Ambling around through a neighbor's garden to the street, she moved slowly down the sidewalk, still calling for Kitty, but wanting to get out of there fast. She was half-wired with nerves, and half-strung with amusement. Heading through the fog for her car, she glanced back several times.
The houses behind her had nearly vanished.
She had not brought the blue Honda, and she had put a Nevada plate on this car, along with half a dozen bumper stickers pointing up worthwhile wonders to be seen around Nevada. She had applied the stickers with rubber cement so she could tear them off in a hurry.
She drove eight blocks up the beach to where the houses ended, where the dunes rambled away to the south. Getting out, she left the engine running as she removed the stickers and stuffed them in her purse. Then she headed for the village and across it to The Bakery, craving a cup of coffee and a chocolate donut.
She left her coat and slouch hat in the car and changed her shoes. In the restaurant she chose a veranda table, where she could enjoy the fog-muffled sea. She ordered, then headed for the rest room.
In the little cubicle she tore the bumper stickers into tiny pieces and flushed them away, then worked her loose hair into a knot.
Returning to her table, to her steaming coffee and an incredibly sticky, nut-covered donut, she got her first look at the morning edition of the Molena Point Gazette.
The paper lay on the next table; she nearly had palpitations before the occupant left, and she could snag the front page.
The Molena Point Gazette paid little attention to world events. People could buy the San Francisco Chronicle or Examiner for that. Village news, the small local stories, that was what sold the Gazette. Yesterday evening's paper, putting Max Harper down about missing the open grave, had been sufficiently amusing. But this article in the morning edition, though it, too, put down Harper-and that pleased her-this article did not cheer her. She felt, in fact, a chill depression, an emotion which perhaps had taken some time to build, and which she did not care to examine closely.
She might enjoy this newspaper column later, about the cat burglar, and she would certainly save it, but at the moment it presented only a personal warning. And though maybe it wasn't that warning alone that frightened her, whatever emotions caused this hollowness in her belly, she knew it was time to go, time to leave Molena Point.
CAT BURGLAR ON THE PROWL
The recent rash of Molena Point burglaries, police report, are very likely attributable to a shabbily dressed old lady that local police have dubbed "The Cat Burglar" but whom they have not been able to apprehend. Captain Max Harper was not able to explain to reporters the failure of his officers to arrest the lone woman who has entered and burglarized more than a dozen Molena Point homes.
As the woman prowls Molena Point neighborhoods, she pretends to be looking for her lost cat. If questioned, she gives a plausible story about the escape of the cat from her car. The woman's operation is not unique to Molena Point. Within the past year, she has burglarized countless homes in cities up and down the coast, including San Diego, La Jolla, Ventura, Santa Barbara, Paso Robles, San Luis Obispo, and smaller towns between. She is in and out of a house so quickly she seems to move like a cat herself, as silently and with as furtive intentions.
To date, in Molena Point, she has burglarized fifteen homes. None of the stolen items has been recovered. And while Captain Harper has been unable to apprehend her, he warns homeowners to keep their doors locked even when they are at home, either inside or working in their yards.
"This is the time of year when everyone likes their doors open to enjoy the spring breeze," Harper said. "Leaving a door unlocked is an invitation. The old lady will wander the neighborhood where people are working in their gardens or enjoying their swimming pool. She slips into the house quickly, looking for jewelry, cash, and small collector's items. If she is discovered inside by a surprised homeowner, she claims to be looking for her lost cat."
Besides cash and jewelry, she favors expensive cameras, the more expensive brands of small electronic equipment, and she has been known to take small pieces of artwork. Missing from the home of John Eastland on Mission Drive is a complete set of rare ivory chess pieces, and from an unnamed residence in the hills, five valuable, limited edition collector's dolls of unusual beauty. From the Elaine Carver residence the woman has stolen a small etching by Goya valued at a hundred thousand dollars, and for which there is a generous reward. The rash of burglaries is an unfortunate stain on the reputation of Molena Point. Anyone having information about the identity of the woman, or about the stolen items, should contact Captain Harper of the Molena Point Police.
She set down her coffee cup, staring at the newspaper. Mrs. Garver's claim of a missing Goya so amazed her she had almost choked. There had never been a Goya. She'd seen no etching by Goya in that house, nor had she seen any valuable artwork there. The woman was flat lying. Planning to rip off her insurance company for a cool hundred thousand, and using her as the patsy.
The fact that someone would piggyback a scam of that magnitude on her own modest operation was both annoying and, in a way, flattering. But then she started to get mad-mad that this Garver woman would set up a poor little old bag lady to take the rap for a hundred-thousand-dollar painting.
The idea so angered her that by the time she finished her coffee and paid her bill, she was seething. The woman wasn't going to get away with this.
Returning to the ladies' room, she dropped a quarter in the pay phone and called the Molena Point PD.
She was able to reach Max Harper himself, and told him there was never any Goya etching. "I expect the Garvers' insurance agent will be pleased to have that information." And because she was feeling so mad, and because she had to prove to Harper that she spoke the truth, she gave him a complete list of the items she had taken from the Garver house, gave him a far more detailed accounting than was in the paper.
Hanging up the phone, she stood a moment, letting her pounding heart slow. Then she got out of there fast.
In the car she pulled on her coat again, against the chill of the fog, and headed on through the village. That insurance company would nip Mrs. Garver's scam, jerk her up short. And as far as Harper tracing her phone call, he hadn't had time. She knew how long such a thing took; she'd researched phone tracing carefully. Anyway, she'd be out of here in a day or two, and on up the coast. With cat burglar smeared all over the front page, the whole village was alerted, she didn't dare hang around. Just a few loose ends to take care of, and she'd be gone. In Molena Point she'd be history.
27
Max Harper left the police station at mid-morning, heading up the hills to have another look around the Prior estate. He didn't intend to pull into the Prior drive in his police unit. He thought he'd stop by his place, saddle Buck, and take a ride. He'd been using Buck all week to quarter the hills above the residential areas, looking for human bones or a shallow grave. And he could do with a break this morning, get out of the station for a few hours. The morning had not started out well, everything he'd touched seeming as murky and vague as the fog itself. Driving slowly uphill through the thick mist, he went over this morning's and last night's phone calls, looking for some detail he might have missed.
He had come in just before eight, parking in his reserved slot in the lot behind the station. He was pouring his first cup of coffee when his phone buzzed. The caller was a woman; she wouldn't give her name. She told him that Elaine Garver had lied about the Goya etching, said there was no etching. He couldn't dismiss the call; the woman gave him a detailed list of stolen items, information that only the Garvers or the burglar herself could know-or one of his own people, and that wasn't likely. If he prided himself on anything, it was on the quality and honesty of his officers, in a world where that wasn't always the case. Nothing made him as deeply angry as hearing some report about a bad cop, about someone's inner departmental decay.