Cat To The Dogs

7

DINO'S HAD the best fish and chips in the village. Max Harper, having picked up an order of takeout, sat in his king cab pickup eating his dinner and watching, through the lighted motel window across the street, Cara Ray Crisp skinning out of her sweatshirt. Cara Ray hadn't bothered to pull the blinds. She was only a slip of a thing, tiny and thin, but well endowed, the kind of delicate creature who would have appealed exactly to Shamas Greenlaw.

Harper had backed his truck into a narrow drive between Harren's Gallery and Molena Point Drugs, a lane so overgrown with jasmine that the vines trailed across the truck's roof and down the side windows. For some time Cara Ray had talked on the phone, lying nude on the bed, propped against the pillows, sipping on a canned drink; and now she was tying on a bikini top. As he watched her roll her long blond hair into a knot and secure it, and pull on the bottom half of her bathing suit, Harper had no notion that he, in turn, was watched, from the backseat of the king cab.

Sitting on the cab floor behind Harper, peering up between the bucket seats, Joe Grey could see through the windshield the little pantomime in Cara Ray's lighted motel room, and he had to smile. Max Harper, spying on Cara Ray's strip act like some cheap voyeur, would be enjoying every rousing minute-free entertainment served up with his takeout dinner, all in the line of duty.

The fish and chips smelled so good that Joe was tempted to slash out with a quick paw and snag a nice warm chunk of fried cod. Maybe Harper wouldn't miss just one piece. Why was it that, so often when he did a bit of surveillance, the watchee enjoyed a nice meal, while the watcher ended up faint with hunger?

As Cara Ray stepped to the window, Harper drew back behind a lifted newspaper. She stood looking down at the street, then turned away again, a towel over her shoulder as if she were headed for the pool: a little break between her callous and bad-mannered visits to Lucinda Greenlaw. She'd been to see the old woman three times in three days, the last encounter stretching into dinner and on to midnight-Dulcie said the sleek little blonde had made herself very much at home among the male Greenlaws, drawing the cousins and nephews to her like flies to honey, despite the fact that the Greenlaw clan didn't take quickly to strangers. She said Newlon and Dirken had been all over Cara Ray. "No queen in heat, with a dozen toms raking around her, has any more nerve than that one."

Cara Ray had pulled up at Lucinda's that first day in a gleaming new Jaguar, wearing a fur wrap against the chill of Molena Point's ocean breeze. The mink and the car, Dulcie said, were very likely gifts from Shamas. Lucinda had answered the door wearing a voluminous apron and wiping flour from her hands.

"I'm Shamas's friend, Mrs. Greenlaw. From the boat. I was there the night Shamas died."

Talk about brass. And Lucinda too polite to send her packing. The older woman had asked Cara Ray in and even made tea for her. Dulcie had watched, disgusted, as they settled down before the fire. But the day was chill, and through the closed windows, she couldn't hear a word; it wasn't necessary, though. From their expressions and Cara Ray's body language, even a dunce could see that the little blonde was buttering up Lucinda shamefully.

The moment Lucinda rose to make fresh tea, Cara Ray had gone into action.

She was swift and thorough, riffling through Lucinda's desk and through her checkbook. She had begun on the books that lined the fireplace, reaching behind the lower rows to feel along the walls, when she heard Lucinda return.

Lucinda entered the room to see Cara Ray sitting innocently cuddled in her chair beside the hearth.

Of course Dulcie couldn't leave that little episode alone; since Cara Ray's arrival, Dulcie had hung on the fence every waking moment. If Molena Point Library had a resident cat, she was not currently in residence; she hardly went home for meals. Cara Ray returned the next day and the next, and Dulcie was there. Again on the third day Cara Ray stayed until midnight.

Now, with Joe and Dulcie's "meddling," as Clyde would put it, with Dulcie's anonymous suggestion to Harper, the captain was-pardon the pun-taking a good look at Cara Ray. It had begun earlier that afternoon, when Harper had stopped by Clyde's and mentioned he had a make on Raul Torres, and Joe and Dulcie decided to take a ride.

It was Saturday, and at Harper's suggestion, Clyde planned to take Selig up to Harper's pasture to work on the pup's obedience training in a large, open area. The two pups were impossible together; Charlie had taken Hestig home to her apartment. She and Clyde couldn't even attend the same obedience class; the pups did nothing but taunt each other, play on each other's foolishness. Joe had been shocked out of his claws when Clyde actually signed up for the class at the community center.

Surprisingly, both pups had learned to Sit, to Come on command, and, sometimes, to take the sitting position at Heel-except when they were together. Then they were oblivious, had never before heard those words, had no notion what they meant.

