14
The Landeau cottage stood among live oaks in the rising hills north of the village, its leaded windows set deep into white stucco walls, reflecting the mossy, twisted branches. A ray of late-afternoon sun shone down through the trees illuminating the domed skylight and tile roof. The clearing in front of the cottage was planted with a variety of drought-resistant native shrubs artfully arranged among giant boulders. Beneath a grandfather oak a wide parking bay was paved with granite blocks, and a granite drive led back to the garage, which was hidden behind the house in the style of 1910 when cars had just begun to replace horses and were put in the barn at night like their predecessors. The neighboring houses were hardly visible, just a hint of roof to the north between the dense trees, and on the south a few feet of blank garage wall; a private and secluded retreat, for an undisturbed weekend. As Ryan pulled her truck onto the parking next to Hanni's blue Mercedes, Rock went rigid, sniffing warily through the partially open window, his gaze fixed on the house, and the next moment leaping at the glass, barking and fighting to get out.
Easing open her door, Ryan meant to slip out and leave him inside until she knew what was the matter, but he exploded past her jamming one hard foot into her thigh, half knocking her out of the truck. He hit the drive roaring. She piled out behind, hanging onto his leash. He lunged again, up the drive, charging ahead with such force that she had to turn sideways jerking the leash tight across her legs to keep from being pulled to her knees.
The cottage door opened. Hanni stepped out watching the dog and glancing toward the back of the house where Rock was staring as if to launch for someone's throat- the dog looked toward the house too, his lip curled over businesslike teeth, but then returned his attention to whoever stood, out of sight on the drive. Ryan thought of Hanni's gun tucked in her purse, which she'd tossed on the seat of the truck when Rock bolted past her.
But this was a small, quiet village, not the streets of east L.A. Even with Rupert's murder and the church bombing, as horrifying as both had been, Molena Point wasn't a crime zone. Yet, watching Rock, watching the drive, she was deeply chilled.
From the woods where they had hidden when they dropped out of Ryan's truck, Joe Grey and Dulcie watched the big dog too, the fur on their backs rigid, every muscle tense, ready to scorch up a tree out of harm's way.
But then suddenly Rock relaxed, raised his head and cocked his ears and gave a questioning wag of his short tail. And as Ryan eased back, seeming to let out her breath, Rock trotted eagerly forward, all smiles and wags.
The old man who came up the drive was tiny, dressed in faded work clothes and carrying a stack of empty seedling flats. He seemed not much taller than the hound; and surely Rock's teeth were sharper. What dog would think of growling at Eby Coldiron? The cats slipped closer toward the drive as Ryan hugged Eby. Eby stroked Rock then backed away to have a look at him.
"This is a fine animal, Ryan. When did you get him? Will he hunt?"
"It's a long story, Eby. Complicated-the kind of story for over a cup of coffee when Louise is here too."
Eby grinned at her and nodded and continued to pet Rock, who wriggled and danced under the small gardener's hand. Typical canine behavior, Joe thought. So hungry for acceptance. Eby and his wife were Ryan's landscaping contractors and they worked with Hanni, as well. The Coldirons were in their eighties, Eby no bigger than a twelve-year-old boy, white-haired and frail-looking, but as strong as coiled steel. The skilled landscaper shared Ryan's liking for native plant environments in an area where water was often scarce. He was dressed this morning in his usual khaki shirt, his jeans rolled up over muddy jogging shoes. Eby bought his clothes in the boys' department of Penny's or Sears.
"Where's your truck?" Ryan said. "Where's Louise?"
"She took the truck, went to shop. Said she'd bring back a pizza but she gets in those stores, forgets the time."
Eby's wife was as minute as he, and nearly as wiry.
Like Eby, she bought her clothes in the children's section, size ten-to-twelve. Eby maintained a capable gardening crew, but he and Louise liked to do the new landscaping themselves. They might be old and wizened, the cats thought, but Ryan said she had never seen a happier marriage. The Coldirons not only handled the landscaping for half-a-dozen builders, but now and then they purchased a decrepit old house and refurbished it, doing much of the work themselves. And they took a nice cruise every winter to Hawaii or to Curacao or the Bahamas. As Eby stacked his flats at the curb and returned to the back of the house, and Ryan and Hanni disappeared inside, Joe leaped into Hanni's open convertible looking for her cell phone.
It wasn't there. Not on the seat, not under the seat, not in the console that he managed to flip open, nor in the glove compartment. Dropping out of the car again, he headed for the house beside Dulcie. On the porch the dog lay obediently, his leash hooked around the six-by-six stanchion that supported the sweeping line of the roof. Ryan had left the door open, apparently so she could watch him.
Seeing neither Ryan or Hanni inside, the cats padded casually across the stone porch, facing the big weimaraner, ready to run if he lunged at them.
Rock looked at them with doggy amusement, not offering to attack in a sudden game of catch-the-kitty. Quickly they slipped inside, to crouch behind a carved Mexican chest beside the front door.
The room was big and open, the floor on several levels. The seating area was the lowest, with glass walls on three sides, a glass cube set against the oak woods. Its fourth side stepped up to the tiled entry. Its high rafters rose to the skylight, where the mid-morning sun sent diffused light down across the tall fireplace. The built-in, raised seating was covered with bright pillows tossed against the glass walls. With the woods crowding in from outside, the sunken room was like a forest grotto, the embroidered pillows brilliant against the leafy background. Ryan knelt before the fireplace examining the wet rug.
She glanced up at the skylight, and studied the face of the fireplace: the plain white slab that rose from floor to vaulted ceiling showed no sign of water stains. Its surface was broken by three tall rectangular indentations, painted black inside, each holding a stainless-steel sculpture of abstract design.
From behind the Mexican chest, Dulcie drank in the beautiful room with twitching tail and wide eyes. The tiled entry stepped up again to the raised dining area, which gave the impression of a cave. To the right of that, and two steps higher, rose the master bedroom, its bank of white, carved doors standing open, its bright bedspread mirroring the colors of the sitting-room pillows. Looking and looking, Dulcie had the same rapt expression on her tabby face as when she made off with a neighbor's cashmere sweater, the same little smile in her green eyes-a greedy female joy in beauty, a hunger for the lovely possessions mat no cat could ever truly own.
Kneeling in the sitting-well examining the wet rug, Ryan wondered who Marianna had sent down to install the three pieces of sculpture. Maybe the sculptor himself? He lived fairly near, some miles south of San Francisco. The job wouldn't have taken long. One didn't have to drill, just install and tighten the tension brackets, but certainly it wasn't like Marianna to lift a hand. Marianna had left no message on Hanni's tape, as she might if she'd been down. When Ryan felt the rug, it was wet all along the fireplace and back about three feet. Already it smelled of mildew. Using a screwdriver, she pried up a corner to feel the pad beneath.