But she was frightened, too. She couldn’t stop thinking about Lee Wark-Wark and his mysterious interest in cats. Something about the man troubled her deeply. She did not like the pattern which was taking shape.
She had gone back to bed at last, but she didn’t sleep. She rose before six, made a cup of coffee, drank it restlessly, and left the house, needing to walk off the tangle of disturbing thoughts which had descended. Shake them off or try to make sense of them.
She was well beyond the village, now, where big older homes sat atop the low cliff, their lawns and gardens glistening with sea spray. At the front of most of the houses, a large and well-appointed glass room had been added. Or, in the newer homes, a big sunroom had been integrated into the original design. These provided warm retreats all year from the ever-present sea winds, but offered a wide view of the changing sea. She liked to glance in at the expensive wicker furnishings, at the carefully tended houseplants and the bright fabrics.
Sometimes she thought she’d love a house out here, if she could afford it. But these beachfront houses ran up into six and seven figures. When a hard storm hit the coast, however, she was glad enough to have her snug stone cottage away from the worst of the blow. And this stretch of beach, open and windy, and busy with running dogs, was not a good place for cats. There wasn’t much shelter here, away from trees and the concealing hills, not enough shelter for Dulcie from dogs or from people.Nowhere to hide from Lee Wark,she thought darkly.
It wasn’t coincidence that Lee Wark had spent hours in the library, researching cats. She kept seeing his angry eyes that day, when he looked up and saw her. Why would he be so startled, and so angry?
He was angry because he knew she belonged with Dulcie. For reasons still unclear, he hated the little cat. Hated her enough to try to poison her. Oh, that poison came from Wark. She was convinced of it. She didn’t much believe in coincidences.
Somehow, Wark had known where Dulcie lived; he must have been watching the house, so probably he had seen her, too. Very likely he saw her leave the night he poisoned Dulcie’s food.
She had found the buried bowl in late afternoon, when she went out to work in the garden. Puzzled by the mysterious ravages to her pansies, she had dug into the flower bed to replant them. Her shovel hit the bowl, hard and ringing.
When she uncovered it, the salmon was still in the bowl, rotten and stinking. Its smell had gagged her. But there was another smell, too, like bitter almonds. She had shoved the whole mess into a plastic bag, grabbed her car keys, and taken it to the vet.
Jim Firreti was certain the smell was cyanide, but to make sure, he had sealed up the food, bowl and all, and sent it up to San Francisco for analysis.
It was then she realized how dangerous Lee Wark was, and knew that she had to find out more about him. Before she left Firreti’s office she called Clyde and told him about the poison, then she phoned Bernine Sage and made a date for lunch. Bernine was the only person she knew who might give her a clearer picture of the Welshman.
She left Firreti’s office promising to keep Dulcie in the house, but she had no intention of doing that. How could she? Nor did she need to. Who else but Dulcie would have buried that reeking mess? Dulcie knew very well about poison.
She just hoped Bernine Sage would give her a clearer picture of the man. Bernine had lived with Wark, she had to know something about him. One way or another, Wilma thought, lunch would be informative.
The Bakery Cafe had opened five years ago in an old house a block above the ocean, a gray shingle structure with a deep veranda, which was now furnished with small tables. On nice days the veranda tables were all taken before noon. When Wilma arrived at twelve they were full, but Bernine had snagged the last one. She was just sitting down, her red hair flaming like a beach fire above a pale pink blazer.
Bernine Sage was forty-three, a natural redhead who showed off her coloring with tangerine lipstick, orange sweaters, hot pink silk. Today’s cool pink blazer topped a white T-shirt and jeans, and flat sandals. Bernine’s face was thin, her smile quick, though it seldom touched her eyes. She was tall, five-eight, and imposing enough to work a room without ever moving from one spot.
Bernine had left the San Francisco Probation Office at age thirty-eight, with twenty years and a nice pension due her. In Molena Point she had taken a job as curator for the Sentina Gallery, then later had gone to work for Beckwhite. Bernine knew how to run an office smoothly, and Beckwhite had paid nearly twice what Sentina could afford. She was personable, polished, skilled. To Bernine, appearances were everything. And manipulating the facts to enhance her work and her life was as natural as breathing. They had shared a few laughs over Bernine’s past untruths, though Wilma didn’t go along with Bernine’s philosophy.
They made small talk while they studied their menus. When they had ordered, Wilma kept up the pointless chatter for a respectable interlude before she asked Bernine about Lee Wark. She would have preferred to cut right to the bottom line, but anything direct made Bernine nervous. Bernine liked the oblique approach. After ten minutes of idle conversation, Wilma got around to computers, at which Bernine was a whiz, and then to discussing the on-line system at the library, and the recent addition of the Internet. At last she got around to Lee Wark. Maybe her approach wasn’t smooth, but it did the job. “There was an interesting man in the library the other day using the computer, doing some kind of research. I think you may know him. Thin, one of those solemn, hungry, artistic-looking types.” Artistic was not the way she thought of Wark. “He had a fascinating accent; I think he may be Welsh.”
Bernine’s green eyes went agreeable and expressionless. “That would be Lee Wark,” she said pleasantly. “He sells cars to the agency. He’s a freelance car buyer, travels all over. What kind of research could he be doing? Something about foreign cars?”
“I didn’t help him. It was his accent that caught my attention. Didn’t you date a car buyer for a while?”
Bernine waited a moment, assessing her.“I dated Wark, a few years back. He used to bring me cactus candy from New Mexico, pralines from Atlanta, stuff he bought in the airport gift shops.” She laughed. “I broke it off, it got too fattening.”
Wilma smiled.“You were bored with him?”
“Sometimes.”
“I’m not sure I understand about the car buying. Can’t the agency buy the used cars it needs locally, with so many foreign cars in the village?”
“Molena Point people don’t buy as many new cars as you think. Many of the BMWs and Jags and Mercedeses you see were bought from us used. And remember, Beckwhite’s doesn’t serve just Molena Point. We do two-thirds of our business with Amber Beach customers and with people all up and down thecoast.”
“And Wark ships the cars to you?”
“He ships them by truck, or sometimes he trucks them himself. He has a couple of trucks and trailers, those long, open ramps that you run cars up on.”
“Interesting work. I guess he does this full-time, travels and buys cars?”
Bernine watched her carefully.“Wark travels maybe nine months a year. What’s this about, Wilma?”
“Idle curiosity.” Wilma laughed, sipped her tea. “What does he do the rest of the year? Didn’t you vacation with him?”
“I’m over twenty-one,” she said defensively. Then, more pleasantly, “He has a place in the Bahamas. He-it’s very nice, very tropical and pretty.”
“Sounds like a perfect relationship. He’s not here often enough to get tired of him, and he takes you to a nice vacation resort. What made you break off with him?” She paused while the waiter set down their order, a chicken sesame salad for Bernine, a small saute of crab for herself. She knewshe was pushing Bernine, but Bernine, for all her bristling, would give in, if one kept at her.