At the mouth of the park stood the cluster of converted buildings that made up Hidalgo Plaza, a collection of steep-roofed houses and old barns remodeled into a complex of antique and craft shops, boutiques, and art galleries. The largest structure among them, the old Hidalgo mansion, was now Molena Point Little Theater. Above many of the shops were offices and small businesses that didn't need the exposure of a storefront. Casselrod's Antiques occupied the entire two floors of its building, with wide showroom windows facing the brick walk.
Up on the roof, on the tilting peak, the two cats padded along the sharp hip. Where the peak ended, they dropped down to the tiny false balcony that protruded from the featureless wall three stories above the ground.
Rearing up on the four-inch protrusion, Joe pawed at the glass, shaking and forcing the frail old casement. Because the window opened in a sheer wall with only the fake four-inch balcony, it had never presented a security problem, and no one had bothered to lock it. The casement gave, and Joe and Dulcie slipped inside.
Padding through the dark attic beneath stacked chairs and tables, between ancient trunks and antique dressers and cartons of bric-a-brac, their paws stirring through rivers of dust, they were searching for a way down to the shop below when they saw, against the far attic window, a figure poised, back-lighted from the street below. Though they had been silent, and hadn't spoken, she was surely watching them.
Scenting out, they couldn't smell anything remotely human. Warily, they crept closer.
"A mannequin!" Dulcie breathed.
"Buckram and wire," Joe said, disgusted. Sniffing at the construction then brushing past the flimsy form, he headed for the stairs.
The second floor of Casselrod's Antiques was not only cleaner and smelled better but was handsomely arranged, with small groups of ornate furniture displayed on fine Oriental rugs, against nice paintings and antique screens.
"Just like the architectural magazines," Dulcie said, lifting a paw to stroke the soft patina of a fine cherry dresser, patting at the clustered grapes that had been wrought by a master carver.
Trunks and small chests stood on the floor among the furniture or on various tables. "Mostly Chinese," Dulcie said. Certainly they were not roughly made, like the chest from the McLeary yard sale. Some were no bigger than a little birdhouse, some large enough to conceal a German shepherd. The cats prowled every dark corner and open shelf but did not find the chest they were looking for.
Descending the last flight to the main floor, they faced a wide bank of windows where beyond the glass shone the street lights of the plaza, and the softly lit windows of other shops. Here on the main floor, they could smell the perfume of Richard Casselrod's assistant, a distinctive and clinging scent, in one of the upholstered chairs where Fern Barth had apparently sat. Joe sniffed at the too sweet perfume and made a flehmen face, lifting his lip in disdain. "Does she buy that stuff by the quart? Smells like dimestore jelly beans."
"Maybe it's something very expensive, to appeal to the opposite sex."
"I bet it has the men flocking."
Dulcie backed away from the smell, leaped to the shelves, and prowled carefully along them, skirting among delicate Dresden figures and porcelain dinnerware. To her right, a table was covered with boxes of silver flatware and stacks of lace and linens. Amazing how much care, how much time and art went into the accessories for human lives. "No matter how much we dislike Richard Casselrod," she said softly, "you have to admit, he buys lovely things."
But Joe had vanished. No shadow moved, not a sound. She mewed softly.
Nothing.
Leaping to the top of a drop-front desk, she yowled.
"In here," he hissed from beyond an open door.
Dropping to the floor, trotting under the chairs and between table legs, she paused at the door to a small, fusty office that was nearly filled with a rolltop desk. "In here?"
No answer. Moving on, she slipped into a large workroom that smelled of paint, and raw wood, wax and varnish. The floor was scattered with sawdust and with curls of wood trimmings that tickled her paws. Joe stood atop a worktable, poised rigid with interest. She leaped up.
High above them through a small window set among the rafters, faint light seeped in from the street, seeming in the dusty air to filter all to one place, onto seven white slabs of painted, carved wood that lay among a collection of hammers and screwdrivers.
Two sides, two ends, and the lid of the chest lay beside two planks that had made up the base. These appeared to fit together like two slices of bread for a sandwich, each slice hollowed out in the center to form a shallow dish. When joined by their neatly carved wooden dovetails, the base of the chest would have a hiding place.
Joe sniffed at the planks. "Smells like jelly beans."
"I smell Casselrod, too," Dulcie said. "That tweedy, musty scent. So what was hidden in here? Or did they take it all apart and find nothing? What were they looking for?"
Where the joints of the little trunk had been left unpainted, the old, seasoned oak shone deep and rich. The four sides and top had been carved in geometric patterns, with a circular design in the center. The paint over the carving was thick and uneven, filling up some of the indentations. "The circle is a rosette," Dulcie said. "It's a…" she stared at Joe. "Oh, my."
"What?"
"It's a Spanish motif. I've seen it on pictures of Spanish furniture."
"So?"
"Like the old Spanish chests in Elliott Traynor's play, that Catalina's lover carved and gave to her, where she kept some of the letters she wrote to him, that she never sent. Could this be one of those? Is that why Casselrod was so interested-why he snatched it from Cora Lee?" Her green eyes widened. "The research that Wilma collected for Elliott Traynor said that likely the old casks had been lost, broken or rotted or burned in the fire that destroyed the rancho some years after Catalina died."
Joe nosed at the rough white slabs. "This stuff doesn't look all that valuable."
But Dulcie was fascinated, tingling with a resonance that made her whiskers twitch. She wasn't sure what to call the feeling, but the sensation made her purr boldly, the same as when she had a rat by the scruff of the neck, ready to dispatch it.
Was this the key to the events of the last few days? Was the answer right there in Elliott Traynor's play? Had some of the letters survived that Catalina wrote to her lover? Dulcie was wild with excitement-but Joe was still thinking it over.
"Why now?" he said. "Why would Casselrod and the men who broke into Susan's suddenly be so interested?"
"Because now that the play is about to be produced, everyone has a script. All of a sudden, more people know about the letters."
Joe wasn't convinced but he helped her search for some old, frail letter written in Spanish, trying the desks and file cabinets and the rolltop desk which looked like a good place to hide valuables. All its drawers were locked with heavy, old-fashioned brass locks that wouldn't budge.
And later, when Dulcie asked Wilma's opinion, Wilma said, "I've always supposed the letters didn't survive. Or maybe that some collector had them tucked away. I've never given them much thought." She looked at Dulcie as doubtfully as Joe Grey had done, as if Dulcie was way off base on this one.