"Why would he go there?"
Joe himself was surprised. But maybe he shouldn't be. There was nothing to show a connection between Williams and the Landeaus, but they did live in the same small town of San Andreas, they could know each other.
Or, Joe thought, maybe this was the meaning of Gramps Farger's remark, Them San Andreas people.
The Fargers and the Landeaus? Talk about an unlikely mix.
Once they were above the village the residential streets were black, where the moon had dissolved above pale clouds. Joe glanced at Clyde. "Better turn off your lights."
"I'm not driving with my lights off. And hit some animal?"
"He'll make you, otherwise. There's not a car per square mile moving up here."
Clyde cut his lights. The street went black.
"Drive slower. I can see the street, I can see if there's an animal. Maybe he'll think you turned off. He's not moving very fast."
"Why would he trash her father? Why would he go to the Landeau place? What's the connection? What's this guy up to?"
"Slow down, he's turning in."
Easing to the curb a block before the cottage, Clyde cut the engine. Williams had pulled onto the parking close to the cottage door, making no effort to hide his car. On the dark granite paving, the white Jeep stood out like snow on tar. "Roll down your window," Joe said softly. "You'll stay in the car like you promised?"
"Didn't I promise?"
"That's not an answer." Joe glanced at Clyde. "He sees you, you could blow everything-and could put me in danger." Before Clyde could answer, he leaped across Clyde's legs, dropped out the window, and beat it up the street. He had no idea how long Clyde would remain patiently behind the wheel or, in his new investigative enthusiasm, come sneaking along the street like some two-bit private eye. Surveillance was easier with Dulcie. No human in their right mind would suspect a pair of cats.
He was just in time to see Williams let himself in with a key. Swiftly Joe slipped into the house behind his heels, just making it through as Williams slammed the door, and sliding behind the Mexican chest.
Williams didn't pause as if getting his bearings, nor did he turn on the light. He headed straight for the bedroom, knowing his way. Moving up the four steps he sat down on the bed and pulled off his shoes. The bed was unmade, the brightly patterned designer sheets and spread tangled half on the floor. Dropping his shoes, Williams picked up the phone. As he dialed, Joe crept past through the shadows, and hightailed it into the kitchen.
Leaping to the dark granite counter, slick as black ice beneath his paws, he searched frantically for the extension. The counters were nearly empty. A set of modern canisters. Nothing behind them. Bread box, but no phone inside. Did they keep the phone in a cupboard?
Or was there only one phone, and Williams had moved it to the bedroom at some earlier time?
Yes, behind the bread box he found the empty jack. Was the guy staying here with the Landeaus permission? Or without their knowledge? Why else would he not turn on the lights?
Dropping to the floor as silently as he could manage, he slipped into the bedroom in time to hear Williams say, "Yes, but I don't see the point. So the Jakeses sue her. So what does…?"
Pause… Behind Williams's back, Joe slid across the room and under the bed.
"Why is it none of my business! If I'm going to do the work, I… Does this have to do with her divorce?"
Joe could make out a faint metallic reverberation from the other end. Sounded like a woman's voice, sharp with anger. Creeping along under me bed, gathering strands of cobwebs that made his ears itch, he crouched directly beneath Williams. Amazing how fast these little busy spiders could set up housekeeping.
"Of course I did. Yes, a code she won't find. What do you think? So the Jakeses hit the fan, what then? So what's the purpose?"
Angry crackling. Definitely a woman.
"Thanks. I go to all the trouble, to say nothing of the risk, and all you can say is, Don't sweat it! You tell me don't sweat it!"
Crackle, hiss…
"She's what? What time in the morning?"
A terse response.
"What time? That's the crack of damn dawn. Well, isn't that cute… Of course I'll be out of here. When did you find this out? Why didn't you… Well, all right. Don't be so bitchy… No, I won't leave anything lying around!"
Crackle, crackle…
"All right. And what if I spill about Martie?"
The voice at the other end snapped with rage. Williams listened, drumming his fingers on the bedside table. "Well, it's just between you and me," and he brayed a coarse laugh. "Just between us and Martie! Martie Martie Martie." He pounded on the night table. "Martie Martie Holland.. ." then banged the phone down, giggling a laugh that made Joe's blood curdle.
This guy was one weird player.
And Ryan had gone out with him. Ryan had, Joe thought with a sharp jolt, Ryan had beat up on him… this guy who was, in Joe's opinion, first in line for the nut farm. And, first in line as having killed her husband.
For instance, what would most men do if a woman tried to beat up on them? Grab her arms and get her under control-or knock her around and pound her. Williams had done neither. How many men would just stand there and take it, as limp as a decapitated mouse? No, Larn Williams, in anyone's book, was a long way from normal.
And what did he mean to do to Ryan later? What might he be saving up to do?
Furthermore, if that was Marianna on the other end of the line, why would she want to cook Ryan's books? What did Marianna have to gain by framing Ryan?
And who was Martie Holland?
Above Joe on the bed, Williams shifted his weight, still giggling and muttering. Joe heard him pick up the phone again, heard the little click of the headset against the machine, heard the dial tone then a fast clicking as if Williams had hit the redial.
Laughing that same crazy laugh, Williams shouted the name over and over, "Martie Holland Martie Holland Martie Holland," then he slammed the phone down again, rose, and padded into the kitchen. Joe heard him open the refrigerator, then the cupboard, heard the icemaker spitting ice cubes into a glass, and could smell the sharp scent of whisky. While Williams mixed a drink, Joe lay under the bed trying to make sense of his phone conversation. Williams brought his drink into the bedroom, set it on the nightstand, and stretched out on the bed so the springs creaked above Joe's head. He heard Williams plump the pillows then straighten the covers as if perhaps preparing for sleep. The tomcat was about to cut out of there when he heard, outside the window, the faintest rustling of bushes.
Scooting on his belly to the window side of the bed, he peered up at a familiar shadow dark against the glass-then it was gone.
He didn't wait to find out if Williams had seen Clyde. Leaving the bedroom fast, he leaped at the front door, praying the dead bolt would give before Williams heard him-wondering if he'd be able to turn the bolt.
There was not a sound from the bedroom except Williams shaking the ice in his glass. Joe leaped again, and again. Dead bolts were hell on the paws, most of them stronger and with less leverage than a cat could manage. Had Williams heard him? Why was he so quiet? Joe was swinging and kicking when, glancing across the living room where moonlight slanted down against the mantel, he saw something that made him drop to the floor, looking.
Something about the three smooth black indentations that held the three pieces of sculpture wasn't right. Two were smooth and properly constructed. But in the angled moonlight, the right-hand rectangle looked rough and unfinished. Someone had taken less than the required care in smoothing the concrete, had left a ragged line and rough trowel marks.