Forcing each one open in turn, he pawed carefully through. Dulcie would love Marianna's expensive lace undies, the silk and satin perfumed with fancy little sachets. The last drawer contained half-a-dozen evening bags and as many compacts, all of them expensive looking. Crouched on the edge of the drawer, Joe frowned. Should he?
Well, why not? What could be more opportune? Pawing half-a-dozen compacts into a quilted evening bag, he snapped closed his prize and carried it in his teeth to the front door. There he began the tedious, paw-bruising, leaping contortions necessary to slide the dead bolt, turn the knob, and escape from his self-made prison.
Lashing her tail with amusement, Dulcie pushed the phone back onto its cradle and rolled over on Wilma's bed, her paws in the air, a Cheshire cat-smile lighting her tabby face. Oh, she did enjoy these anonymous phone calls. Dallas had not only assured her that he would drive over to the Coldirons' cottage at once, to pick up the brown shag rug, but he thanked her. He knew as well as she that it was futile to ask her questions.
Though at first, he had argued with her. He said the concrete crumbs in the rug could be simple debris left over when the fireplace was built. Dulcie reminded him that the black recesses had been painted some time after the fireplace was built, and the fragments had black paint on them. Then Garza said that the three sculptures had been installed in those niches only recently, and that probably accounted for the black-painted chips. He'd gone silent when Dulcie informed him that the sculptures were fitted with special tension brackets at the back, so they had no need of bolts to hold them in place.
Garza hadn't asked how she knew so much about the sculptures and about the interior of the Landeau cottage. Like Max Harper, Detective Garza had learned that it was useless to ask such questions, that he'd best take what he was offered and run with it. So far these anonymous tips had been 100 percent; both cops knew that. And maybe, she thought, this information might dovetail with lines of investigation that Garza was already pursuing. That would be interesting.
And, she thought rolling over and purring, this morning, with this phone call, Detective Garza had almost taken orders from her. He had agreed to collect the rug right away, absolutely trusting her, never once making light of her instructions. Oh, she couldn't wait to tell Joe.
The quilted evening purse, stuffed with its six compacts, was hellishly heavy. But Joe wasn't willing to jettison even one bit of possible evidence. Why a woman needed a dozen compacts was beyond him. Well, he never claimed to be an authority on female vicissitudes, cat or human. He could track a rabbit through rocky terrain, could dispatch the biggest wharf rat that ever snarled in a cat's face, could leap six feet between rooftops. But he couldn't tell you much about a lady's love of finery. Gripping the quilted bag firmly between determined teeth, he hurried through the bright morning along the less frequented lanes of the village, avoiding passing cars and pedestrians. Dragging the bag up three trees and across innumerable rooftops, he arrived home at last with aching neck muscles and tired jaws. Crouched on the front porch, he listened to the racket above him, from the attic, hammers pounding, nails being forced from old wood with tooth-jarring screams, human voices sharp with tension. "Hold it. There. Back a little. Whoa-Put your level on it. Up… A little more… There! Nail it!" Above him, the porch roof shook. Sticking his head through his cat door, he looked around the living room.
Empty and safe. The house had that hollow feel mat heralded deserted space. Shoving the satin bag in onto the carpet, he followed it, collapsing beside it.
He didn't want to drag it over to the station or to Garza's cottage in the daylight, he'd had enough trouble getting it home without alerting some nosy citizen. Oh look, what's that cat got? Come here, kitty. Let's have a look…
Right.
He sat contemplating the several options he could employ as a safe hiding place until dark. He considered his battered easy chair that Dulcie and Clyde and several other insensitive folk said resembled the hide of a molting elephant. He had hidden several valuable items in that well-clawed and fur-coated retreat. The purse need remain there only until dark, until he could carry it unseen across the village and slip it into the police station, or maybe into Garza's car-if he didn't rupture a neck muscle, getting it there.
Shoving the little bag between the cushions, he stretched out in front of his chair across an African throw rug, wondering what Clyde had left him for breakfast. And praying that his evidence would nail Marianna Landeau. Praying that Ryan's ordeal was about to be resolved.
27
The pan-broiled steaks were two inches thick, crisp and dark on the outside, deep pink within, so juicy and tender that Ryan almost groaned. She had left the curtains open so they could enjoy the sunset that blazed beneath the dark clouds. Sitting across from her dad at the kitchen table, tasting her first bite of steak, she sighed with a fine, greedy pleasure. "You can do, with a plain black skillet, what most chefs can't manage even with their fancy grills."
Mike Flannery grinned. "I've heard that line." She laughed, but she watched him carefully too. He wasn't even home yet, this was only the last leg of his trip, he had come down here to help her, worried about her, and she was going to dump these ugly rumors on him, lay out all Larn Williams's lies to cheer him.
But she had to talk about this if she were to resolve her own uncertainty, her own fears. Thinking about Williams's vicious story, on top of his tampering with her billing, she had grown increasingly frightened of what else he might plan to do, of what his ultimate goal might be.
Was Williams's mind simply twisted, was he an impossible mental case? Or had he killed Rupert? But why would he draw attention to himself?
Maybe his actions were a carefully planned harassment designed to keep her off-center and perhaps complicate the murder investigation? Designed to throw the police off track and protect someone else?
Her father put down his fork, watching her, his expression half amused at her fidgeting, half a frown of concern. "Whatever's bothering you, Ryan, spit it out. Before you choke on it."
"Something someone said. It's all lies. But… Well, lies that are hard to repeat."
"If it makes you this edgy, if you're embarrassed to say it, it has to be about me. What have I done? What did someone say I did?"
She looked at him helplessly.
"It wouldn't be the first time someone told a lie about law enforcement."
"He said it was common gossip in the city but I never heard anything like it, in the city or anywhere else."
He waited patiently, buttering his baked potato.
Hesitantly she began, repeating Williams's accusations. Flannery listened without comment, without interrupting. When she finished he asked only, "Do you believe him?"
"Of course I don't believe him. But-what's he up to? Is there some strange little thread on which he could build such lies? And there's more."
She told him about the break-in, about Larn cooking her books and switching the bills. "What's scary is, this has to fit in with Rupert's murder. That's what's scary."
"What makes you think that?"
"You and Dallas always say, never believe in coincidence."
"Have you told Dallas what Williams said, and about the billing?"
"I called him about the bills, the night it happened. But what Williams said… I didn't tell him that."
"Why not?"
"Partly because I made a spectacle of myself in the restaurant when he told me those things. I lost my temper, big-time. Strong-armed him and marched him outside. I just… I suppose Dallas has heard that, by now. If Clyde hadn't come along and stopped me, I would have pounded him. What a weird bird. He just went limp, didn't try to fight me, didn't do anything. As if-"