was cluttered with poker chips, cards, loose change, and dollar bills. He guessed this was just an impromptu supper, Max and Dallas on call, and maybe Officers McFarland and Blake just getting off their extended shifts. He paused in the door to the kitchen listening to the familiar mix of disjointed remarks, aggressive bets, requests for cards, and a few good-natured put-downs; then he padded on in. No one seemed to notice him. In the far corner, the big silver Weimaraner was curled up fast asleep in the flowered easy chair, the little white cat asleep between Rock’s front legs, one white paw draped over Rock’s shoulder. Turning, Joe fixed his gaze on Ryan.
When she ignored him, her eyes on her cards, he gave a strident mew. Across the table, Dallas watched her, waiting to see whether she would see his raise or fold, his solemn Latino face never changing expression. Wilma Getz folded, laid down her cards, and sat with an amused expression watching Joe as he tried to get Ryan’s attention. Wilma wore a red sweatshirt over a white turtleneck, her long gray-white hair done up in a knot at the nape of her neck. She grinned at Joe as he leaped to the kitchen counter, but then she gave him a questioning look—clearly asking where Dulcie was.
Joe blinked and washed his paws and tried to look at ease, to convey to her that Dulcie had gone on home. He knew Wilma would have left a hearty snack for Dulcie, as she always did. He guessed Kit had headed home, too, where, no matter the hour, her two humans would fix a hot supper for her. Lucinda and Pedric would probably by now be doing up the supper dishes or sitting before the fire reading to each other, the tall, thin octogenarians pleasantly tired after a day’s ramble up in the hills or along the coast. Still watching Ryan, Joe shifted from paw to paw. Couldn’t she see he was starving?
“Raise two,” Ryan said, “and two cards.” When still she paid no attention, Joe gave her a series of bloodcurdling yowls that made young McFarland jump and then laugh, made both Max and Dallas scowl at him. Ryan paid no attention. Crowley said, “Ryan, feed your cat. I’ve won this hand anyway.”
Joe stared at Ryan until she won the pot and raked in her money; then at long last she rose. “Deal me out,” she said, turning away from the table, fixing her gaze on the tomcat. “You needn’t be so bossy.”
Unable to reply, he could only glower. Moving to the stove, she dished up a serving of spaghetti and slipped it in the microwave for a few seconds. Setting the warmed plate on the counter before him, she scratched his ear, winked at him, then turned away, returning to the table. Joe was still slurping spaghetti when Charlie raked in the next pot.
“That makes me feel better,” Charlie said. “If you’re still stewing about Nancyanne Prewitt,” Max said, “forget it. Don’t pay any attention to that stuff.” “I can’t help it. I’m surprised anyone reads the Gazette anymore. It isn’t fit to wrap fish.” When Ryan looked up questioningly, Charlie said, “She cornered Wilma and me coming out of the plaza, and she really laid it on.”
Wilma laughed, and put down her cards. “I had trouble not punching her in the face, right there in front of Tiffany’s.”