Seeing the street empty, she slowed her pace. She entered through the iron gate slowly, taking her time, enjoying the welcoming ambiance of the bright gardens.
The museum's cats were everywhere, sunning on the walks, rolling over, smiling lazily as they watched her, cats as sleek as the marble felines that gleamed on the sculpture stands. Cats peered out at her from the geraniums, looked down from atop the stone walls and out through the gallery windows. She had such a sense of oneness with them, almost as if she could read their thoughts- of sun on their backs, of the warm sidewalk, the taste of water in a bowl.
But then suddenly the cats turned wary, slipping away into the bushes.
Afraid of her? Was her two-sided nature so apparent? And did that frighten them?
Were none of them like Joe Grey and Dulcie, so they could understand her?
Soon only one cat remained, watching her unafraid. A sleek torn as white as alabaster. He looked at her for a long time, then he, too, vanished, just where sunlight struck through the leaves. He'd had dirt on his face, or some sort of rust-colored marking.
Approaching the main door, she paused to read the quotations inscribed on clay tablets along the garden wall.
Some claim that the cat came to us from the vanished continent of Atlantis.
Our companion the cat is the warm, furry, whiskered, and purring reminder of a lost paradise.
That one made her smile. She recognized that quotation, she thought from some French artist.
But the next inscription stopped her.
Dark the cat walks, his pacing shadow small.
Dark the cat walks, his shadow explodes tall,
Fearsome wide and tall.
Ramon's words. That was what Ramon had said, the day he brought the newspaper that had so upset her.
Backing away from the plaque, she sat down on a bench, her hands trembling. His shadow explodes tall, fearsome wide and tall.
Ramon couldn't know what those words meant. To Ramon, they would be no more than a poetic image. She read the lines again, trying to put down her unease.
A movement at the corner of her vision made her look up. Ice filled her veins.
The man in the black overcoat stood out by the street. Dense black against the clear colors of the garden.
He stood looking at her, his face in shadow, then turned slowly away, moved casually down the hill to disappear between the houses.
She thought to run after him and get a good look-grab his shoulders and swing him around, get a look at his eyes.
But she didn't have the nerve. She hurried inside through the mullioned glass door to the safety of the galleries.
Losing herself among the rich oils and watercolors, she found some ink drawings by Alice Kitchen, then discovered a Miro and two delightful Van Goghs. And a Picasso she didn't care for. Too stark and impersonal. She stopped to admire the primitive portrait of a black Manx playing with a mouse, the mouse so real she could almost feel the silkiness of its fur and the prick of its little claws.
Moving slowly through the gallery to the visitors' desk, she slipped her billfold from her pocket to pay the admission fee. The attendant was a stocky, dull-haired woman rather like a box with thick legs. She watched Kate sullenly, looking her up and down.
Why must short, meaty women bristle at her simply because she was slim and tall? She couldn't help how she looked. It embarrassed her when people saw her only from the outside, and didn't care to discover what she was like within.
And that thought almost sent her into nervous and uncontrolled laughter.
Even the attendant's eyes were dull, her expression discontented. Maybe she had an unhappy home life. Maybe she longed for a fortune's worth of plastic surgery and cosmetic rejuvenation.
I can be catty, Kate thought, amused.
She gave the woman a hesitant smile and laid her hand gently on the marble counter in a gesture of friendship. "It's a lovely museum, the work is magnificent. And the cats look so happy, so many beautiful cats."
"Certainly we have cats." As if she'd heard that same remark more times than she cared to count.
"They're lucky to live in such beautiful gardens." Did she have to add another inanity?
The woman sighed. "They were all strays. Cats who found their way here hungry and lost. Or cats that were dumped by some uncaring person." As she spoke of the cats, a warmth crept into her voice, and she returned Kate's smile. "The cats are our welcoming committee. People seem to slow their pace, watching and petting them, and so take more time to enjoy the galleries."
Kate nodded. "I understand you have a library in the museum? I'm doing research for a magazine article," she lied. "On the history of the smaller museums in northern California. But this museum-this one is special. I just moved to San Francisco. I'd like to learn more about the museum, I'd like very much to join." She opened her checkbook.
The woman handed her a membership form. "I will hold your dues until your application is approved. Are you looking for something in particular?"
"Some diaries. A man who lived in San Francisco in the fifties, a building contractor. I understand Mr. McCabe was a close friend of Alice Kitchen. I'm interested in her drawings, I'm planning a rather long article about Kitchen's work. I understand that Mr. McCabe knew her as a little girl, that he encouraged her talent- and that he designed and built the museum? I've never heard his first name."
"We do not know his first name. He called himself simply McCabe. That was the way he signed his articles for the Chronicle."
"And his diaries?"
"They are locked in the vault, very valuable, very special to us. Once your application has been accepted, we can share them with you." The woman bent, reaching beneath the counter as if to retrieve an application form. As she did, Kate saw beyond her, out the window, the black-coated man slipping through the shadows into a pergola of wisteria.
The sight of him there in the gardens made her blood run cold. She looked and looked. She was nearly sure it was Wark. As he moved away behind the wisteria vines, the white cat stepped out of the bushes, warily following him.
"We will process the application quickly," the woman was saying. "Meanwhile, the museum publishes two books, one on the collection, and the other a short biography of McCabe. Both are for sale."
Frightened and edgy, she bought the biography and dropped it in her shoulder bag. She would not run. This time she would not run from him. She would sensibly use the phone, call the police.
But was it Wark? How embarrassing, to summon the police if that man was not Lee Wark.
She needed to see for herself.
There was no one around, no one to stop him if he attacked her, only this little woman.
She thought how brave Charlie had been, getting Dillon out of Crystal's garage, getting her away while Stubby Baker was shooting at them. Charlie, too, had been afraid.
Well, she could just go out there into the gardens, get a look at him. If it was Wark, she could dodge him, run back inside, and grab the phone. She had to do this, or she would never be free of him-and he would be free to hurt others.
Slipping out the side door, warily she approached the pergola.
Nothing moved around her. She could see no cats; not a cat was visible.
Had they all gone? Or were they hiding?
Heart pounding, she moved into the pergola, staring into the shadows. The wisteria vines brushed her cheek, startling her.
Wark stood under the vines, his cold eyes full on her. She backed away. He lunged, grabbed her, twisting her arm. What had made her think she could escape him?