The eyes of all three cats glowed. They glanced sideways at one another and found it hard to keep from grinning.
“But,” Mandell said, “if Cage sold his take in the city, what was he looking for at the Molena Point house? What disappeared from there, that he thought Wilma and I took?” He frowned, his dark eyes narrowing. “If Cage and Greeley made a large haul together and got it out of Panama, and then split it, that could have been Greeley’s half that they sold in the city.”
Max nodded. “That’s what we think.”
“And then,” Mandell said, “Greeley came after Cage’s half, which he hadn’t yet sold.”
“But why sell Greeley’s share so near the time that Cage got out of prison?” Wilma said. But then she smiled. “Greeley waited for Cage to get out, to make the contact for him. Greeley isn’t very sophisticated when it comes to that kind of thing, it’s Cage who knows the high-powered fences.”
Pedric said, “If they sold Greeley’s share, and Cage’s half was still in the house, did Greeley find and take it?”
Max shook his head. “We don’t think so. Greeley was in there after the kidnappings, snooping around. If he’d already found and taken it, why would he go back?”
“And what about the three murders?” Lucinda said. “They weren’t connected to this, at all? You arrested one man, the husband?” she said with distaste.
“Two,” Max said. “Tucker and Keating. We had enough evidence on both to make good cases. And in the Milner death, we have the murder weapon. We were able to lift one print that he missed when he wiped it.”
“Then-” Lucinda began.
“Milner’s skipped,” Max said. “Parked his car at San Jose airport, made a plane reservation, but we don’t think he boarded. He’ll be picked up-we hope he will. He’s not too sophisticated.”
Max said no more, nor did Dallas. Neither officer mentioned the plastered-over and painted baseboard in the Milner case, the paintbrush, the caulking tube found in the neighbor’s garbage. Until the trial, it was best to keep such information to themselves, even among those close to the department. The fewer who knew, the fewer slips could be made. The cats glanced at one another, Dulcie twitched a whisker, and again Joe Grey smiled.
“And there never was a burglar,” Lucinda said.
“None.” Max grinned. “You’re safe in your bed, Lucinda.” He looked around at Clyde. “I’m starved. One more toast to the three guests of honor, then let’s eat.”
But before Max raised his glass, Charlie said, “I think there’s another guest of honor who helped stop Cage Jones.”
The cats went rigid, staring at Charlie.
“Seems to me,” Charlie said, “that a toast to Rock is in order. The poor guy ran his tail off tracking me.” Joe and Dulcie and Kit went limp. Charlie’s eyes met theirs, laughing, then moved on, her look noticed only by those who knew the whole story. And as Charlie knelt to hug Rock and give him a treat of shrimp, the cats knew he deserved every morsel. Joe smugly washed his whiskers, and Dulcie rolled over on her back, purring. And soon everyone gathered around the table, filling their plates with the good shrimp and crab, Jolly’s seafood so fresh it might be still swimming, the salads crisp and well seasoned, the French bread freshly baked, the desserts rich, just as the cats liked them. Rock and the cats, the household cats, too, all had their own plates; Kit ate so much, ending with a lovely bowl of crème brulée, that Lucinda and Pedric were sure she’d be sick before they got her home.
But Kit wasn’t sick, she reveled in the evening, loved having all her friends around her, cat and human; after her lonely, bullied kittenhood, she loved being part of this warm human world. When late that evening the friends parted, heading for their cars, and Ryan lingered for a last drink with Clyde, Kit sat on the seat, between the old couple, talking nonstop; she wanted all the answers that had not yet come to light, she wanted it all at once.
She wanted not only to know all the final resolutions to the several cases in question, which no one on earth could yet tell her, but also she worried over her wild friends who had so courageously helped Charlie and Wilma. She worried about Willow and Cotton and Coyote living wild, and she envied them, too. She knew they would choose no other way. Wound tight, Kit talked nonstop until the old couple had tucked her into bed between them and turned out the light, and then she fell asleep all at once, purring.
Kit’s frustration notwithstanding, the answers did come, the first, early the following morning. Kit woke to the ringing of the phone. She rolled over on the big bed as Lucinda picked up. Lucinda listened, then turned on the speaker so Pedric and Kit could listen.
“Cage Jones died at four this morning,” Wilma said. “The hospital called Max, and Charlie called me. She was crying.”
“Oh dear,” Lucinda said, swinging out of bed and feeling for her slippers. Beside her, Kit shivered. Charlie had killed a man and, no matter how casual a cat might feel about taking another creature’s life, Charlie was a tender human.
“What can we do?” Lucinda said.
“She’ll be all right,” Wilma said. “She’s strong, it just takes time. She knows very well that she saved lives that night. Max said that as soon as he can get away they’re going to saddle up and take that week’s ride down the coast that they’ve been planning, take some time alone together.”
That same day, Violet Jones moved back into her childhood home with Lilly, and found a part-time job waiting tables. And it was later that week that Greeley Urzey left the village, just disappeared, didn’t tell Mavity he was going. “Just like him,” Mavity said. “He shows up, makes trouble, and vanishes.” Greeley checked out of his motel at five A.M., the day after Cage’s fence, in San Francisco, ID’d Cage and Greeley as having sold him illegal gold huacas. The fence had studied pictures from Interpol that identified the pieces he’d bought as having been stolen in several Panamanian burglaries. When federal officers went to arrest Greeley, he was gone. He had sold his car two days before to a private party. If he got on a plane, he’d used a fake ID. The feds were still looking for his trail on the day of Cage Jones’s funeral, which was delayed while forensics determined whether Max’s.38 or shotgun pellets had killed Cage, though the question was academic. It was a week before the funeral when Lilly Jones disappeared.
Violet called Wilma to say that Lilly was gone. She wasn’t crying. She didn’t know why Lilly had left; she said they’d been getting along just fine. Her voice was stiff, but Wilma thought that, secretly, she was pleased. She told Wilma that Lilly’s bank account had been closed and that she had left a large check, telling Violet to open her own account in order to pay future household bills. Lilly’s note said there was no mortgage, and that, with Cage’s death, Violet owned half the house. That she would have to pay the taxes, and insurance, and upkeep. Lilly did not leave a forwarding address. She took only a few clothes and the one good suitcase. She explained that Violet couldn’t sell the house, of course, without Lilly, but that if Lilly decided to release her half, she would send a legal paper to that effect. She did not take the old Packard, but transferred the registration to Violet. She did not make airline reservations under her own name.
There were no charges against Lilly Jones. But Max gave the information to Interpol. Violet, when she checked with the bank to be sure Lilly’s account was indeed closed, learned that Lilly had also relinquished her large safe-deposit box. At this time, two abused village women left their homes, seeking shelter and protection, and Violet, while waiting tables at the Patio Café, toyed with the idea of taking in such women as roomers, for mutual support. She thought about this during Cage’s graveside service, which she witnessed apparently without emotion, turning away when it was finished, dry-eyed and composed.