"Dr. Firetti said some of the cats who escaped from the Welsh couple came here, he said that was at the time the mansion was falling into disrepair." Charlie pushed back a lock of red hair. "Olivia could have overheard the cats whispering among themselves, could have discovered their talents, then. She would have been terribly excited to find out that what she already believed, from this book, was indeed real."
"Or maybe she knew, all her life?" Wilma said. "Remember, when Olivia was small, many of the Pamillons traveled in Europe and Great Britain. The grand tour, it was called then. Maybe they learned about the cats on those journeys? Maybe even brought a pair back with them, years before the Welsh couple brought more?"
"Imagine, if there were speaking cats here on the estate during Olivia's last years," Charlie said, "when she was alone. Maybe they were her only friends. She could have become obsessed with them. People think she turned strange and reclusive, but maybe that was simply her preoccupation with the cats."
The two women looked at each other, both wishing they could see into the past. "Whatever happened," Wilma said, "I find it strange that she didn't destroy the book, to keep safe the cats' secret."
Charlie rewrapped the book and placed it in the box, and slipped the box into the little backpack she'd brought, where it would ride safely; she rose, wondering where the book would lead them now that it was unearthed again. And knowing that, above all else, in the end it must be destroyed, and feeling sad about that.
16
THAT EARLY AFTERNOON while Charlie and Wilma examined the rare old book, their horses waiting patiently among the fallen walls, down at Molena Point PD, Joe Grey paused uncertainly in the hallway. Crouching on the cold floor, he wondered whether to follow Mike and Lindsey into the coffee room, or stick with the chief as he headed for Dallas 's office carrying the plastic-wrapped letter.
The letter won. Quickly he slipped inside behind Max's heels and ducked beneath Dallas 's credenza. Crouching in the shadows, he watched as the detective ended his phone conversation and looked up at the chief. "That was Oregon. You won't believe this."
"They've ID'd the body?"
Dallas grinned. "From the dental records. It's Chappell."
"I'll be damned," Max said. "Had to be Greg Emerson, he's the only dentist I know who keeps records that far back. Keeps everything, that storeroom over his office is crammed with files. Ever since that cold case where records had been destroyed and he tried to do it from memory."
"He went right down to the office last night," Dallas said. "Found the file-called me around midnight. I met him here and we called Oregon. Palmer, at OBI. They compared the details over the phone, got a perfect match. Emerson's overnighting them a copy of his film."
Max shook his head. "So Lindsey Wolf was right. What kind of odds are those?
"Or what does she know?" Dallas said, frowning.
"Looks like this isn't a cold case anymore," said the chief. "You want to take it? Here's something you'll need. Ryder Wolf brought it in. Here are the notes I made." He laid the bagged letter and a notepad on the desk, and turned toward the door. "Have to be in court," he said shortly.
Dallas watched him disappear up the hall. After he'd read the letter and Max's careful notations, he buzzed the coffee room, told Mike to bring Lindsey back.
As their footsteps approached along the hall, Joe sauntered out from beneath the credenza, hopped up on the couch, and stretched out full length, in plain sight. He wanted to get a better line on Lindsey Wolf. You could tell a lot about a person by the way they reacted to animals, particularly to cats. Cat lover, probably okay. Cat hater, beware.
He knew this theory was an oversimplification, he'd met a few ailurophobes who were decent, honest folk. And he'd met a number of cat lovers who'd rob a person blind, including one full-blown psychopath who was a real pushover for cute kitties.
But still, the premise had merit; one didn't have to abide by it completely, it was just one more guidepost in the feline roster of clues to the human mind. He wanted a line on Lindsey Wolf, wanted to know what made her tick.
Well, he thought, she had had a dog, a golden retriever. He understood she'd treated the animal well, and that was in her favor. He watched her intently as she entered, Mike walking close behind her looking very possessive.
She seemed at ease in the office, had none of the telltale signs of nervousness. She exchanged pleasantries with Dallas, then sat down on the couch near Joe and reached to stroke him as if it was the natural thing to do. She smelled good, like soap and water.
"What a beautiful cat." She looked up at Dallas. "Is he yours? Hello, tomcat," she said softly. "You run the shop around here?"
Dallas grinned, and Joe had to hide his own smile. Even the fact that she realized, right off, he was a tomcat was in her favor. Most people, on first meeting, didn't care or bother to check things out. Her hazel eyes were kind as she looked deep into Joe's eyes. "Are you the department mascot? What's your name, big fellow?"
Mike stood by the desk watching her, both men assessing Lindsey just as keenly as was the tomcat. Was her animal-friendly gentleness an act, to gain favor? Of course she knew she was being judged, though if that made her nervous, it didn't show.
"That's Joe Grey," Dallas said, leaning back in his desk chair. "He has another home; he hangs around here because the dispatcher brings him fried chicken." He glanced at Mike, then looked back at Lindsey. "We have an ID on the body in Oregon."
Lindsey's stroking hand went still. She searched the detective's face. "It's Carson," she said softly.
Dallas nodded. "OBI got a match on the dental records. Your theory was a long shot, but it turned out to be right."
Joe could feel the sudden tension in Lindsey's touch, but then she began to stroke him again. Mike sat down at the other end of the couch. "He didn't abandon me, then," she said softly, her voice catching. "He didn't run out on me, on our wedding."
Dallas said, "Why were you so sure that was Chappell? Is there more, something you haven't told us?"
"Nothing," she said, searching his face. "I've told Mike everything I can remember, or it's in the file." She studied Dallas. "The paper said the sheriff found bullets." She leaned forward a little, her hand still. "Did someone shoot him? Did they find a gun? Can they identify who did it?" She slumped back, and started stroking again. "Why would someone shoot Carson? I didn't think he had any enemies, nothing he ever mentioned. Is there anything to lead to the killer? Or was this a random thing?" Her hand on Joe's shoulder was suddenly too tight, and he thought she was doing more talking than was needed. "Do they know what he was doing up there?"
"He said nothing to you about going to Oregon?" Dallas asked. "No last-minute change in plans?"
"Nothing. That wasn't at all what he planned…what he told me he meant to do," she said, faltering.
At the other end of the couch, Mike sat watching her. She looked pleadingly at him. "Why did he go there?" she said almost inaudibly. "What was that tree house? Was that something Carson put together for shelter? Or was it something he found or knew about? Did other people use it?"
"It was there before he died," Dallas said. "It's old, rotting away now. A crude shelter made of log slabs-discards from the lumber mills-nailed together for a floor between the branches of a large oak, with two slab sides to cut the wind and a shed roof of the same material. It must have leaked, even then. Chappell had pitched a pup tent on the platform, under the roof.
"When the sheriff's department located him, the owner of the property said the structure had been there as long as he'd owned the land, some thirty years. He has fifty acres up there, running back from the coast, most of it overgrown forest. He told the deputies he seldom went there, seldom goes into those woods."