Cat Seeing Double

2

She was reaching for her suit jacket when she remembered she'd have to change purses, that she couldn't dress up for a wedding and carry a canvas backpack. Crossing the studio in her slip, Ryan glanced again at the two cats sprawled across the blue-and-garnet rug, admiring Dulcie's chocolate stripes and Joe's sleek silver gleam. Quietly they stared up at her, Joe's gaze burning like clear amber, Dulcie's eyes as bright green as emeralds. But the intensity of their concentration forced her to step back. And as she moved away toward the dressing room she was certain that behind her they were still watching.

Strange little cats, she thought. Why was their interest so unsettling?

"Strange little cats," she had once told Clyde.

"How so? Strange in what way?"

"There's something different about them. Don't you notice? I've never had cats, only dogs, but…"

"All cats are strange, one way or another. That's what makes them appealing."

"I suppose. But those two, and the black-and-brown one you call the kit, sometimes they behave more like dogs than cats. The way they follow you around. And all three cats seem so intense, their glances are so… I don't know. The way they look at a person, the way the kit looks at you, they're not the way I think of cats." She had watched Clyde, frowning. "Neither Wilma nor you finds your cats odd? Doesn't Wilma ever comment on how different they seem?"

Clyde had shrugged. "I don't think you've observed cats very closely. Cats are strange, cats stare at you, and every cat is different in some way. Unpredictable," he'd said. "Dogs are more alike, easier to understand."

"I see," she'd answered doubtfully, wondering why he sounded so defensive.

Glancing in the dressing room mirror, she slipped on the beige linen suit without a blouse. The deep V of the neck set off the best of her tan-perfect for cleavage if she'd had any. Well, her tan was good. No one could tell it was a farmer's tan, ending where her shirt collars and sleeves began. With jacket and skirt in place, and pantyhose, most of her little bruises and cuts from working construction were well enough hidden.

The thought did nag her that she ought to do something about her general appearance, the most pressing item being her hair, which badly needed cutting. Two months on the job without stopping to get a haircut had left it longer than she liked, and ragged. Her nails were rough too and her skin felt as dry and leathery as an old carpenter's apron. What she could have used was a week at some cushy spa with luxurious daily massages, perfumed oils, professional hairstyling, steam baths, manicure, pedicure-a complete overhaul guaranteed to put all emotional and physical parts back into working order.

It amused her to wonder what those high-class masseuses and beauty specialists would make of her calloused, torn hands and cut thumbs and assorted body bruises-little marks of hard labor earned by toting heavy lumber and plumbing fixtures, and leaning into two-by-fours to hold them in place as she nailed them solid. At least her fancy masseuse could have admired her slim butt and super muscle tone, even if the skinny package was as full of bruises as the dents in an ancient farm pickup.

Fastening on an ivory pendant, she brushed back her dark hair into some semblance of order and sprayed it, and applied lipstick. So much for elegance. She'd leave the pizzazz to her sister. Hanni would arrive at the wedding dressed in something that caught all eyes, something almost too wild, too far out, but that would look great on Hanni, with her prematurely white, wildly curling coiffure, her long lean body and her total self-assurance. Hanni was the show-off of the family, the onstage personality, the would-be model, Ryan thought warmly. She'd missed Hanni and Dallas, just as she constantly missed her dad. She hadn't seen much of him since she left the city, but she missed him more now, knowing he was so far away, on the East Coast. He'd been gone for nearly a month, conducting training sessions; she'd be glad when he was home again.

She found herself looking forward eagerly to the wedding, to a bit of social life, to being with friends, and with at least two members of her family. And looking forward too, to the quiet and meaningful ceremony.

Just because her own marriage had been ugly didn't mean she had to rain on others' bliss.

The marriage of Max Harper, that wry-witted police captain who, Clyde said, had seemed so very alone after his wife died, was a cause of celebration for the entire village-or at least for all those who didn't hate Harper, who didn't fear Harper's thorough and effective response to village crime.

To see Charlie and Max marrying pleased Ryan very much. The two were just right for each other. Two no-nonsense people who, despite their down-to-earth attitudes, were each in their own way dreamers. Though you'd never know that about Max Harper; he'd never let you know that.

Charlie and Max had wanted a small, private wedding that better fit their approach to life and was in keeping with Max's low-key style as chief of police. But the villagers were so excited about the occasion, everyone wanted to be a part of the wedding. The couple had settled for a ceremony in the small village church with the wedding guests mostly police officers and their wives and a few close friends, but with all the village crowded around in the adjoining rooms of the church and in the garden, and at the open patio doors where they could hear the couple's vows. The garden buffet afterward would be for the whole village.

