Again his response was too low to be heard, sullen and angry. Why didn't he yell at her? He was way too casual about what? Had Vivi had an affair with Ryan's husband, the way Ryan thought? And Vivi didn't want to confront Ryan? But if Elliott knew about that, didn't he care? How strange humans were, Dulcie thought. Joe would have killed another tomcat who touched her.
He had wanted to kill that black tom, Azrael. Had tried to kill him. Though Dulcie hadn't really looked at another tomcat since she met Joe, there had been that one weak moment when Azrael came on to her, she remembered ashamedly. When the dark voodoo cat ignited a frightened purr-until she angrily rejected the philandering thief.
They were still snapping at each other as Vivi's high heels clicked across the room toward the back door. Dulcie backed into the bushes as the door opened and light spilled out. She could never get over the feeling that people would know she was eavesdropping; she always wanted to hide.
But how could anyone know? So Vivi saw a cat in the garden. What was she going to do, throw the garbage can at her?
Knowing Vivi, she might. Vivi dropped a bag of trash into the garbage can. She stood a few moments in the cool night as if trying to control her temper, then turned back inside, where Elliott had switched on the TV and the canned voices of a late newscast filled the kitchen.
Racing back through the quiet dark of the garden, Dulcie let the human sounds fade behind her, let the garden smells fill her nose, and the damp earth ooze cool beneath her paws. Brushing through the scented leaves of geranium and lavender, in the deepening evening chill, she raced up the oak tree again. From somewhere high above her came the scream of a screech owl crying his hunting call-hunting in the wind, diving among the pines and oaks. Catching arboreal mice? she thought, amused. Or snatching up tree-climbing crickets?
Feeling lonely suddenly, she fled to Joe. She and Joe were launched on their own kind of hunt, the game far larger and more dangerous than anything that little owl could trap. And, thinking of what they might find, she was suddenly afraid.
Storming up through the thick foliage of the oak tree, darkness seemed to crush in around her. Racing along the branch with clinging claws, she nudged Joe with her nose, sniffing in his scent, rubbing her face against his sleek, silken fur. But after a moment, she asked, "Where's the kit?"
Joe smiled and glanced above them. She followed his gaze to where the kit clung nearly at the top of the oak among the smallest branches, a dark lump, her long, fluffy tail hanging down like a pendulum, the tip of it twitching in that slow rhythm that indicated some prankish desire or some other, equally busy mental process.
"Vivi and Elliott were arguing," Dulcie told Joe. "Talking about Ryan. Vivi said, 'She would remember. And she was with two cops-those guys were cops.' Then, 'That tall skinny one is the chief. What did you expect me to do?'"
Joe listened, saying nothing.
"Elliott muttered something like,'… other one… didn't see…' That's all I could make out. She told him to be careful, that he was way too casual. Then she closed the door tight. And no windows are open."
Somewhere near, a barn owl hooted, deep and frightening, and the kit came backing down the tree fast, to snuggle between them. Joe peered in again through the high window. "Strange, what a bad feeling I have about this."
"So do I," she said. "Likely it's Vivi, she'd make anyone uneasy. Wilma calls her a name I won't repeat," she said, glancing at the kit.
"What name?" asked the kit.
No one answered her. Joe worked at the window again, clawing and pulling, then backed down the tree to the garden and went to circle the house, a gray streak in the darkness leaping up at each window, scrabbling and pawing. Dulcie followed him down to try the vents in the foundation. She was clawing at a grid when suddenly from above, lights poured down on them. They fled into the bushes, hunching down in the leaves, looking up through the little twiggy branches at the one window, halfway along the house, that shone brightly.
No figure moved against the glass, no one looked out. They could see beyond the curtains a tall chest of drawers with a small mirror standing on top, light reflecting from it.
Lights blazed on in a second room, at the front where the draperies were drawn, then a smaller window in between burned brightly. They heard water running, but then at last the bathroom light went out and the back bedroom darkened except for the glow of a TV.
In the illuminated front room, a shadow moved behind the draperies, thrown tall by the lamp, and then sat down. In a few minutes they heard the soft click, click of computer keys.
"So Vivi's gone to bed to watch TV," Dulcie said. "And Elliott's at work on the book."
Moving out from beneath the bush, Joe looked up at the vents of the attic.
"Wait for me," he whispered. "Watch the window." And he was gone up the rose trellis, his white paws flashing as he skillfully avoided the thorns. She watched nervously from the bushes, wishing she didn't feel so edgy. In a moment she heard him scratching and tearing at the wall, rustling within the foliage. She had never seen Joe so interested, when no serious crime had been committed. Usually he reserved his predatory sleuthing for some major transgression, but tonight he was keen to break and enter, hot on the trail-of what? Oh, Vivi and Elliott did put him off, did make him uneasy. Above her, Joe snatched and clawed at the vent as he swung from the trellis anchored only by his hind paws, fighting to get inside, following his instincts.
Max Harper, she thought, would never move on cop sense alone, on some itchy feeling, without due cause. Whatever problems the Traynors had, such as their avoidance of Ryan Flannery, and Vivi's nervousness around police, didn't necessarily point to criminal activity. And yet…
She wondered if they could be dealing drugs. She didn't like to think that about someone like Elliott Traynor. Were his medical bills so high that he was desperate, hard up for cash even if he was a famous writer? Cancer treatment must be very expensive. Maybe writers didn't have medical insurance. Certainly drugs were easy to sell. On the streets of New York and San Francisco there would be plenty of buyers eager to hand over their money.
But she was letting her imagination go wild. And how was Garza's niece involved? Did Ryan know more about the Traynors than she was saying-more than she wanted to tell her uncle?
"I could go to the door," the kit said. "Scratch at the door."
"Do what, Kit?" Dulcie stared at her, then looked up to where Joe had his claws hooked in the vent, stubbornly pulling.
"I could play lost kitty like Joe did at Detective Garza's house, when he moved in to spy. Like you did with that old lady, after Janet Jeannot was killed. You lived with that old woman for a week, and look how much you found out! I could-"
The vent came loose and fell, as Joe leaped clear. It clattered loudly to the brick walk-and Elliott's typing stopped. Dulcie and the kit froze, ready to run. Above them, Joe disappeared into the attic.
In a moment the typing started again. The kit, fascinated with her idea, went on as if she'd never been interrupted. "I could make nice to Elliott Traynor and Vivi and get them to feed me and make a bed for me and I would purr for them, and when they went to sleep I would open the door for you, catch the knob in my paws, and swing and hold tight-I can do that. I could-"
"Hush, Kit, you're making me crazy. You mustn't do any of that. Be still." She could hear sounds from the front of the garden. Someone was coming. She pulled the kit deeper under the hydrangea bush. Crouching among the leaves and branches, they listened.
Was it a person approaching in the dark? More likely a dog, Dulcie thought. The brushing noise was too low to the ground for a human. The kit, very still now, pressed close to her as something came lumbering in their direction, waddling back and forth on all fours.