She wouldn't tell Max she'd been afraid and uncertain. She hadn't spent time with a dozen police wives, at various backyard cookouts and parties, hadn't seen how laid-back and cool those women were, not to be ashamed of her sudden timidity-surely there was nothing that would so seriously cool their romance, as to let fear intervene.
Though Max was the most monogamous and straight-forward of all possible husbands, she knew that. She knew a lot, from Clyde and from the people in the department, about Max and Millie's marriage, which had ended with Millie's death. She knew enough to be certain that she had a lot to live up to, in that hard-shelled and loving lady detective.
She could never replace Millie. But she could give Millie the compliment and respect of trying, and in so doing maybe she could make Max happy.
A figure moved behind the house where the van had disappeared. Charlie, turning the key that Max had left in the ignition, hit the window button and rolled down the glass, to listen.
There was no sound. The early evening air was heavy with the scent of pine and with a less pleasant smell from the kennels. Somewhere behind the house a car started, she heard it move away, the scrunch of tires on gravel and the engine hum soon fading. She thought of Hurlie Farger and his old truck, but this vehicle was newer, purring softly. Anyway, this wasn't her business. This was department business. She was a civilian, she needed to behave like a civilian. Max had collected some valuable information today concerning large sales of bleach, fertilizers, iodine, antifreeze, glass bottles and jars and propane, among the local stores. She didn't need to do anything to distract him or to complicate his work.
But, Come on, Max. Come out of there. I want you safe. I want you to myself for a little while, and safe.
22
The brick-paved patio of Burger Basher was lit by lanterns placed along the perimeter and by shifting washes of moonlight beneath fast-running clouds. Though the sea wind was brisk, the forty-by-forty-foot space was comfortably warm, heated by six outdoor gas burners suspended on poles overhead. Joe Grey, sitting beneath Ryan's table, tried not to lick his whiskers at the scent of broiling burgers. Though he'd had filet for supper, who could resist a Basher's double? Encouraged by Ryan's petting, he stood up on his hind paws, looking as plaintive as a begging beagle into her amused eyes.
"Come on, Joe Grey. You want to sit up here? We have an empty chair."
Larn Williams looked disgusted. But Joe was aware of other diners watching him and smiling. Beneath a nearby table, a springer spaniel whined with interest. Leaping into the chair, Joe watched appalled as Williams slopped on mustard, ruining a fine piece of meat. Ryan, sensibly waving away the condiments, cut off a quarter of her burger and dissected it carefully into cat-sized bites. Placing these on a folded paper napkin, she set the offering on the chair before him. "There you go, big boy. See what you can do with that."
Rewarding Ryan with a purr and a finger-lick, Joe sampled the char-grilled confection. This was the way surveillance should be conducted, in plain sight of the subjects while one enjoyed life's finer pleasures. He tried to eat slowly but he didn't come up for air until every morsel had vanished. Yawning and stretching, again he fixed his gaze on Ryan, licking his whiskers.
She cut her eyes at him as she devoured her own burger. "No more. You'll get fat, lose your handsome tomcat figure."
Williams watched this exchange coldly. "I didn't ask you out to dinner-such as it is-to watch you feed some alley cat."
"He's not an alley cat, I know him very well."
"When did you get home? I swung by the Jakeses' place up there but you'd already left. I didn't know you were leaving. One of your carpenters was still there, that old redheaded guy with the beard."
"I don't consider Scotty old. I consider him handsome and capable. I got home Saturday night, in time to go to a wedding on Sunday, and start a new job this morning."
Williams nodded more amiably, seeming actually aware of his surliness. "Seems like, if you're gone a few weeks, everything piles up, the laundry, the junk mail."
When she didn't respond, he began asking questions about the new job she had started. Her answers were as vague as she could politely make them; Joe hid a pleased smile. Somewhere in the conversation, Williams edged his way back to his primary interest.
"It's that backlog of paperwork I really hate. Every real-estate sale-a landslide of forms to be filed. I don't have to tell you, the paperwork gets worse every year. That, and the billing. And then it's time for taxes."
If, Joe thought, the evening was to be filled with such gems as this, he might as well be home eradicating the front lawn of gophers. Stretched out across the chair, he yawned so deeply that he almost dislocated his jaw; and he lay observing Williams. The guy had a face as bland as yogurt, his pale brown eyes soft-looking and seeming without guile. Gentle, submissive eyes-as if there was no way this good soul could bear to swat a fly. The kind of expression that made any sensible cat uneasy.
And when Joe glanced at Ryan, she was watching Larn with the same distaste, her dislike thinly veiled- though she appeared to take the bait. "At least," she said, sipping her beer, "I caught up with my billing, and got it in the mail. Didn't have any choice. No money coming in, the creditors will be at my throat."
Williams didn't turn a hair. "The building-supply people in San Andreas are pretty good about letting a contractor ride over a month or two."
"That's nice, but I don't do that, I don't work that way. And the Jakeses are good about paying, they were very prompt on the two San Francisco jobs that Dannizer Construction did for them. I expect I'll see their check before the end of the week."
No change of expression from Williams. "I never quite trust people who always pay all their bills on time. Makes me wonder why they're so careful."
Ryan made no reply. Was he trying to be funny? Joe had never heard any of Clyde's friends talk that way.
Certainly not Clyde himself, Clyde valued his prompt-paying customers, and he let them know it.
"Did you say your father was on the East Coast? I imagine you miss him just now, with this unfortunate murder to deal with. I was sorry to hear about your husband's death, in that ugly way. I hope things have-not been too rocky."
"He's on the East Coast, yes," Ryan said, smiling. "I'm doing fine. Thanks for asking." She was trying hard to be nice to Larn. Joe wondered that Williams didn't detect her veiled effort-or didn't seem to.
"Hot weather back there just now. I hope he took something light. Cotton's best, in the humidity. But I suppose he knows all about that."
Joe narrowed his eyes, studying Williams. This guy was strange.
"Do the police have any line on a suspect? On who would do such a thing?"
Ryan just looked at him.
"I don't understand much about the circumstances, but I hope they've made some progress in locating the killer. What a terrible shock, to find… Well, I am sorry."
And you are going on about it, Joe thought, curling up with his back to Williams.
"I hope they have enough evidence so you are no longer a suspect. I would hate to be suspected of a murder, even though everyone knows better. It would be so… demeaning." Williams was not keeping his voice down. People at the nearby tables had begun to watch them. Ryan looked increasingly uncomfortable.
"Do they have fingerprints, or anything on the weapon? That would certainly make you feel easier."
"I really can't discuss these matters, Larn. And we're attracting attention."