She thought about Rupert's message. Someone's asking… about your plans for the weekend… Are you going to some wedding?… I don't want anything on my conscience…

She shook her head. That was all talk. She was stupid to let Rupert worry her, that was exactly what he wanted. Rupert's warped sense of the melodramatic was inappropriate and embarrassing.

Finished dressing, she decided to make fresh coffee for Clyde; he was usually early, a quality mat had at first annoyed her but that she'd come to find reassuring. Clyde didn't like to be late and neither did she. Having not seen each other for over two months, they could sit and talk for a moment before being swallowed up in the crowd and the ceremony. The coffee was brewing when she heard him double-timing up the stairs. She opened the door eagerly, before he had time to knock, forgetting the mice on the mat.

He stood at the edge of the mat staring down without expression. She remained silent, unwilling to respond to his corny joke, and wondering again how he'd accomplished it.

Looking up at her, he started to grin. His short, dark hair was freshly cut, his shave smooth and clean, making her want to touch his cheek. She loved the scent of his vetiver aftershave. She had never seen him in a suit before, only in jeans and a polo shirt or, for evening, jeans and a sport coat. Today, as best man, he had dressed handsomely, choosing a dark navy suit, a pale, pinstriped shirt and a rich but subdued paisley tie. He seemed truly surprised by the dead mice.

"That's what your tomcat brought me."

"He does that," Clyde said casually. "He does that at home."

"Leaves mice on the mat? Lines them up like a pack of sausages? Come on, Clyde."

Clyde looked at her innocently. "All in a row. I haven't been able to break him of it." His look was blank and serious.

She didn't pursue it. Maybe the cat had done it on his own. This was not the day to discuss the vicissitudes of Clyde's cat.

But as she turned to pour the coffee, she glimpsed the look he shot the tomcat. A glare deeply indignant, as if the cat should have used better judgment. And Joe Grey was staring back at Clyde with amused indulgence, with me kind of silent look mat might pass between a dog and his trainer. She'd seen Dallas exchange such a glance with his pointers or retrievers, not a word spoken, or maybe a single word so soft that no one but man and dog heard it-a close, perceptive contact between man and animal.

Was such contact with a cat possible?

Well, why not? Maybe cats were as intelligent as a well-bred pointer or retriever. Whatever the case, Clyde was apparently more skilled with cats than with canines.

Stepping over the mice and into her kitchen, Clyde fetched a plastic bag from the drawer beside the refrigerator and returned to the deck to dispose of the bodies, shaking them from the mat into the bag, and carrying it down to the drive and around behind the garage to the garbage can. She heard him rinse his hands at the outdoor faucet. She listened to him come up the stairs, still wondering how many cats would line up their mice on the mat, or would think to do such a thing. Maybe she should learn more about cats. The subject might be entertaining. Clyde returned as she poured the coffee. Pulling out a chair, he glanced in once more toward Joe Grey and Dulcie. "The kit wasn't with them?"

"No. Just the two of them."

He shrugged. "She's getting big, growing up. I guess she can take care of herself."

"You and Wilma have to worry about your cats. They wander all over the village. And the hills… it's so wild up there. I can hear the coyotes yipping at night. Don't you-"

"How many times have you asked me that, Ryan? Yes, we worry." He looked at her intently. "Cats are not dogs, to be fenced and leashed. I went through this with Charlie. She couldn't believe we let the cats wander. She understands them better, now. You can't shut them in, they'd die of boredom, their lives would be worth nothing. They're intelligent cats. They need to pursue-whatever weird little projects cats pursue. They need to hunt. They're careful. I've watched them crossing the streets; they look, they don't just go barging out."

"But the coyotes. And the dogs-big dogs."

He sipped his coffee. "I'm sure they know when the coyotes are near, they can hear and smell them-and dogs and coyotes can't climb." He gave her a little smile. "Those three cats will chase a dog until he wishes he'd never heard of cats. I once saw the kit ride the back of a big dog, raking and biting him, rode him from Hellhag Hill clear into the village. She was only a kitten, then. I'd hate to see what she could do now."

The tortoiseshell kit had been with Charlie's aunt Wilma and Dulcie for nearly a year while her owners were traveling. Ryan thought she was charming, those round, golden eyes in that little black-and-brown mottled face always delighted her. The kit's looks were so expressive that, more than once, Ryan caught herself wondering what the little animal was thinking.

"You're tan. It was hot up in the foothills."

"Ninety to a hundred. Surveying, laying out foundation, and putting up framing in the hot sun."

She loved the rolling hills at the base of the Sierras, the rising slopes golden with dry summer grass beneath islands of dark green pine trees, the kind of vast grazing country that had fed millions of longhorn cattle two centuries before when California was part of Mexico, and at one time had fed vast herds of buffalo and elk.

