Two people were watching her, two fat, fleshy tourists in shorts staring down at her, cackling with amusement. “What’s that cat doing? Reading the paper? What kind of animals do they keep here? Dogs in the restaurants, cats reading newspapers…”
Leaping at the paper rack, Dulcie snatched at an imaginary moth, batted it around the back of the stand, and took off running and dodging as if chasing it-reading the paper in public was a blunder the little cat would never, ordinarily, have committed. Behind her, the tourists laughed louder; but then when she glanced back, they had lost interest, had turned to admire a dreadful painting in a gallery window-and Dulcie raced for home.
Wilma Getz had indeed left the city early, heading out around six A.M.; after two days in court, she was looking forward to a rare binge of shopping. Having gassed up her car the night before, she drove south on Highway 101, enjoying a cinnamon roll from the hotel’s continental breakfast bar, sipping coffee, and listening to a favorite Ella Fitzgerald tape that included “Lorelei” and “Too Darn Hot.” She seldom had the time or patience for a shopping spree, and didn’t pay much attention to clothes; she was happy in jeans and well-chosen sweatshirts. But her jeans were growing threadbare, her sweatshirts baggy and faded, and every few years the mood hit her for something new, even for a bit of elegance. As she drove, she left her phone off, and had not glanced at a paper or turned on the news. Once she’d fulfilled her courtroom responsibilities, the extended weekend was a welcome vacation. Her governmental duties behind her, she didn’t want to spoil her drive home with some local reporter’s warped version of the revocation hearing, or with the sour sensationalism of national or world news that could leave one filled only with questions. With her mind on a breakfast of a Mexican omelet in the small town of Gilroy, and then a grand and restorative few hours trying on and buying new clothes, she kept the music at a sensible level, the air conditioner turned to high, and enjoyed the smooth curves of the passing hills burnt dry by the hot sun, their winter emerald changed to summer brown. She planned to pick up a few early Christmas presents for her redheaded niece, too, to put away until the holidays, and of course she would find gifts for the three cats; Dulcie and Kit so dearly loved a new blanket, something soft and fresh. Joe Grey, just like a human male, was the hard one to shop for.
She’d had dinner last night with Mandell, a few hours to visit. He still covered Molena Point and the central coast, and she often saw him then, but dinner in the city had been special. Mandell was fun, and he made her laugh, though he was a no-nonsense officer. Bennett was from Georgia; he was half Cherokee and had retained in those sturdy genes not only a quick wit and a powerful instinct and skill for survival, but an easygoing humor that, no matter the circumstances, never seemed to fail him. Because of this and his inner strength, and the fact that he’d always been there for her, he was more like family than merely a friend. And though she’d tried, when he’d lost his wife six years ago to cancer, she had never felt that she’d been able to do anything significant to help ease his distress. No one could help much, that was a pain one must bear alone, a pain Mandell would carry to the end of his life.
During the hearing, Mandell had weathered Cage Jones’s sullen anger with the cool equanimity he always mustered, while she had inwardly fumed. Their quiet dinner afterward had lifted her spirits, had helped her to get centered again. Maybe she’d grown soft, in retirement. The likes of Cage Jones disgusted her far more now than when she’d dealt with him and his caliber of criminal. Dulcie had asked her once why she had chosen probation and parole as a profession, and she hadn’t really had a good answer.
“Wanting to change the bad guys-until I learned that most of them wouldn’t change, had no desire to change. And then wanting to keep them off the street, keep them from hurting others.”
She’d looked at Dulcie’s wide green eyes. “Maybe a bit of a predatory streak in me? A bit confrontational? A streak of the cat in my nature?”
“Maybe,” Dulcie had said, laughing. “Maybe that’s why we get along so well. And,” Dulcie continued, “that should help you understand why Joe and Kit and I love what we do.”
“I guess it does,” Wilma had said, diffidently stroking Dulcie’s sleek tabby back, tracing a finger down her dark, silky stripes. “I guess I understand very well.”
The drive to Gilroy took her an hour and twenty minutes, from hotel parking lot to the sprawling discount mall. Her first stop was to gas up her car, and then to her favorite restaurant where she enjoyed a large and decadent breakfast. Locking her car, she’d made sure her glove compartment was safely locked, too. The.38 Smith & Wesson had been important when she worked corrections, but now, with those years long past, the revolver was simply insurance in case her car broke down or something else unexpected occurred, such as a carjacking or attempted robbery. Life bloomed with the unexpected, and she felt more comfortable prepared. Though the gun wasn’t likely to be needed for a simple day of shopping; and her only known enemy of the moment was safely cooling his heels, watched over by San Francisco ’s finest.
She thought of checking the messages on her cell phone before she hit the stores; but she had called her close friend Clyde last night, and then called Lucinda and Pedric Greenlaw. Dulcie had been there with the elderly couple, tucked up on the couch with Kit as Pedric recited an old Celtic fairy tale for the two cats. Pedric was an authority on Celtic myth and, as the cats’ heritage lay within that distant and mysterious realm, they loved hearing his stories.
She supposed she could check for a message from Dulcie, but she’d talked with her just last night, and she’d be home in a few hours, even if she hit every store in the complex; she was trying to break herself of worrying about Dulcie. Ever since Dulcie and Joe discovered they could speak and understand the human language-were, as Dulcie put it, thinking like real human persons-Wilma had worried over the little tabby to the point of driving Dulcie crazy. Just as Clyde worried over Joe. When the two cats launched themselves into a life of spying and snooping, she and Clyde had worried big-time. The inherent dangers of such an occupation for two little cats had nearly undone them both.
From the first, Dulcie hadn’t liked Wilma fussing, and had set her straight with such insistence that she’d backed off. That hadn’t been easy. But the thought made Wilma smile, because soon the tables were turned. When the tortoiseshell kit arrived on the scene, a starving orphan kitten then, and had taken up with the Greenlaws and with Joe and Dulcie, she had proved to be far more of a handful than either of the older cats had ever been-and soon it was their turn to worry. Kit was fascinated with criminal investigation, and she was fearless.
Molena Point might be small, but there was a lot of money in the village-multimillion-dollar homes; wealthy estates on the outskirts; a handful of movie stars, retired and otherwise. And there were moneyed tourists drawn not only by the charm of the village but by fine golf courses, antique-car competitions, and a world-class horse show. When Kit joined Joe and Dulcie’s clandestine investigations of burglaries, thefts, and the crimes of passion that occurred beneath the sleepy facade of a small town, her approach was wild indeed; she launched into the investigations with all four paws, ears back, and tail lashing-too often putting herself in harm’s way, so that Dulcie and Joe did indeed fret over her.