Dulcie studied the lank-haired woman, frowning. "That's Adelina's sister."
"Come on. Why would Adelina's sister have her picture taken with Clint Eastwood?"
"It is her, only younger." The pale blond appeared as a maid standing stiffly beside a fireplace, appeared in several group scenes, and in the backgrounds behind the stars. "She's a bit player. Or she was-she's really young, here."
Beyond the office windows the wind had quickened, and the sky was beginning to pale, the branches of the oaks twisting black against the running clouds. Joe turned, watching the office door. "What time does the shift change?"
She shrugged, lifting a tabby shoulder.
"I don't relish getting caught in here. Like flies stuck to the chopped liver."
"We can have a little nap in the parlor while we wait. We can see the front door from there."
"While we wait for what?"
"For Adelina to get here. Don't you want to search her office? As soon as she unlocks her door, we-"
"Sure, we'll nip right on in, she'll be so pleased. Dulcie, I want into that woman's office like I want into the rabies lockup at the city pound."
She gave him a cool look, leaped down, and trotted away toward the parlor. Bellying beneath the damask sofa, she curled up yawning.
He gave it up and joined her. Far be it from him to back out. If they ended up murdered by Adelina's stiletto heels, there was always, presumably, another life. Unless, of course, they'd already used all nine.
They were cuddled together dozing beneath the sofa when Joe glimpsed movement beyond the black glass. Waking fully, he watched something shiny flickering through the heavy shadows beneath a lemon tree. Quickly he slid along beneath the couch for a closer look, pulling himself across the Chinese rug. Why did people make couches so low? How many cats in the world had to scrape their backs every day, every time they crawled under the family sofa? Where were people's minds? Didn't they think about these things?
Again the movement, glinting and dancing through the dark: the metallic flash of spokes.
Chrome spokes-the spokes of a wheelchair. He watched the chair turn and wheel away into the heavy shadows of the dark, predawn garden. Dulcie was beside him now, peering out. They could see, deep within the blackness, a figure standing, facing the wheelchair, as if the two were talking softly, their voices inaudible through the glass.
The cats looked at each other and slid back deeper under the couch. "I didn't hear the wheels," Joe said nervously. "And I didn't hear footsteps. I don't like when I can't hear something that's moving."
Dulcie stared out at the patio. "Maybe Teddy doesn't sleep well at night; maybe he and some other patient like to roam the halls." Uneasily, she curled up close to Joe, trying to purr, to calm herself. And at last they slept.
Joe woke to the first chirping of birds from the garden. The leaves of the lilies and azalea bushes shivered with activity, forcing Joe's eyes open wide, his metabolism to swing into high, and he crept out from under the couch.
The branches were full of birds. Flitting wings, hopping little bodies. Rigid, his muscles geared immediately into the kill mode, he crouched, staring out at that fluttering feast, at that brazen display of fresh meat, inches from his waiting claws. These birds, reared in that sheltered garden without a cat in sight, would be as stupid and tame as pet chickens.
18
It was early morning when she passed Police Captain Harper; he was just coming out of the drugstore as she went in. He smiled and nodded, and she turned away, hiding a laugh. He'd looked right at her, didn't guess a thing. Not a clue.
But why should he? If she went clanking by him in her black raincoat loaded and lumpy, he'd be onto her like an ambulance chaser onto a five-car collision. But dressed as she was, she could safely pass any village cop or, for that matter, could likely walk right by any hillside resident who had seen her looking for poor lost "Kitty." People weren't that observant. Who would connect?
In the drugstore she made her purchases, thanking fate that there were three druggists in town, so frequent purchases of certain items would not be easily noticed. She returned directly to her car, dropped her packages on the seat, and drove west down Ocean. Turning along Shore Drive, she cruised slowly, admiring the large and expensive beach homes. Out over the sea, the sky was blue and clear, not a cloud. Going to be a bright, boring day. Too much sunshine, the kind of day that seemed to turn the village into a featureless cardboard diorama. She was getting tired of Molena Point. When a town began to pall on her like this, it was time to move on, time to scratch these itchy feet.
Surveying the two- and three-story residences that faced the sea just across Shore Drive, she slowed and parked for a moment, letting the engine idle. She was powerfully tempted to give one of these beauties a try.
But every time she headed down here, she turned back again. The houses were expensive and well furnished, but the area made her nervous. Too much activity, too many tourists on the beach and wandering the sidewalks. Tourists provided good cover, but idle people saw a lot, too. And tourists drew police patrols; there were always cops cruising, checking the teenagers, spotting for possible drug sales or some unlawful sexual display; and keeping an eye on the dangerous and illegal swimming areas.
Watching the oceanfront houses, she considered several other areas of the village that she had so far neglected. She had, in fact, restricted her work entirely to the newer houses up in the hills, had stayed away from the village proper, from the cottages which flanked and were mixed in with the shops and restaurants, mainly because of the street traffic.
Putting the car in gear, she cruised Shore Drive. Where the houses ended, giving way to rising sand dunes, she turned back again, driving slowly, studying the three houses that interested her the most, houses where she had never seen more than one car in the drive, and never seen much activity-not a lot of people going in and out.
It wasn't hard to check out such a house-a look at the city directory, then a few phone calls to see how many different people answered; but she seldom bothered. So far, her routine had worked fine without making all that fuss.
Turning off Shore Drive up Ocean into the village, she headed for the library. Wouldn't hurt to run in for just a minute, take care of that last bit of research. She wanted more information on the cloisonne clocks. Once in a while, using this library wouldn't hurt, as long as she kept an eye on who came in and didn't get involved with the librarians. Yesterday, in the San Francisco library, she'd been too busy learning about handmade dolls, trying to assess the value of the five dolls from the Martinez house. This whole business of handmade dolls was fascinating.
But the pricing range was incredibly large, their value depending on the skill and creativity of the artist and on his reputation, just as in the art world, where a painter spent years building a following. The price depended, as well, on whether the doll was one of a kind, or whether it had been produced in a limited edition, as was an etching or serigraph.
She had made quite certain of what she had before she approached Harden Mark. All five dolls were by a well-known name and were of small, limited editions, the retail price of each doll ranging close to five thousand.
She'd had the dolls only overnight before she packed them up to take to the city, but just having them propped on the dresser overnight she'd hated to part with the perfect little ladies. At the last minute, she'd kept one back, the blond sixteenth-century lady in the blue silk. She could always sell her later.
In the city she had come away from Harden Mark's office with ten thousand in cash, half the dolls' retail value, which was fair. She'd gone directly to her three banks, distributing the cash among them to avoid undue interest on the part of some nosy teller.