Rising, she fetched a pack of photos from her desk, to show him the added-on great room she had just completed. "Job went like a charm. No major delays in deliveries, no really critical battles with the inspectors, no disasters. But I'm glad to be home, after living with those two in that trailer."

Dan Hall was a Molena Point carpenter who had been willing to work on the San Andreas job providing his young wife could come up on weekends. Scott Flannery was Ryan's uncle, her father's brother, a burly Scotch-Irish giant who had helped to raise Ryan and her two sisters after their mother died. Scotty and her mother's brother Dallas had moved in with them when Ryan was ten, a week after her mother's funeral. The three men had kept up the lessons their mother had insisted on, teaching the girls to cook and clean house and sew and to do most of the household repairs. Scotty had added more sophisticated carpentry skills, and Dallas, then a uniformed officer with San Francisco PD, had taught them the proper handling and safety of firearms as well as how to train and work the hunting dogs he raised. While other little girls were dressing up, learning party manners, and how to fascinate the boys, Ryan and her sisters were outshooting the boys in competition, were hunting dove or quail over one or another of Dallas's fine pointers, or were off on a pack trip into the Rockies.

"Guess I'm getting old and crotchety," Ryan said. "That big two-bedroom trailer seemed so cramped, I found myself longing for my own space. The whole time, I didn't see anyone but those two, and a real estate agent who wants me to do a remodel-and a couple of kids underfoot."

Clyde looked at his watch and rose to rinse their cups. "Neighbor's kids?"

She nodded. "I never did figure out where they lived. They said up the hills. Those houses are scattered all over. You know how kids are drawn to new construction."

Clyde picked up Joe Grey, who had trotted expectantly into the kitchen. "So did you take the remodeling job?"

"I think I'll let that one go by," she said briefly.

Slinging the tomcat over his shoulder, Clyde scooped up Dulcie too, cradling the little female in the crook of his arm..

"You're taking them to the wedding," Ryan said. It was not a question. Clyde took the gray tomcat everywhere.

"Why not? It's a garden wedding. If they don't like it, they can leave." He grinned at her. "Max has a thing about cats. I like to tweak him. I thought it would be amusing to bring the cats to his wedding, let them watch from the trees. Charlie will appreciate the humor." They moved out the door and down the steps to his antique yellow roadster, where Clyde dropped the cats into the open rumble seat.

"Bring them up front with me, Clyde. You don't want them jumping out. I'll hold them."

"They won't jump. They're not stupid."

"Bring them up here. They're cats. Cats don't…" She shut up, looking intently at Clyde and at the cats. Joe Grey and Dulcie lay down obediently on the soft leather rumble seat, as docile as a pair of well-mannered dogs-as if perhaps they had been trained to behave.

"They'll be fine," Clyde said, starting the engine. "It's a nice day, they want a bit of sunshine." And as he headed down the hills, the cats remained unmoving, seeming as safe as if they wore seat belts. Ryan was sure there couldn't be another cat in the world that wouldn't leap out to the street or stand on the edge of the seat and be thrown out. Cats riding in open rumble seats, cats attending weddings.

Dulcie looked up at her with such contentment, and Joe Grey's expression was so smug that she almost imagined they were proud to be riding in that beautiful vintage car.

Clyde had completely restored the '28 Chevy-new, butter-yellow leather upholstery, gleaming yellow paint. Old cars were Clyde's love, the Hudsons and Pierce-Arrows and old Packards that he worked on in the back garage of his upscale automotive shop. When he got one in perfect condition he would drive it for a while and then sell it. He was paying for the remodeling of his cottage with the profits from one car or another, just as he had paid to renovate the derelict apartment building he had bought. It was clear that he took great joy in acquiring abandoned relics, in making them new and useful again. Maybe that too was why she liked Clyde Damen.

In the bright autumn weather Molena Point was mobbed with tourists, but despite the glut of out-of-town cars Clyde found a parking place half a block from the church. Swinging a U-turn he neatly parked, scooped up the two cats to keep them safe from traffic, and they crossed to the deep garden in front of the Village Church.

The garden paths were already crowded with villagers. Pausing beside a lemon tree, Clyde half-lifted and half-tossed the two cats into the branches away from crowding feet. Ryan watched them climb, as Clyde headed inside the church to his duties as best man.

She saw, across the garden, her uncle Dallas and her sister. Hanni, decked out in outrageous rags, looked like a million dollars. It was the first time in months that she had seen Dallas in uniform and not in his detective's plainclothes. The entire police force had turned out spit-and-polish, everyone in the village was dressed up and in a party mood. In the excitement of celebration on such a lovely day she had no reason to imagine that disaster would, within moments, rock the church and the garden.

But as the wedding guests laughed and gossiped, and inside the church the groom in his captain's uniform paced with nerves, an unexpected event began to unfold, a drama that could alter-or cut short-the course of many lives.