She would just slip in, change back to the Kate who was Jimmie's wife, grab the bankbooks, throw her clothes in the car, and get out.
When she was sure she was alone she clawed the door open, wondering, as she kicked at the molding, if she was leaving claw marks.
Inside, she prowled the house, wary and skittish. Though Jimmie's car wasn't in the drive, she couldn't shake the feeling that he'd appear and grab her-that he would handle her as viciously as Wark had done, bruising and injuring her; that Jimmie was fully capable of killing her, no matter what form she took.
Gentle Jimmie Osborne, the quintessential wimp. Maybe wimps, when they turned mean, were the most vicious of all.
When she was satisfied that the house was empty, she paused in the hall. She was starting to say the Welsh words that would change her when she heard his car in the drive.
She ran into the living room and leaped to the back of Jimmie's chair, digging in her claws. Peering out through the curtains, she was struck by sunlight careening off the hood of the silver Bugatti. The car glistened in sleek silver curves.
She hated that car. The damned machine had to be worth many times what Jimmie had admitted paying for it. She hated that he lied to her. The Bugatti seemed all of a sudden the symbol of everything ugly about Jimmie. When she saw Sheril getting out, a growl of rage rumbled and shook her.
They came up the steps snuggling and pawing each other. Jimmie had his hand under Sheril's blouse, but why bother? Everything Sheril had was right there in plain sight. That lace hid nothing; she might as well be wearing a plastic bag.
She didn't know whether to change to Kate and confront them, or to hide until they left. Hide, then get the bankbooks for Max Harper, and clear out.
Hiding seemed so cowardly.
But if she telegraphed her punches, if she confronted Jimmie, he might snatch the bankbooks and take off. She might be physically strong enough to keep him from taking them, and she might not.
As they opened the door she fled for the bedroom and under the bed, into her shoddy little hiding place.
Crouching on the carpet just beneath the box springs, she heard them coming down the hall. Their voices sounded flat and tired. Had they been partying in Sheril's bed the whole night?
Their shoes hushed on the carpet. Sheril's nasal voice rose flat and piercing. Jimmie laughed, and Sheril started to giggle. It was ten o'clock in the morning. Why wasn't Jimmie at work?
Sheril said, "Your house is so-domestic, lover. Just like your little housewife."
Jimmie chuckled. "What if the little housewife comes home?"
"She walked out on you, lover."
"You like doing it in her bed, don't you, baby? Like a bitch wetting on another's territory."
Her claws knifed into the carpet. Her tail struck so hard at the springs she thought they'd hear her. They came into the bedroom yawning. Sheril kicked off her sandals and sat down on the bed, then her feet disappeared upward and the springs creaked.
Jimmie kicked off his loafers, dropped his pants and hung them over the chair. His shorts came next. So much for preliminaries. She could hear Sheril wriggling around, undressing. Jimmie moved to the bed; the springs creaked heavily as he lay down. This is disgusting. She fought a powerful desire to leap on the bed and claw them.
"I don't see why we have to wait, lover. I don't see why we can't get the plane reservations in another name, and haul out of here. It will be so sunny in the Bahamas, so nice and warm. If Wark's arrested for Sam's death, or if Clyde is, what difference? The cops have nothing on you. Why do we have to hang around being so careful? I mean…"
"Give it a rest, Sheril. How do you think it would look if we ran out now? You really want to blow it."
"But we didn't do anything. Not to Samuel. Wark did that. And Sam…"
"I said, cool it. We're not going now. Forget it. You don't understand anything about what the cops think, what the cops might find out."
Under the bed, Dulcie smiled. He was incredibly nervous. She guessed Sheril didn't see how nervous, or didn't care.
The springs squeaked as if he had rolled over, then again as he reached for her. She thought that they really needed a new mattress, then was both appalled and amused that that had even occurred to her. The springs kept squeaking. To the accompaniment of grunts and moans, she crept out and fled for the study.
As she pawed open the desk drawer, she realized with alarm that Jimmie's car was blocking the garage, that she couldn't get her own car out.
She wasn't leaving again without it. She wanted her car and her clothes and everything she could load into the Chevy. She thought about taking Jimmie's car, but abandoned that. He might let her go without tracking her down, but he'd be after that car. He'd raise all kinds of hell to get the Bugatti back.
Clumsily she clawed out the foreign bankbooks and the savings book, pawing them onto the floor.
This wouldn't do, she couldn't carry all these in her mouth, and fetch her car keys and purse.
She listened, but heard only a low moan from the bedroom.
She didn't want to go back in that room, but it couldn't be helped. They might be there all day. She wasn't staying in the house listening to that for hours.
Quickly she changed to Kate.
This time, as she changed, she got a nice little rush that amused her, a surge of exhilaration like a stiff drink. She was tall again, and very grateful, now, for the dexterity of hands and fingers as she picked up the bankbooks and stuffed them in the pocket of her jeans.
She laid the bank statements back in the drawer and closed it softly, then moved back down the hall toward the bedroom.
They were still at it. When, standing against the wall, she glanced in, she could see Sheril's naked thighs. They were both turned away. She slipped in, snatched her purse and overnight bag from the closet, and dug Jimmie's keys from his pants pocket, muffling the jingle in her tight fist. She lifted the cash from his dresser drawer, too.
She left the house by the front door. Sliding into Jimmie's car she backed it out, and parked it at the curb. She'd like to ram it hard into a tree, but that wouldn't be smart. She pocketed his keys, backed her own car out of the garage, shut the garage door, and headed for the police station.
She entered the station from the courthouse, praying that Max Harper was there. She passed his empty desk, looked around the room for him, then went up to the front, to the counter.
He wasn't in. She talked to Lieutenant Brennan, a deep-jowled man, older than Kate, who looked like he'd been poured into his uniform as clay is poured into a heavy mold. Brennan wouldn't tell her where Harper was. He couldn't tell her when Harper would return. His attitude was unnecessarily formal and distant. He told her only that Harper was out on a call. She wondered if that was what the sirens had been about-she'd heard them east of the village as she was driving to the station.
She didn't want to give anyone but Max Harper the bank books. "I'm certain Captain Harper will want to talk with me. I have something for him that I can give only to him. A piece of evidence that I think he'll be pleased to have."
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Osborne. I have no idea when he'll be back. Whatever you want to give him will be perfectly safe with me. I can lock any evidence in the safe, if that will ease your mind." "Can you reach him? On the radio?" "He can't be disturbed. Those were his instructions." She thought that part was probably a fabrication. How would an officer know, when he left the station, that something even more urgent might not turn up? "If you can get him on the radio," she said patiently, "let me talk to him for just a second. I'll tell him what I have, and then I'll stop bothering you."