Wilma sat looking at the little cat, taking that in.
"Have you ever heard of Travelers?" Dulcie said. "Irish Travelers?"
Wilma's eyes widened.
"In the library books on Gypsies," Dulcie said, "the Irish Travelers are almost exactly the same. The whole family steals; it's how they make their living."
"But all Gypsies aren't…" Wilma began.
"Not all Gypsies steal, just some clans. I was reading about them late last night-the library is so peaceful at night," Dulcie said. "Well, not all Irish are Travelers. But the Travelers' ancestors centuries ago in Ireland- they were tinkers just like the Gypsies. Tinsmiths and peddlers traveling across Ireland in their pony carts, stopping at little farms, trading and doing repairs. According to the books, some of the Travelers would steal anything left lying loose."
"You're not turning into a racist?" Wilma said, raising an eyebrow.
"What? Against the Irish?" Dulcie laid her ears back. "Why would I do that? I'm telling you what I read. It's supposed to be fact. Besides, you're part Irish. So is Clyde."
"And how come," Wilma said, teasing her, "how come you, of all cats, are talking about other folks stealing?"
Dulcie ducked her head. "That was… mostly… before I knew any better." She looked up at Wilma. "It was never for self-gain. It's just that… Such lovely little sweaters and scarves and silky things, so pretty and soft…" She looked pleadingly at Wilma, deeply chastened. Wilma grinned at her and stroked her ears, and at last the little cat began to purr.
"But it is a touchy subject," Wilma told her. "Many people in the East are still bitter about prejudice against the Irish. It started when Irish families came over here during the potato famine-the 1800s-They left Ireland to survive, to make a new start, their whole country was starving, people were starving by the thousands. But when they arrived in this country, there was so much bad feeling about them."
"Maybe that's because of the Travelers," Dulcie said, "because they were stealing." She licked her paw and looked up at Wilma, filled with a quick, electric energy. "This Fulman that you had on probation, Shamas's cousin. What were he and Shamas doing in Seattle?"
Wilma's eyes widened. "For one thing, selling supposedly high-quality machine tools that were really junk. I don't remember all the details, but it involved a switch-showing the buyer fine merchandise as a sample, then shipping him shoddy stuff. They were paid up front, of course.
"When I checked out his family, through the probation office in Greenville, the information they gave me was that the family was clean. Not a thing on the Fulmans or the Greenlaws."
"Smooth," Dulcie said. "And how would you know any different? Most people never think about whole families living that way, their entire lives dedicated to stealing and running scams."
"My job was to look for these things. And Greenville had to know."
"Maybe. Maybe not. The books say they're very law-abiding in their own town." Dulcie grinned. "Maybe the probation officer was a shirttail cousin."
Wilma looked at her, torn between laughter and chagrin. "I should have thought about that kind of connection. I've always known there were families in San Francisco running roofing scams, asphalt-paving scams, home-repair swindles. It's their way of life." Wilma shook her head. "I never put that together with Fulman and Shamas-and it was my business to know.
"I hate to think how this would affect Lucinda if she should find out about Shamas. It would break her heart to know that her husband was a thief and a con artist."
Dulcie licked her whiskers. "I think she knows. From the things I've heard her say to Pedric, and to Charlie, too, I think she knows very well what Shamas was."
Wilma looked at her quietly.
Dulcie looked intently back at her. "How could Lucinda live with him all those years and not know there was something wrong?"
"You'd be surprised," Wilma said, "how thoroughly humans can deceive themselves." She settled deeper into the pillows, sipping her cocoa-and straightened up, nearly spilling it, when they heard above the pounding rain, a thud on the back porch, then the back door creak.
The noise brought Dulcie up rigid, too, her every hair standing straight.
Wilma slid out of bed, snatching up the fire tongs, and Dulcie dropped softly to the floor-then they heard Dulcie's cat door slap, banging against its metal frame.
"Anyone home?"
Dulcie relaxed. Her fur went flat, her claws drew back into their sheaths. Wilma sighed, and laughed as Joe Grey came swaggering down the hall, his silver coat soaked dark, dripping on the Persian runner. "I was around back, came down the hill, saw the bedroom light. Are those cookies I smell?"
Wilma trailed to the bathroom, snatched up a towel, and tossed it to the bedroom floor. Joe, giving her a sour look, rolled on the terry cloth until he was relatively dry, then leaped to the bed.
"Why are you out in the rain?" Dulcie said. "You weren't hunting, on a night like this."
"I took a little jaunt by Cara Ray's motel, after you said she wasn't at Lucinda's for supper." He licked a few swipes across his shoulder.
Wilma shoved the cookie plate in his direction. He took one in his teeth, crunching it with pleasure, dropping crumbs. The quilt was due for a washing; this was why Wilma liked washable furnishings, so she and the cats could enjoy, and not fuss.
"So what did you see?" Dulcie said. "Was that Sam person there at her motel?"
"No. Nor Cara Ray, either. I nearly drowned climbing up to the roof, nearly broke my neck on those wet, slick shutters, slipping down to Cara Ray's window. Lucky someone didn't find me smashed on the pavement below, lying in the gutter broken and my poor cat lungs full of water. All I got for my trouble was a cold bath, and a view of Cara Ray's messy motel room.
"I waited for maybe an hour, thinking she might bring him back with her, and the rain pounding against the windows like shotgun blasts. Where would they go on a night like this? So damned wet-couldn't get a claw into anything."
"You haven't been home?" Dulcie said.
"I was home for dinner. Why?"
"Clyde didn't say anything?"
"About what?"
"Clyde was arrested."
Joe stared at her. Stared at Wilma. "You're joking. There's no way Max Harper… Arrested for what? Who would arrest him? In what town? For speeding? Oh, that would-"
"Not for speeding," Wilma said. "For creating a public nuisance."
Joe settled down on the quilt, his yellow eyes fixed on Wilma. "What stupid thing has he done now?"
"Selig broke his collar," Wilma said.
"I told Clyde the pups had been chewing on each other's collars," Joe said, "the whole time they were together."
"Clyde was walking the pups down Ocean," Wilma said, "when a big Harley came roaring around the corner. The pups went crazy, hit the end of their leads bellowing, and Selig kept on going, chasing the Harley and baying like a bloodhound-and Clyde chasing him, dragging Hestig through traffic, yelling and swearing."
Joe Grey smiled, his yellow eyes slitted with pleasure.
"A squad car came around the corner," Wilma said, "following the roar of the Harley." In Molena Point, motorcycles were just as strictly forbidden as were unleashed canines.
"Another black-and-white screamed down Ocean, and when they got the Harley cornered, Selig and Hestig and Clyde were right in the middle, Clyde trying to hold Hestig and slip the other leash around Selig's neck."