The attempted burglary, just after Beckwhite’s death, had disturbed him enough to make him load the.38 snub nose he kept for traveling, and slip it into his night table. He could not help equating the burglary in some way with Beckwhite’s murder.
He’d known Samuel Beckwhite for six years; they were business associates though he did not work for Beckwhite. He rented the big repair shop portion of the agency in exchange for maintenance and repair on the agency’s foreign cars, and he serviced the vehicles belonging to the agency’s regular customers. A friend from his high school days, Jimmie Osborne, had brought him and Beckwhite together originally, suggesting the business arrangement. Jimmie was agency manager; he had worked for Beckwhite since a year after Jimmie and Kate were married.
He never could figure out why Kate had married Jimmie. Golden-haired Kate Anderson had been some catch for sour, humorless Jimmie Osborne.
Standing in the kitchen waiting for the coffee water to suck up into the machine, he finally realized he hadn’t turned on the coffeemaker. He flipped the switch, the red light came on, and the machine gasped a pneumatic wheeze. He yawned and adjusted his binding shorts. He hadn’t slept well. Every little noise had brought him up listening for the scrape of claws or the slap of the cat door.
And of course the early phone call jerking him from sleep, and that rasping voice, hadn’t helped.
Iamyour cat? It’s me, Joe Grey.
Forget it. Get your mind off it.
He removed the glass carafe and poured a cup of coffee, but the machine hadn’t quite finished. In insolent defiance at his meddling it dribbled coffee down onto the heating unit. The animals kept pushing at him, wanting breakfast.
He wondered who would eventually take over at the shop, or if Beckwhite’s would be sold.
Jimmie Osborne was next in command, though Sheril Beckwhite, of course, was the new owner. Since Beckwhite’s death, the office was chaotic. No one seemed able to carry on efficiently. There were endless glitches in the paperwork, unnecessary rewriting of sales contracts. And the relationship between Sheril and Jimmie didn’t add to agency morale. Who could have confidence in Jimmie’s managerial functions when they were conducted mostly in bed?
Everyone knew about the affair. He’d wondered whether Beckwhite had known. He felt sure that Kate didn’t know. Kate wouldn’t dream that Jimmie would cheat on her.
He wouldn’t have remained friends with Jimmie, except for Kate. He and Jimmie had had little in common, even in high school. But he enjoyed Kate, saw things in Kate that Jimmie didn’t see or didn’t care to see. She was wry and funny, and he liked her comfortable empathy for animals. She really loved his two old dogs and the cats, and she shared with him a kind of warped, animal-centered humor that bored Jimmie. He and Kate always had a good time together, while Jimmie yawned.
He would never overstep the bonds of friendship with the Osbornes, he had never touched Kate. But she was beautiful and fun to be with, and without Jimmie their relationship might have evolved into a good deal more.
It surprised him sometimes that Jimmie put up with their evenings together, with their potluck barbecues and casual spaghetti dinners; and with the animals, particularly the cats. Jimmie said he was allergic to animals, but he never sneezed. The animals avoided him, though, all but Joe Cat.
Joe always went straight to Osborne the minute they arrived, rubbing against his pant legs, methodically covering Jimmie’s freshly cleaned slacks with gray and white hairs. And Joe liked to sit on the couch beside Jimmie. He would remain close as Jimmie fidgeted. But before Jimmie got up the nerve to shove him off he would leap on the coffee table, deliberately spilling Jimmie’s drink.
Cats loved to do that stuff-they found high amusement in tormenting those who disliked or feared them. And Kate watched Joe’s pranks with a little secret laugh. Though she would never deliberately hurt Jimmie.
Given Kate’s beauty and charm and her obvious enjoyment of life, he thought it incredible that Jimmie would pursue this affair with Sheril Beckwhite. Some men couldn’t deal comfortably with the blessings of a beautiful wife; they had to find a cheap standin, someone flawed to make them look better by comparison.
He had known about the affair for months. He’d been surprised when Jimmie called him four times this week, looking for Kate, saying she hadn’t been home. He was surprised that Jimmie would care enough to call anyone. He hoped Kate had finally left Jimmie, and not just gone down to Santa Barbara as she sometimes did, to get away.
Kate deserved better than Jimmie Osborne, her blond good looks and blithe spirit and her bright outlook were wasted on Jimmie. He thought sometimes that Kate’s perceptive, almost fey qualities frightened Jimmie.
He refilled his coffee cup, letting his thoughts return to the subject he’d been avoiding, playing over again in his mind this morning’s phone call. Ican’t come home. Someone is following me? Trust me. When I get this sorted out, I’ll be home. Iamyour cat? I guess I miss you.
The dogs pushed against his bare legs, demanding breakfast. He pummeled them absently, letting them chew on his hand, then opened the cupboard and lifted out assorted cans. If Joe Cat were here he’d be up on the counter clawing open the cupboard himself, yowling and raking cans onto the floor, his bomb raid narrowly missing his companions, though they knew to stand out of the way.
The shaky feeling started again.
He needed to talk to someone.
Someone who wouldn’t say he was nuts, who wouldn’t laugh at him.
When the dogs had finished scarfing up Kennel Ration and began to slobber on him, smearing dog food down his legs, he pushed them outside into the backyard. The three cats looked up at the open door, but continued to eat.
The only person besides Kate who would listen to his crazy story about the phone call and not fall over laughing was Wilma.
He’d known Wilma Getz since he was eight, when her parents moved next door, up on Harley Street. She was in graduate school at USC, having returned to college after breaking off a bad marriage. She’d stayed with her folks during vacations while she interned in various law enforcement agencies. A tall, slim, stunning blond, she was his first love, her warm smile and her easy ways sending his eight-year-old libido into a wild juvenile spin.
Even then, when he was eight, Wilma had always had time to listen to him, always had time for a game of catch or to toss a few baskets in his driveway. Over the years, she had never lost her ability to listen and to ease him.
Wilma’s passion for law enforcement had taken her from USC to State Parole, then to Federal Probation and Parole in San Francisco, and then to Denver. She had retired from the Denver office five years ago. Returning to Molena Point, she had gone to work in the understaffed village library, where her thorough, almost picky approach to a problem was put to good use as a reference assistant.
He had to talk with Wilma. There was no one else who, upon hearing his description of that phone call and the reasons why the caller couldn’t have been any of his friends, wouldn’t suggest an appointment with a local shrink.
He poured the last of the coffee and carried his cup into the bedroom. He phoned the library to see if Wilma was free for lunch, but she’d taken the day off. When he called the house, there was no answer. Annoyed, he decided to run by. Maybe she was only out walking. He hung up the phone, tossed his shorts in the laundry bag, and got in the shower.
7 [????????: pic_8.jpg]
At the foot of the Molena Point pier ran a boardwalk. The strip of muddy shore beneath it was never touched by sunlight. In that damp gloomy world under the pilings sour smelling puddles oozed, their surfaces scummed with green algae, their murky depths half-concealing empty, rusted beer cans and the sheen of broken wine bottles. A few boulders rose from the damp sand, and between these were strewn additional cans, fish bones, and sodden cigarette butts.