Kneeling by the box, Kate looked at the broken cup, then unwrapped an equally delicate saucer with three hunting dogs spaced around the circle among the floral design. She unwrapped a cup, then another. She looked at each then secured it again in its bubble wrap. One cup showed a long-legged bird, maybe an egret. The next, a prancing horse. The third cup featured a cat. Kate drew her breath, her green eyes widening. The cat was a calico. A perfect image of Courtney, the exact same markings, three soft calico ovals saddling her back above a white belly. The white and calico patterns on her face were the same—as were the three dark bracelets around her right front leg. She held the cup for a long moment, wishing Dulcie were there to see—but maybe not so good for Courtney to see? How much self-glorification did the kitten need, to play on her ego?
Yet the delicate painting was there, as were the paintings and tapestries they had found in the library’s reference books and that Kit had already shown to Courtney. Kate rewrapped the frail cups and saucers, including the broken cup, and packed it all back in the ripped-open box—a handmade treasure nearly three hundred years old, and, apparently, the thieves hadn’t a clue.
The way Clyde was driving, it didn’t take long and they were pulling up before the two-cottage complex with its high glass dome. A tech met them, hurried them through the reception room past waiting clients into a large convalescent area where most patrons were not allowed.
Their entry brought two yowls from an open cage. The first yowl sounded suspiciously like “Pa …” but quickly turned into “Pa … meoowww.” No one noticed Striker’s slip in language but John Firetti. As the kittens dropped from their open cage, Striker landing deftly on three paws, John took Joe from Ryan and settled him on the examining table; Buffin and Striker leaped up wanting to be all over Joe until John pulled them away.
“Wait until I examine him,” he scolded. “This isn’t for kittens. Look how patient Rock is, lying in the corner. What’s gotten into this family? A torn paw. And now this,” he said, removing Joe’s bloody bandage, seeing the misery in Joe’s eyes—misery not only because he hurt, but for letting a stupid rat nearly do him in.
Ryan had given the bagged rat to the technician; the middle-aged blonde already had instructions to pack it on ice, call a courier, and get it to the county lab at once.
“Usually the lab doesn’t test a rat for rabies,” John said. “Rats don’t get rabies.” This made Joe, and Ryan and Clyde, go limp with relief. “They can get it,” John added, “but their bodies kill the virus almost at once. This rat would have had to be in a fight directly before Rock killed him.”
“I only saw the one rat,” Joe said, “and he was busy tearing up papers, looked like he’d been at it a long time, dragging them under a big car. Not another animal in sight.”
“Making a nest,” John said. “Likely inside the engine. Some driver will suffer for that. Bats and skunks are the real danger for rabies.” He looked seriously at Joe. “You and Rock have your shots regularly. But even so, you’ll have to be confined for two days, until the report comes back. If it’s negative, you’re free to go home.”
At the word “confinement,” Joe stiffened.
“State law,” John said.
Joe knew that. It wasn’t John Firetti’s fault. Even so, he was rigid with anger as the good doctor worked on his wounds. John gave him a mild shot for the pain, cleaned out the deep bites, and put in three stitches, smearing the area with something that stunk. Joe watched John swab out Rock’s mouth and examine it for wounds. He gave them both antibiotic shots. The needles stung, Joe could feel it as much for Rock as for himself. John gave them each a loving pat, and the ordeal was over—this part of the ordeal.
But now, the cages. He and Rock would be in cages. Joe couldn’t even touch his two kittens who crouched at the end of the table, he couldn’t properly greet them, couldn’t even lick their faces, and how fair was that? Now Joe and Rock were the jailbirds, and Buffin and Striker could go home.
John hugged both Joe and Rock before he shut them in their cages—but he spent more time holding the kittens. Looking sad, he picked up the phone and called Mary. “The kittens are going home.”
Almost at once they heard the cottage door slam. She must have run across the garden; she burst into the room still in her apron, her shoulder-length brown hair in a tangle. She took the two kittens from John, cuddling them in her arms.
“They’ve been sleeping with us every night,” she said. “The kittens and little Lolly. She didn’t do so well at home, they brought her back for a while. I didn’t tell them I thought Buffin was helping to heal her.” Mary glanced toward the cage the kittens had occupied; the tiny brown poodle lay there shivering, watching Buffin longingly.
“Pancreatitis,” Mary said. “We’re flushing her with more liquids and giving her all she will drink, and of course an IV. But Buffin has been the real wonder.
“We don’t know how he does it, he just lies close to her when she looks like she’s hurting, and almost at once she grows more comfortable. You can see it in her eyes, in the way she relaxes. At night, in bed with us, Buffin wakes us when she’s about to throw up so we can put a towel under her and then give her more liquids. But now,” Mary said, “look at her. She knows Buffin’s leaving.”
“Can’t I stay?” Buffin said, looking up at Ryan and Clyde. “Just a few days? She hurts so bad. I don’t know how, I just know I help her. I can feel the change in her.”
“Could the kittens both stay?” Ryan said. “We could quarantine Joe and Rock at home, keep them away from Snowball, that would be easy.”
John said, “Snowball is due for her yearly exam and boosters. You could bring her in. If only Joe and Rock are at home, can you keep them away from other people, keep them confined in the house? It’s such a slim chance that the test will be positive.” He gave Joe Grey a hard look. “Would you promise to stay inside, away from other animals, away from Dulcie and Courtney?”
“I promise,” Joe said hastily, but with mixed feelings. Shut in the house for two days, hardly knowing what was going on in the world around him? Well hell, what choice did he have? Better that than a kennel.
Striker was just as dismayed. He wanted to be home, he wanted to run free, he wanted to wrestle with Courtney and, big tomcat that he was, he missed his mama—but he guessed he’d miss Buffin more, leaving him alone with just little Lolly. And he knew he’d miss the Firettis.
“I’ll stay,” Striker said. And as Joe Grey and Rock left the clinic, Rock prancing beside Clyde like a thief released from jail, and Joe resting in Ryan’s arms, Striker settled down in the big cage beside his brother and Lolly. And, Striker thought, I can run in the Firettis’ house at night, Mary and John don’t care. I can climb the furniture, leap on the bed—if I’m careful of my paw.
Riding home in the Jaguar, Joe Grey, warm in Ryan’s arms, was unusually silent. She frowned down at him. “It’s only two days. If we leave you alone in the house, Joe, you will do as the doctor told you?” He looked up at her innocently. They were just approaching home when Clyde’s phone buzzed. He clicked on the speaker so Joe could hear.
Dallas said, “We got our car thieves, all but one. It was some dustup. Two of their men were shot, but none of ours. Those two are in the infirmary in Salinas, the others in county jail. We lost Lena Borden—you did see her leave there with the cars?”
“We all saw her,” Clyde said. “Dark clothes, dark cap, but definitely Lena. Driving her old white Ford.”
“The Ford was there in the wreckers’ lot,” Dallas said, “with the other cars. She either ran from the scene when we showed, or had someone pick her up. We’re keeping Egan here, on charges of break and enter and theft. We’ll interrogate Randall, see what we can get out of him, then send him on over to county.