The house’s finer fittings, the crown molding, the stained-glass windows, the hand-carved banister and carved cabinets, had long since been sold to an antique dealer, as had the fine Victorian furniture. Seventy-year-old Lucinda Greenlaw had no need any longer for large pieces of furniture since she had married Shamas and moved into his travel trailer and set out to see the world-or at least see more of the West Coast.
All the houses behind Clyde’s had been sold. Both sides of that street were being cleared to accommodate a small, exclusive shopping plaza. The constant noise of the tear-down had been too hard on the other cats-on the three ordinary kitties who could not understand the source of the threatening racket, and on old Rube, the elderly Labrador. Clyde had taken them up to the vet’s to board.
Clyde and Dr. Firreti had an arrangement involving hospital and boarding bills swapped for auto repairs, an agreement that worked to everyone’s advantage except that of the IRS. Clyde didn’t talk about that.
“Another few weeks,” Clyde grumbled, staring out at the destruction, “we’ll be looking out the window at a solid three-story wall smack in your face. The house will be dark as a tomb. No sunrise. No sun at all. You want to look at the hills? Forget it. Might as well have the Empire State Building in the backyard.”
“A handsome stucco wall,” Joe said, quoting Dulcie, “to define the back garden-turn it into an enclosed patio.”
“That view of the hills was the main reason I bought this house-that and the sunrise. A three-story wall will destroy them both.”
“It won’tdestroythe hills and sunrise. The hills and sunrise will still be there. You just…”
“Shut up, Joe. Here, eat your breakfast. Kippers and sour cream. And don’t growl. You don’t have to kill the kippers. You may not have noticed in your enthusiasm that the kippers are already dead.”
Clyde set his own plate of eggs on the table beside a bowl of Sugar Pops. The phone rang. Snatching it from the wall, he answered through a mouthful of egg.
He grew very still.
Joe padded across the table to press against Clyde’s shoulder, his ear to the phone.
Max Harper sounded grim.
“I have an appointment with the city attorney. Ten A.M. Going to take administrative leave.”
“Because of the Marner case? But-”
“Because of Bucky’s shoe, Bucky’s hoofprints all over the scene. And because of new evidence.”
“What new evidence?”
“I just got the report from Salinas. The lab rushed it through. They have the murder weapon.”
“Oh. Well, that’s-”
“Remember that bone-handled butcher knife that Millie’s aunt sent her from Sweden?”
“I remember it. A big, stubby knife with silver inlay.”
“One of my detectives found it in my hay shed, under a bale of alfalfa.”
“But-”
“The dried blood on it was a match for both Helen and Ruthie.”
“That’s insane. No one would commit a murder and hide the weapon in his own barn. Where are you? I’ll come over. If you step off the case-”
“I’ve already stepped off. I’m going to ask Gedding to appoint an interim chief until this thing gets sorted out.”
“Max, if someone’s out to frame you-”
“I’ve removed myself from the case. There was nothing else I can do. I’m not giving up the search for Dillon. I’ll keep on with that, acting as a civilian. And I’m going to have to look for witnesses.”
“I can take some time off, help you talk to people. Help you look for Dillon.”
“I-we’ll talk about it. Every cop on the central coast is looking for her. Every law enforcement agency in California.”
“But-”
“I see Gedding at ten.”
“Meet for lunch?”
“Say, one o’clock at Moreno’s.”
“One o’clock.” Clyde hung up, glancing toward Joe.
But Joe Grey wasn’t there. Through the kitchen window Clyde saw a gray streak vanish over the fence, heading into the village. Clyde stood looking, swearing softly, but he didn’t open the door to shout after Joe.
What good would it do? He couldn’t make Joe come back. And, under the present circumstances, he guessed he didn’t want to.
If Joe could help Harper, Clyde promised himself he’d never again make one disparaging, discouraging, cutting remark aimed at the tomcat. Would never again tease either Joe or Dulcie. He was, in fact, so upset about Harper that he poured coffee on his cereal and had eaten half the bowl before he realized how strange it tasted.
By the time Max Harper entered Lowell Gedding’s office at ten, the two sleuths in question had concealed themselves handily behind a Chinese planter of maidenhair fern, on the wide ledge inside the city attorney’s bay window.
Gedding didn’t like screens on his windows, nor were screens needed in Molena Point. The sea wind kept flies away. And the decorative burglar grid that covered the window offered ample security. The window could safely remain open, allowing access to no living creature larger than, say, your ordinary house cat.
The morning sun washed pleasantly across the white walls of Gedding’s office and across the pale Mexican-tile floor. A white, handwoven rug was positioned on the amber tiles directly in front of Gedding’s dark antique desk. Three walls were bare. On the fourth expanse hung five black-and-white Ansel Adams photographs: stark, hard-edged studies of sand dunes, magnificent in their simplicity.
Gedding sat behind his desk, relaxed and cool. He was a slim, bald, deeply tanned man in his sixties, with the look of the military about him. His gaze was direct, his body well honed, easy in its nicely tailored business suit of a dark, thin fabric. His green eyes were intense.
“Sit down, Max. I gather this is about the Marner murders.”
Harper nodded.
“You have nothing further on Dillon Thurwell?”
“Nothing. Search parties are out, her picture on the Web and to the wire services. We-the department has the murder weapon.”
Gedding leaned forward.
“Detective Davis found it yesterday. They got the lab report back this morning. The blood of both victims was on it.”
“And?”
“It is a butcher knife from my kitchen. It was found in my hay shed.”
“Is it a common make, a knife that could be duplicated?”
“It is a one-of-a-kind carving knife made in Sweden. Swedish steel, hand-carved bone handle and silver inlay.”
Gedding looked deeply at Harper.“Why would someone set you up, Max, but do it so obviously? Had you missed the knife prior to the murder?”
“I hadn’t used anything out of that drawer in weeks except a couple of paring knives. It could have been gone for some time.”
“It’s not like you not to remember details.”
“In your own house? In a place you’re so used to, you stop seeing things?”
“I suppose. So what now? You’ve already removed yourself from the case. You’re not here to ask for administrative leave?”
“Exactly why I’m here. Someone took that knife from the house. Someone either borrowed my horse or came up with a set of matching shoes for his own horse, and marked both shoes. Someone with a pair of boots like mine, the soles worn into the same indentations.”
“You’ve checked the house for any signs of breakin.”
“The detectives have been over it three times.”
“No one has a key?”
“No one.”
“Surely a houseguest or dinner guest could have taken the knife, anyone coming in. Have you made a list of who’s been there?”
Harper handed a list across the desk.“Everyone who’s been in my house the last three months. A few close friends and the plumber. You can see I have a big social life.
“I don’t think the killer’s name is there. No one comes in my place, Lowell, except friends I trust fully.”