"She doesn't waste any time," Charlie said. "Lunch yesterday and now dinner. Wonder where they're going."
"Somewhere expensive, if I know Bernine." Wilma shifted the bag of French bread to her other hand and reached up to steady Dulcie, who was riding on her shoulder. "Mavity's remarks on Sunday, about Jergen's financial acumen, were like gunfire to the troops."
"It's amazing she didn't already know him, considering he's a well-to-do bachelor."
"A rare oversight. I've known Bernine half my life, and she seldom misses such a plum." Glancing around at Dulcie, Wilma winked. Dulcie narrowed her eyes in answer. But as the convertible turned the corner and disappeared, she turned her attention to the shop windows, dismissing Bernine's little games, enjoying the elevated view from Wilma's shoulder. Her high perch was a liberating change from being level with the bottoms of doorways-from breathing the smell of hot rubber tires and dog pee and having to stand on her hind paws to see a store display. One had, at twelve inches from the sidewalk, a somewhat limited perspective.
Charlie, pausing at a dress shop, stared covetously in at a creamy velvet cocktail suit, where the sleek, dark-haired mannequin posed against a background of city lights. "Wish I could wear that stuff-and could look like that."
"Of course you can wear it, and of course you can look like that, or better. That ivory velvet would be smashing with your red hair."
"Right. And where would I wear it? For four hundred dollars, I'd rather have a Bosch drill, some new sawhorses, and a heavier sander." Charlie laughed and moved on, looking around her with pleasure at the small village. Over the rooftops, the eastern hills were burnished by early-evening light, the windows of the scattered hillside houses reflecting gold and catching images of the sinking sun. Close around them along the narrow streets, the sprawling oaks, the tubs of flowers, the little benches, and the used-brick facades and jutting bay windows caught the light, so brilliant with color and yet so cozy that she felt her heart skip.
"This village-how lucky we are. The first time I ever saw it, I knew that I'd come home."
Wilma nodded. "Some people are born for fast highways, for tall buildings, but you and I, we're happier with the small places, the people-friendly places, with the little, interesting details-and with having everything we need right within walking distance.
"I like sensing the land under me, too. The way the old cypress trees cling to the great rims of rock and the rock ridges drop away into the sea like the spine of some ancient, half-emerged animal.
In the city," Wilma said, "I can't sense the earth. I couldn't wait, when I retired, to move back home.
"I like knowing that these old trees were here before there was a village, when this coastal land was all wild-range cattle and grizzly bear country." Wilma put her hand on Dulcie as they crossed the southbound lane of Ocean, toward the wide, grassy stretch of the tree-shaded median.
"I bet you had enough of big city crime, too."
Wilma nodded. "In Molena Point, I don't have to watch my backside."
Charlie laughed. "People-friendly," she agreed.
And cat-friendly, Dulcie thought. Compared to San Francisco's mean alleys, which Joe had described in frightening detail-the bad-tempered, roving dogs, the speeding cars, the drunks reaching out from doorways to snatch a little cat and hurt it-compared to these, Molena Point really was cat heaven, just as Clyde told Joe.
Clyde said Joe was lucky to have landed here. And despite Joe's smart-mouthed replies, Joe Grey knew he was lucky-he just would never admit it.
Beyond Ocean, as they approached Clyde's white Cape Cod cottage, Dulcie could smell the smokey-meaty scent from Clyde's barbeque and could hear Clyde's CD playing a soft jazz trumpet. Pete Fountain, she thought, purring as she leaped down from Wilma's shoulder and in through Joe's cat door.
In Clyde's weedy backyard, a thick London broil sizzled on the grill. Clyde and Max Harper sat comfortably in folding chairs sipping beer. Harper, lean and leathery, looked even thinner out of uniform, dressed in soft jeans and Western shirt. Above the two men, in the maple tree, Joe Grey sprawled along a branch, watching sleepy-eyed as Dulcie threaded out the back door between Wilma's and Charlie's ankles. The little tabby headed across the yard, slowed by the inspection of the household cats sniffing and rubbing against her and by Rube's wet licks across her face. The old Labrador loved Dulcie, and she was always patient with him; she never scratched him for his blundering clumsiness and sloppy greetings. Trotting quickly across the grass, escaping the menagerie, she swarmed up the tree to settle on the branch beside Joe, her weight dropping them a bit lower among the leaf cover.
Below them the picnic table was set for four and loaded with jars of condiments, paper napkins, plastic plates, bowls of chips and dip, and now Wilma's covered bowl of potato salad. Wilma laid the foil-wrapped garlic bread at the back of the grill and put her beer in the Styrofoam cooler, tossing one to Charlie and opening one for herself. As she sat down, Clyde handed her a sheaf of papers.
Looking them over, she smiled. "What did you do, Max, threaten your men with desk duty if they didn't sign a petition? Looks like you got signatures from the jail regulars, too."
"Of course," Harper said. "Drug dealers, pimps, they're all there."
She looked up at Clyde. "Two of these petitions are yours. You've been intimidating your automotive customers."
Clyde tossed a roll of paper towels on the table. "They don't sign the petition, they don't get their car-though most of them were pleased to sign it." He tipped up his beer, took a long swallow. "All this damn fuss. If the village wants a library cat, what's the harm? This Brackett woman is a piece of work."
"Next thing," Harper said, "she'll be complaining because my men circulated petitions on their own time."
"She'll try to get an ordinance against that, too," Charlie said.
"She'd have a hard time," Harper said. "Those petitions aren't for financial or political gain, they're for a cat. A poor, simple cat."
Dulcie cut her eyes at Joe. A poor, simple cat? But she had to smile. For someone so wary of certain felines, Max Harper had responded to the library cat battle like a real gentleman-though if he knew the petitions were to help one of his telephone informants, he might go into shock.
Clyde adjusted the height of the grill to keep the meat from burning. The aroma of the London broil made the cats lick their whiskers.
Harper looked at Charlie. "So your landlord tossed you out."
"I'm back freeloading on Wilma."
"And you've joined Sicily Aronson's group," he said. "I stopped in the gallery to have a look." He nodded his approval. "Your animals are very fine." Charlie's cheeks reddened. Harper glanced up at Dulcie and Joe as if inspecting them for a likeness. "You make those cats look…"
He paused, frowning, seemed to revise what he'd started to say. "It's fine work, Charlie. And the Aronson is a good gallery- Sicily's people sell very well. I think your work will be very much in demand."
Charlie smiled. "That would be nice-it would be great to fatten up my bank account, stop feeling shaky about money."
"It'll come," Harper said. "And Charlie's Fix-It, Clean-It appears to be doing well-except," he said, glancing at Clyde, "you need to be careful about questionable clients."
"If you hit it big," Clyde said, "if you sell a lot of drawings, you could put some money with Jergen, go for the high earnings. A bank doesn't pay much interest."
"I don't like the uncertainty," Charlie told him. "Call me chicken, but I'd rather depend on a small and steady interest."
Clyde tested the meat, slicing into one end, a tiny cut that ran bloody. In the tree above, the cats watched, mesmerized.