But while Joe wanted to slash the unidentified killer, Dulcie just looked sad, her pointed little face grim, her green eyes filled with misery.
Charlie seemed the last one to admit the truth. When Turrey left, and the cats followed Harper back to the house, Charlie said, "Maybe there was some mix-up. Maybe the photos and casts were made where you did ride, before the murder-maybe days before." She stood at the sink washing up the breakfast dishes, her face flushed either from the steam or from stifled tears.
"I haven't ridden up there in weeks," Harper told her. "And the evidence was not taken from where I rode last night."
"Maybe two separate shoes got scarred. Maybe some piece of dangerous metal is half-buried in the trail, and both horses tripped on it. If we could find it…"
Harper patted her shoulder. "Leave it, Charlie."
"But…"
"There's more here than you're seeing."
She looked at him, red-faced and miserable.
"I have good detectives, honest detectives," Harper said softly. "We'll get this sorted out. And we'll find Dillon."
But the cats looked at each other and shivered. Someone wanting to destroy Max Harper had killed two people and might have killed Dillon.
Still, if Dillon was alive, if they were holding her for some reason, the twelve-year-old would be a hard prisoner to deal with. Dillon wouldn't knuckle under easily.
Dulcie's voice was hardly a whisper. "What about this Stubby Baker? Harper said he's been in town only a few weeks. What if Baker was in his apartment? What if he saw Harper watching? What if he could testify to Harper's presence there on the street between four and five?"
"Oh, right. And an ex-con is going to step right up and testify for a cop he hates."
But he sat thinking. "What day was it that the kit had that encounter with Baker?"
"How do you know that was Baker?"
"She watched him through the window. Don't you remember? Saw his name on some letters."
Dulcie smiled. "I do now. The kit is not a great fan of this Baker."
A week before the murder, the kit ran afoul of Baker as she was licking up a nice bowl of custard in the alley behind Jolly's Deli.
Jolly's alley, to the kit, was a gourmet wonderland. The handsome, brick-paved lane, with its potted trees and benches, offered the village cats a nirvana of imported treats. And that particular afternoon she had been quite alone there, no bigger cats to chase her away. Had been up to her furry ears in cold boiled shrimp and a creamy custard when a tall, handsome man entered the alley.
He was dark-haired, slim, with dark, sparkling eyes, a movie star kind of human of such striking magnetism and appeal that the kit was drawn right to him. She sat up, watching him.
"Hello, kitty," he said with a soft smile.
In a rare fit of pleasure and trust she had run to him and reared up beside his leg-never touching him but curling up in an enticing begging dance, asking prettily to be petted.
The man kicked her. Sent her flying. She landed against a shop wall, hurting her shoulder. She had been shocked at his unkindness. Only in that second after he kicked her, when she landed staring up at him hissing, did she see the evil beneath his smiling mask. When, laughing, he drew back to kick her again.
That man's smell had burned into her memory. Within the dark side of her mysterious cat mind, she invented vast tortures reserved for this human, exquisite pain that she longed to visit upon him. Oh, she had told Joe and Dulcie in detail how, when he left the alley, she followed him, keeping to the shadows cast by steps and protruding bay windows. Followed him to an apartment building, where he climbed its open stairs from the sidewalk to a second-floor balcony tucked between tall peaked roofs and shaded by an overhanging tree. Swarming up into the branches, the kit peered past wooden shutters into a lovely apartment of white walls, tile floors and soft leather that matched the way the man looked.
The mail on the coffee table told her his name was Baker. She watched this Baker and hated him. Tried to think of a way to hurt him. Her nose was inches from the glass when he swung around and saw her, and his eyes grew wide. The kit swarmed down the tree and ran.
"A mean-tempered dude," Joe Grey said. "With his record, and Harper having sent him up, you can bet he's connected."
"You may be right, but…"
"Baker's part of this mess, Dulcie, you can wager your sweet paws. And I mean to nail him."
8
A HUNDRED MILES north, in San Francisco, the morning after the Marners' murder, Sunday morning, Kate headed again for the Cat Museum, feeling upbeat and determined.
If she had known about the grisly deaths of Ruthie and Helen Marner, she might not have left her secure apartment.
She hadn't read the paper or turned on the TV or radio since last Saturday, when the headlines so upset her. She didn't care to know any more about Lee Wark or about the local rash of cat killings-but it was silly to put off doing something she wanted badly to do.
She was, after all, only two hours from home, from Molena Point and safety. She could run down there anytime. Hanni wanted her to go.
Anyway, Lee Wark was probably hundreds of miles from San Francisco. Why would he hide in the city, so close to San Quentin? Why would he stay in California at all, with every police department in the state looking for him? Wark had spent plenty of time in Latin America, likely that was where he'd gone. She had, for no sensible reason, let the newspaper's sensational muckraking terrify her.
Heading up Stockton, walking fast in the fog-eating wind, resisting any smallest urge to turn back, she had gone five blocks and was beginning to feel better, was telling herself what a lovely outing this would be, how much she would enjoy the museum, was happily dodging people who were hurrying along in the other direction-to church, out to breakfast-when she noticed a man on the opposite side of the street keeping pace with her, his black topcoat whipping in the wind, the collar turned up and his black hat tipped low like the heavy in some forties' movie.
When she slowed, he slowed.
When she moved faster, he swung along just as quickly, his reflection leaping in the store windows.
He did not resemble Lee Wark; he was very straight rather than slouched, and broader of shoulder than Wark. His black topcoat looked of good quality, over the dark suit, his neatly clipped black beard and expensive hat implying a man of some substance. The very opposite of Wark. A man simply walking to church or to an early appointment, or to work in some business that was open on Sunday, maybe one of the shops near Fisherman's Wharf.
She turned up Russian Hill, disgusted with herself, angry because her heart was tripping too fast; she was letting fear eat at her. Behind her, the man continued on up Stockton, never looking her way. She felt really stupid.
Yet something about him, despite the broad shoulders and beard and nice clothes, left her sick with fear.
Had she caught a glimpse of his eyes beneath the dark brim? Lee Wark's cold gray eyes? She couldn't help it, she was overwhelmed again with that terrible panic.
Maybe she should drive down to the village with Hanni, for the week. Hanni had business there, and her family had a weekend cottage. They were so busy at work, it would be difficult for both of them to go.
"So we take a week off," Hanni had said. "While we wait for fabric orders and the workrooms. That won't kill any of our clients. Relax, Kate. I'm the boss, I say we drive down. You know the movers and shakers in the village better than I. You can help me, it's for a good cause." Hanni had whirled around the studio, kicking a book of fabric samples, twirling her long skirt, her short white hair and gold dangle earrings catching the studio lights, her brown Latin eyes laughing. "We need the time off. We deserve it!"