How lonely the house looked. Not even the porch light was on, and no car in the drive.
But no matter, it was home, he just wanted to be inside. Wanted his creature comforts-some supper, and a few hours snooze, and he'd be ready to roll again.
But then, padding up the dark steps, he imagined his home turned into a restaurant with lights burning everywhere and cars filling the street and crowds of strangers shouting and laughing in the rooms that were his own, and he didn't like that scene.
Hastily dragging the envelope, with Dulcie and the kit close behind him, he pushed through his cat door into the welcoming dark and the good familiar smells of home-smells of old Rube, of the household cats, of kibble and spaghetti and furniture polish and Clyde's running shoes, all the comforting mix of aromas that had never been so welcome.
23
The first thing the three cats saw as they entered Joe's darkened house, even before the plastic flap of Joe's cat door stopped slapping behind them, was the sheet of white paper that had been lodged securely under the foot of Joe's well-clawed lounge chair.
A note? Clyde had left a note?
Warily approaching, Joe saw the familiar handwriting. What could be so important that Clyde would leave a note in the middle of the living room, where anyone could see it? What if Ryan came back with him? That would be cute. How was Clyde going to explain a note left under the leg of the chair? Joe could imagine him rushing into the house ahead of her, snatching up the scrap of paper and shoving it in his pocket.
The message was cryptic enough. I'm out with Ryan. Goodies in refrigerator. Don't make yourselves sick.
Joe read it twice, looking for some concealed meaning. What uncharacteristic fit of generosity had prompted Clyde to leave treats for them? Probably some leather-hard remnant of an over-done hamburger that he wanted to get rid of.
But Dulcie was pacing and nervous. "Come on, Joe. We have to hide this thing."
"What about the bookcase? A bookcase is where we found it."
"Oh, right. In the bookcase where every housebreaker since books were invented has looked for hidden money, where half the doddering old folks in the world hide their cash."
"Where, then? The freezer, where everyone who doesn't read books keeps their valuables?"
She looked pointedly at his chair. "No sensible human wants to sit in, let alone touch, that monstrosity."
Joe shrugged. He'd hidden valuables there before, and not too long ago. Had hidden jewels and stolen money during that rash of thefts that accompanied the Patty Rose lookalike contest. What a week that had been, with all those beautiful would-be stars, and the retired movie star herself, all tangled up in two murders.
"Lift the cushion, Joe, so we don't damage the letter any more than we already have."
Nosing the seat cushion up, shoving his shoulder under it, he watched Dulcie lift the envelope in her teeth and gently slide it into the dark recess, accompanied by the faint crinkle of the bubble-wrap lining.
"That'll do until we find something better," she said. "Only Clyde would know to look there-and it's a sure thing no one will sit there." She paused to consider Joe. "No chance he'd be sending that chair to the Goodwill anytime soon?"
"No chance Clyde wants to meet his maker anytime soon."
When, some months back, Charlie Getz had helped Clyde redecorate his living room, Joe's chair had been a matter of heated discussion. Charlie had wanted to replace the chair with a new one and had talked Clyde into it, generating an argument so volatile that at one point Joe had had both Charlie and Clyde shouting at him.
Charlie said his chair belonged in the city dump. But she'd apologized later. She had been, Joe thought, truly contrite. Joe had prevailed, outshouting, outswearing, and finally shaming them both into acceptance. He'd had that chair since he was a half-grown kitten, since he first came to live with Clyde. That was the first time he had ever seen Clyde or Charlie promoting an act to hurt a poor little cat, and he told them so.
The Damen living room, in spite of being decorated around Joe's chair, had become, under Charlie's ministrations, a handsome, cozy, and welcoming retreat. Charlie's artful accessorizing had made his chair look more than acceptable. "It is," Charlie had decided, "the epitome of shabby chic." She had selected, to harmonize with it, a handsome group of African baskets and sculpture, all done in tones of black and brown. These, with Charlie's framed animal drawings, white-matted against the tan walls, gave the room additional style. And the black-and-brown African throw rugs over the pale carpet tied Joe's chair right into the decor as one more rare and valuable artifact. The carved bookcases and entertainment center and tables had cost a bundle, but Clyde had simply sold another antique car. The room looked great. The humans were happy. Joe was happy. The night Charlie completed the room by hanging the newly framed drawings, she had taken Clyde and the cats out to dinner. Celebrating the fact that they had all been able to agree, she had treated them to broiled lobster in the patio of their favorite seafood cafe.
Glancing up at the kit, always amused that her black-and-brown coloring fit so perfectly into the room, Joe though it would be a pity to even drink of selling this house, now that it was looking so good.
With the envelope safely hidden, the three cats headed for the kitchen, the responsibility of Catalina's ten-thousand-dollar letter weighing heavily on Joe. What, ultimately, were they to do with it?
They could make a discreet phone call to Max Harper or Detective Garza, then leave the envelope at the back door of the station. That would put the ball in their court. Except, with carpenters and painters still busy on the premises, the fate of a lone envelope could be uncertain.
They could drop the envelope at Dallas Garza's cottage door; or they could tell Clyde about it. Let Clyde take over, though this suggestion was totally against Joe's nature.
Maybe, after all, he'd just leave it where it was, wait to see what developed.
Standing on the kitchen counter hooking his claws in the refrigerator door, Joe pushed backward, wrenching it open. He caught it with a fast paw, before it swung closed again.
On the bottom shelf lay a take-out tray glistening with clear wrap to keep it fresh. This was no collection of dry leftovers, this was a work of art, an elegant and expensive party tray, a concoction from Jolly's Deli, meant for true indulgence. This was their little snack? Joe wondered if he'd read the note right.
But the tray had been placed in his personal area, on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator.
"To what," Dulcie said, "do we owe this? Has Clyde not been well?"
They removed the tray carefully and laid it on the linoleum. "Maybe he's trying to make up for past cruelties," Joe said, clawing at the plastic wrap. The tray contained an assortment as fine as any George Jolly had ever put together. There was imported Brie, Beluga caviar, Alaskan smoked salmon, king crab, shrimp salad, cold mushroom quiche, spinach souffle, four small cannoli, and brandy-flavored sponge cake, a treat that most cats would give up eight of their lives for but would find dangerous to their digestion. Enough party food, in short, to give the three cats heartburn for a month if they did not employ some restraint. The two older cats tried to eat slowly, savoring each bite. But the moment the wrap was off, the kit plowed in as if she hadn't seen food in weeks, slurping, guzzling, smearing the floor and her whiskers.