Now in the cafe's patio she soon bagged a fine breakfast of sausage and fried eggs and thin Swiss pancakes, all laid out on a little saucer by a kind tourist. Life was good. Life was very good. The kit's purr reverberated beneath the table like a small and busy engine.
But then, having eaten her fill, she slipped away before her benefactor knew she'd gone. Prowling the village, nipping into shops, wandering among antique furniture and displays of soft sweaters, she soon entered a rug gallery where she paused to have a little wash on an expensive oriental carpet. Wandering out again, she slipped into a gift shop, drawn by the scent of lavender. Then down the street threading between the feet of tourists and in and out of shops, alternately petted or evicted according to the shopkeeper's temperament. When the sun had warmed the rooftops she wandered there, across the tilting shingles and peaks until she was hungry again, then followed the aroma of broiled shrimp to a nearby patio restaurant. It was here that she heard the news of a body in Ryan Flannery's garage.
As the kit gobbled shrimp from a little plate beneath the table, rubbing against the ankles of the gallery owner who had provided the delicacy, that lady remarked to her companion, "He was a womanizer, you know. Rupert Flannery. It may be crude to speak so of the dead, but Ryan's lucky to be rid of him."
"Maybe that's only gossip," whispered her friend. "Maybe he… Do you think she killed him? Right there in her own garage?"
"If she did, I wouldn't blame her. You know, my dear, one of my gallery clients is Ryan's sister, decorator Hanni Coon. Well, of course Hanni never said anything, but her office manager told Bernine… You know Bernine Sage, she worked for Beckwhite's until after he was killed, then she worked for the library for a while. Well, Bernine knows some friends of the Dannizers in San Francisco, and she told me all about Rupert. She says he does like to sample the herd, as my husband would so indelicately put it."
The kit wasn't sure what that meant, but she certainly understood about the murder in Ryan's garage. As soon as she'd finished all the handouts that seemed forthcoming she galloped down the street three blocks to the library and in through Dulcie's cat door, and leaped to Wilma's cluttered desk.
She waited in Wilma's office for perhaps three minutes before she grew impatient and trotted out into the reference room. Hopping onto a library table, then to the top of the book stacks, drawing smiles from several patrons who were used to seeing her and Dulcie among the books, she trotted along the dusty tops of the stacks looking down on the heads of patrons and librarians until she spotted Wilma behind the checkout desk. Wilma stood shelving reserve books. Her long silver hair, bound back in a ponytail, shone bright against the dark bindings. The kit, hanging down over the shelves above Wilma's head, mewed softly, the kind of small mutter she would use when speaking to another cat.
Looking up, Wilma reached to take the kit in her arms. She didn't speak, the kit was too impetuous; Wilma was always afraid the little tattercoat would forget and say something back to her, blurt out some urgent message in front of other people. Certainly the kit had something vital to say, she was all wriggles, she could hardly be still.
But Wilma was not to be hurried. With the kit settled across her shoulder she finished her shelving, stroking the kit's back and scratching her ears to keep her quiet. Taking her time, she at last headed for her office.
The moment the door was closed the kit launched into her story of murder, into every smallest detail she'd overheard. "… and Ryan hasn't been arrested yet, but that woman who gave me the shrimp thought she would be. She said Ryan's husband liked to sample the herd. What does that mean? Is that why someone killed him? Oh, Ryan didn't kill him, Ryan wouldn't kill anyone."
Setting the kit on her desk, Wilma held her finger to her lips, and immediately she called the station. As the phone rang the kit jumped to her shoulder and settled down with one tortoiseshell ear pressed against the headset. She tried not to wriggle or purr as she listened.
When Dallas came on he gave Wilma the particulars of the death. Ryan had not been arrested. She was on her way to the station to interview the Farger boy.
Wilma had hardly hung up when Clyde called from the shop. As they talked, the kit left quietly again, through Dulcie's cat door, and galloped over to the police station to hear what she could hear. That boy in jail didn't need to see her, that boy she had jumped on and made to set off his bomb. She would just slip into the station past the dispatcher, she would be just a shadow, no one would see her.
In Ryan's truck the dog sat cutting his eyes at the paper bag that lay on the console between them, sucking in the scent of charbroiled hamburger and fries. He made no move to touch it, and Ryan stroked his head. "You have lovely manners." She studied him as she waited for a stoplight. "Where did you come from? How could anyone abandon you?" This was a valuable dog, not one of the registered "backyard bred" animals whose owners had given no thought to what such a mating would produce. That happened too often when a breed became popular. This big, strong fellow was far above those ill-planned mistakes. He looked like he could hunt from dawn until dark and never tire. His breed had been developed for all-around work and stamina, to retrieve on land or on water, to point, to track, to hunt big game, to work by both sight and by scent. Watching him, Ryan was more than smitten, she was overboard with desire. This was a fine, intelligent animal, a hunter's dream.
But she couldn't keep him. When would she hunt him? When would she work him? It wouldn't be fair to the dog.
Pulling up beside the little park she dropped the choke chain over his head, fastened on the leash, snatched up her sandwich bag as she stepped out, and gave him the command to come. He was immediately out of the truck sitting before her as she closed the door, then moving to heel.
Oh, yes, a dream dog, a treasure.
Leaning over the truck bed she opened the kibble bag and scooped a large serving into one of the two bowls she had bought. Carrying the bowls and a bottle of water and her own breakfast she headed for a sprawling cypress tree near the edge of the park, settling down beneath it on the grass. The cool fall morning was silent except for the cries of the gulls and the faint whish of a few passing cars. The dog lay down beside her alertly watching the kibble bowl that she still held. At the other end of the park some children were playing catch, their voices cutting the silence. A few tourists wandered across the grass or sat on the scattered benches, and a pair of joggers passed her. When she put the bowls down, the kibble vanished quickly, as did half the water. She didn't offer more food, she didn't want him throwing up. Their alfresco picnic apparently presented an interesting study because several cars slowed to have a look. She savored her hamburger and fries, wondering if she was stupid to take the dog over to the jail. Would his presence encourage Curtis to talk, or was that wishful thinking?
Whatever she thought of the kid, up in San Andreas he had seemed so tender toward the dog. But knowing now what he was capable of, that he had tried to kill half the village, maybe this visit was futile. And she wondered if, when she faced Curtis again, she could keep her anger under control.
Still, if Dallas didn't find the old man, Curtis was the only lead they had to unraveling the full story of the bombing. Her preoccupation with that urgent matter served very well to ease her own fears, to put in perspective her own precarious position. This boy, son of the man Max Harper had helped prosecute for drug making, had nearly killed Max and Charlie and maybe the entire wedding party.
The silence of the early Sunday afternoon was broken suddenly by Dixieland jazz blaring from an approaching convertible, and a pale blue Mercedes pulled to the curb, parking illegally in the red zone, the top down, her sister Hanni behind the wheel. Hanni's short silver hair was styled to a flip of perfection, her long silver earrings caught the sunlight, her million-dollar grooming made Ryan feel, as always, all ashes and sackcloth, made her snatch uselessly at her uncombed hair and stare down at the stain on her sweatshirt.