Now, from the floor of the backseat, Joe and Dulcie could see nothing as Ryan pulled up into Celeste’s drive and parked. Only when she and Billy had lifted the three small carriers out, and their footsteps moved away, did the two cats leap up onto the seat and press their noses once more to the dark window.
Celeste’s one-story stucco cottage stood on a narrow lot flanked by older houses crowded close together above the canyon among olive and pepper trees. Behind Celeste’s yard a lone pine loomed tall, a dark exclamation mark against the pale spring sky. The stucco walls of the cottage smelled of fresh paint, the color pale ivory beneath a black shingle roof. The front windows were narrow and tall, reaching nearly to the ground, three at either side of the carved front door.
An old, discarded basketball hoop lay at the side of the yard atop a stack of folded painters’ tarps. Part of the driveway was wet. A bed of flowers and bushes along the drive gleamed where they had just been watered. The rest of the yard, an expanse of pine bark and bushes, was dry. The marks of wet bike tires crossed the drive, swerving in and then back to the street. Beside the house a wheelchair stood tucked against the porch rail and the two shallow steps. In the back pocket of the wheelchair a blue shopping bag peeked out: it was the wheelchair from in front of the station—but that hadn’t been Celeste Reece in the wheelchair, spinning around to face a possible assault.
Ryan and Billy set the carriers on the porch. The door opened at once, Celeste stepped out, gave Ryan a big hug and put her arm around Billy. Her jeans and T-shirt were old and faded, her short hair shone fresh and clean. Leaving the door ajar, she knelt to look in the carriers.
Two of the rescues pushed forward, greeting her with interest. The black-and-white tuxedo kept his distance. She spoke gently to the small black cat and to the white tom but ignored the wild tuxedo as she could see he preferred. She looked up at Ryan. “My sister’s down from the city, she’ll help me with the cats. These three make twelve, about all the room I have. I hope we can find homes for them.”
“We usually do,” Ryan said, “you usually do. And soon we’ll have the shelter. Didn’t your sister . . . ?”
Celeste nodded. “Bonnie. You remember, she married Gresham Rivers. Yes, she recently lost Gresham in a shocking accident. She was hurt, too. Now that she’s out of the hospital and through the memorial, now that she’s beginning to heal, she needed to get away, get out of the city. Away from every painful reminder, at least for a little while.”
“I’m so sorry,” Ryan said. “How can Clyde and I help?”
“Thanks, but there’s nothing at the moment. She’s doing fairly well. It was a terrible accident. It’s been hard for her, alone suddenly, the shock of Gresham’s death, so cruel and senseless. Come, let’s set up the cages.”
Leaving the rescues in their carriers on the porch, Billy and Ryan followed Celeste as she opened the garage from outside. Inside, five tall cages stood against the far wall, each with several tiers.
Joe and Dulcie could see pale shapes within, interested eyes looking out. They dropped down quickly as Ryan passed the truck, Celeste and Billy behind her, ready to unload the wire kennels.
Watching the three friends haul out the big flats, thinking about Ben taking care of his rescues in that small apartment, Joe’s voice was hardly a whisper. “We need to tell Misto about Ben. Misto was fond of him.” He thought about how, before Misto got sick, Ben would come to the shore to help John feed the ferals and would always carry Misto around with him in his arms. About how, that first day when they knew Misto had a malignancy, Ben had gone to the clinic and spent a long, quiet time with the frail old cat. Golden Misto, even for those humans who didn’t know he could speak, had woven himself, with his indomitable spirit, into the lives of them all.
“Misto needs to know about Ben,” Joe repeated, “but I don’t like to hurt him. He . . .”
“Maybe he does know,” Dulcie said softly. “Maybe, in that mysterious way he has, maybe he already knows, maybe he knows where Ben is. Where . . .”
“Where Misto soon will be?” Joe finished sadly.
A soft step by the truck window, and Ryan looked in. “I came back for my gloves. I heard you whispering,” she said quietly. “I’ll see that Misto knows. I’ll call Mary. The Firettis will gather him to them and hold him; they’ll tell him gently that Ben is gone. Two strong humans, to tell him and hold him.”
Joe looked up at Ryan and swallowed and didn’t answer. He looked toward the garage where Celeste and Billy were at work setting up the cages. Ryan reached into the truck seat for her gloves, gave the cats a pet, then returned to the garage. Joe and Dulcie were watching the cage sides being bolted in place when, at the house, the front door swung open again and the woman in the leg brace hobbled out, the woman from in front of the courthouse, Bonnie Rivers, lean and tanned, wearing her metal brace.
Leaving the door ajar behind her, she didn’t approach the wheelchair. She came down the two steps using only her cane and headed for the garage. And the cats heard again in memory the woman in the red sweatshirt, That was her, all right, Howard . . . same long face, same tennis tan. She wasn’t in a cast and wheelchair then . . . Bonnie something . . .
How was Bonnie Rivers connected to the couple in the red sweatshirts? Somehow, through San Francisco. And was she connected, as well, to the Molena Point street attacks?
As Bonnie limped toward the garage, Joe Grey and Dulcie waited until the little group had their backs turned working on the cages, then slid out the open window, Dulcie breaking her fall among the bushes. Quickly they crossed the dry part of the garden to the open front door—but the smell of the wheelchair stopped them.
They stood sniffing, wrinkling their noses at the unexpected scent. A faint hint of Vicks VapoRub. But a strong, fresh scent of Hoppe’s, said Joe. There was no mistaking the smell of gun-cleaning solvent. Its aroma drifted all through the offices of MPPD, as well as at home on occasion when their housemates cleaned their own firearms. But Hoppe’s on the wheelchair? The smell brought them up sharply.
The Hoppe’s was on the handlebars. The hint of Vicks clung to the edge of the seat where Bonnie’s legs would have touched. Sore muscles in the injured leg they could understand. But Hoppe’s? That was more interesting. Glancing toward the garage where the four were at work, they fled through the partially open front door into the house, shaking pine bark from their paws.
The large living room had also been freshly painted, white and airy. Big bay windows at the back, white canvas slipcovers on the upholstered furniture. A pale wood floor, no throw rugs for a cane or wheelchair to get caught on, the room uncluttered and welcoming. They had no trouble following Bonnie’s scent to the guest room, which appeared to share a wall with the garage. Slipping in, they could hear the mumble of voices where the four were working, heard small metallic clicks as the cages were bolted together. Following the smell of Hoppe’s to the dresser, they leaped up.
They landed nose to barrel with a businesslike revolver.
Dulcie backed away before she saw that its action was open and empty, the weapon bright from a recent cleaning. It lay on folded newspapers beside gun-cleaning equipment, a bottle of Hoppe’s, gauze patches, a long rod, and a little brush. Beside these lay a box of .38 cartridges.
They wanted to paw the box open to see if any rounds were missing, but they didn’t want to smear fingerprints. They still didn’t know if pawprints would be picked up. But why not? They had never yet gotten in trouble over pawprints, but the thought haunted them.