And in the night when he missed Clyde, and Dulcie missed Wilma, they would curl up close together and she would lick his face.
She told him a lot about Wilma, how they always shared supper, Dulcie sitting on a little rug by the sink, how they watched television curled on the couch together eating popcorn, and how nice it was to be in the garden with Wilma as she dug in the flowers; she told him about the books Wilma read aloud to her, and that was one thing they had in common, both their housemates read to them. The two humans shared a keen taste for mysteries, and traded paperbacks. They were always trading books, every time they got together.
But the biggest mystery, more urgent than any book, the real and frightening mystery, Dulcie found difficult to talk about. She would mention it, skirt around it, but soon change the subject.
And then on their third day in the hills as they crossed the yard of a redwood cottage where newspapers had blown out of the trash can, part of a headline drew Joe. He trotted over and found, on a crumpled portion of the paper,… POLICE SEARC… WEAPO …
He spread the paper out and smoothed it with his paw.
POLICE SEARCH FOR MISSING WEAPON
Police have as yet little evidence to the identity of the killer of Molena Point car dealer Samuel Beckwhite. No weapon has been found. Captain Harper requests that anyone having information about the killing, or anyone who may have found a heavy object such as a length of metal discarded in the vicinity of Jolly's Deli, contact him immediately. Employees of the Beckwhite Automotive Agency have been questioned as a routine matter. Captain Harper reminds Molena Point residents that withholding evidence to a crime is a felony punishable by imprisonment.
"I don't understand," Dulcie said. "If the killer went to the trouble of stealing that wrench from Clyde, meaning for the police to find it with Clyde's prints on it, why didn't he leave it beside the body?"
"I don't know. All I know is, if he plants the weapon later, for the police to find, Clyde's in big trouble."
"But why would he?" She cocked her head, puzzled. "Unless he means to use it to force Clyde to do something."
"Or keep him from doing something," he said. "All I know is, I'll feel better if-when we find the damn thing."
But it was not until late that night after finding the newspaper, that Dulcie woke mewling and shivering. Joe cuddled her close, clutching his paws around her. "What is it? What's wrong?"
"I dreamed about the murder. I dreamed about the third man."
"What third man?" he said sleepily, then woke more fully. "What man?" He looked hard at her. "There was no one else in the alley. Only Beckwhite and the killer. And you and me."
"A third man." She shoved her nose against his neck. "In the shadows. Standing near me between the jasmine vine and a little oleander tree. When he saw the killer hit Beckwhite, he slipped away fast, down the dark street."
"Why didn't you tell me this before?"
"I didn't think of it. I supposed you saw him, too."
"What did he smell like? Could you see his face?"
"I couldn't smell anything, the jasmine was too strong. And it was so dark in the bushes. Just a darkly dressed figure, a thin figure, standing in the shadows where the bush and the vine blocked the light."
A tremble shook her, and she snuggled closer. "I saw the killer leap at you and swing his wrench. Then you ran, and a police light caught me in the face, I couldn't see where you went. I heard the police radio. When they shone their lights in, the killer moved toward me away from the street and stood still, his face turned toward me.
"He was looking right at me, Joe. He saw me, but then he turned back and chased you." She pressed her face harder against him. "He knows about us. He knows we saw-and more. He knows that we can tell what we saw."
She stared at him in the darkness. "I think that man knows more about us than we know about ourselves." And she curled down tight against him in a hard little ball.
He licked her face and ears. In a little while, he said, "If the second man was a witness, why hasn't he gone to the police?"
"I don't know. Maybe he's afraid."
"Or maybe he has other plans," Joe said. Then, "Maybe he found the wrench. Maybe he came back and found the wrench, before the police ever discovered the body. Maybe he's keeping it for his own reasons."
"Blackmail?"
"Maybe." He pawed at an itch on his shoulder. "Then again, maybe he didn't find it."
"Could it still be in the alley, somewhere the police didn't look? But how could the police miss it?"
"I don't know that, either. But it's a place to start looking. If it is hidden there, we need to find it before someone else does."
14
Twelve-year-old Marvin Semple had nearly finished his evening paper route. He was headed home on his bike, wheeling beneath low branches along the dim and shadowed residential street, pedaling past a row of overhanging oak trees, when he heard a cat scream.
The cry came from somewhere ahead, up near the end of the block. A second scream cut the silence, and he pedaled faster. Maybe a dog had some poor cat. He didn't know anyone on this street who had cats, but it could be any village cat. He was gazing ahead into the thickening shadows when he saw movement in the Osborne yard. A man was standing near the house straddle-legged, flinging something at the ground.
Crouching over his handlebars he raced toward the man, not wanting to believe what he saw.
Yes, it was a cat. The man was flinging a cat at the concrete walk. For an instant he saw the animal clearly, its pale fur bright in the dark evening as the man swung it down. Its scream chilled him. "Stop it!" What was the guy doing! Again the man flung the cat at the ground. Marvin shouted again and doubled over his bike pumping as hard as he could.
He screeched to a stop and dropped his bike, scattering his remaining papers as the man pushed the cat under the bushes. The guy ran. Marvin raced to where the cat lay.
Crouching, he lifted it gently from beneath the bushes.
It looked dead.
Holding it carefully, he glanced up in the direction the man had disappeared. A black car was pulling away fast, skidding around the corner.
He carried the cat beneath the streetlight and stood cradling it, trying to see if it was breathing. He couldn't see any rise and fall of its chest, but when he put his face to its nose, he could feel a faint breath. Gently he cradled it, deciding the best thing to do. The evening was fast growing dark. He was fifteen blocks from home.
Soon his exploring fingers found a barely discernible heartbeat. He could see no blood. The cat was beautiful, cream-colored and mottled with orange streaks. Marvin held her as delicately as he could in one arm. With his other hand he picked up his bike and straightened the nearly empty paper bags across the rack.
He laid the cat inside one bag, on a bed of folded newspapers, then removed the belt from his pants and used it to bind shut the bag against her escape. He knew from reading every book he could find about animals, that an injured cat or dog, or any injured animal, might run blindly away, evading the very person who sought to help it. If a horse or dog were injured, you should always get a lead on them to hold them steady. The first aid book said always confine a hurt animal as gently as you could. He had wanted to feel more carefully for broken bones, but he was afraid he'd injure the little cat. He picked up the scattered papers to balance the weight of the cat, so the bag wouldn't slide.
He was sure there would be enough air inside the closed canvas bag-he had left an inch hole at the top, and the canvas was thin and cheap.
With the cat safely bedded down, he took a running start and headed for the upper perimeter of the village.
It was six blocks to Ocean, then up Ocean five more blocks, then over two. He didn't know any faster way to get help. If he called his dad, it would take a while to find a phone, and a while more for his dad to reach him. And they'd still have to lift the cat into the car, and drive the same route he was taking.