So that afternoon Harper, still in uniform, had taken a few hours off, left his unit parked in front of Clyde's, and he and Clyde had headed up the hills in Clyde's '29 Chevy, the convertible top folded down, Selig securely tethered in the rumble seat-and Joe and Dulcie concealed on the little shelf behind the seats, beneath the folded leather top.

It was hot as sin in there, but, crouched just behind the men's heads, they could hear every word.

"You started to tell me about this accident victim," Clyde said, turning up Ocean. "Torres, you said?" He seemed far more willing to talk with Harper about the case when he thought Joe wasn't around.

"Raul Torres. He did give the antique car agency his right name. Torres was a PI working out of Seattle. I don't know why he used the fake address. Maybe he used that routinely, for security reasons." Even Max Harper, Joe thought with interest, seemed more comfortable relating information in a supposedly cat-free environment.

"I called Torres's office a dozen times before I got his secretary. She was closemouthed until I identified myself. Said she'd call me back While I waited, she called the station, checked me out. Called me back to say Torres was on vacation, that she didn't expect to hear from him for maybe another week She'd gone in to do the billing.

"I told her Torres was dead. Took her a few minutes to take that in. When she felt like talking again, she said she'd made reservations for Torres at the Oak Breeze, in Molena Point, beginning last Saturday. That he'd gone down to L.A. on a case, had planned to leave there Saturday, was meeting someone in Molena Point Saturday night, a woman-girlfriend, she said."

"You find a motel registration?" Clyde asked as he turned up the long dirt road leading to Harper's acreage.

"Nothing under Torres, not in Molena Point. But the fact he was a PI keeps me digging."

"So he was a PI," Clyde said. "That doesn't mean he was murdered."

"Of course not," Harper said, amused. "But it does make me wonder."

The house at the end of the lane was white clapboard, with a four-stall barn behind and an open, roofed hay shed. The stable yard was shaded by three huge live oak trees, the garden weedy and neglected since Harper's wife died. They pulled up beside the barn, and while the two men were occupied tying a long, thin line to Selig's choke chain, the cats, panting from the heat, slipped out from under the folded leather top and beat it for the hay shed.

Scorching up the stacked bales to crouch high beneath the shadowed roof, they watched Harper head for the house and return carrying two cans of Coke. The slam of the screen door started Selig barking, and Clyde couldn't shut him up.

One word from Harper, and the pup was silent.

Clyde scowled at Harper and led Selig out into the pasture; the puppy pressed his nose immediately to the ground, jerking on the lead, ignoring Clyde, snuffling deeply at the delicious scent of horse manure.

Dulcie made herself comfortable on the baled hay, raking her claws deep. "Torres died Sunday morning,'' she said softly.

Joe rolled over, slapping at straws, and turned to look at her.

"If Torres drove up from L.A. Saturday," she said, "and if he was with a woman in the village on Saturday night, as his secretary told Harper, then what was he doing driving south again, before dawn on Sunday?

"And who was the woman?" Her green eyes narrowed. "Cara Ray told Lucinda she arrived Saturday. Don't you think it strange that Torres and Cara Ray would come to Molena Point on exactly the same day?"

"Dulcie…"

"Torres worked in Seattle. Shamas still had a business there."

"So?"

"Lucinda told Wilma that when Shamas went up to Seattle she was sure he took a woman with him, not someone from Molena Point but someone he'd meet at the San Francisco airport-Lucinda did keep an eye on his phone bills."

Dulcie smiled smugly. "Cara Ray lives in San Francisco, not too far from the airport. Shamas flew to Seattle, out of that airport, about once a month.

"So?" Joe said.

"Cara Ray was Shamas's lover. But was she Torres's lover, too? Did she see Torres, as well, when she was in Seattle? She must have been busy."

Joe rolled over again, scratching his back against the rough straw; he looked at her upside down. "Say you're right, Torres was in Molena Point to meet Cara Ray. What was he doing on the highway, Sunday morning?"

"Maybe they had a fight. Maybe he drove off mad, and that's why he skidded."

"What about the other car-the second car I heard, just before the crash?"

"Could someone else have known he was here? Cut his brake line, then-maybe phoned him, brought him out on some wild-goose chase, maybe something to do with the case he was working on in LA? That might explain why he was headed south again. Then they followed him, in the heavy fog, and honked to confuse him?"

"That's really reaching for it, Dulcie."

"Whatever the truth, there's a connection. Cara Ray and this Torres didn't just happen to arrive in the same town, on the same day. And why was Cara Ray snooping through Lucinda's papers?"

Joe sighed at the monumental tangles that female logic could weave. "Even if there was a connection, we can't pass on that kind of shaky guesswork to Harper."

"Maybe no one's mentioned Cara Ray to him. Maybe he has no reason to be interested in her. If he doesn't know about the Seattle connection…"

"Dulcie…"

"We'd only be telling him the name of the woman Torres may have met. What harm in that?"

"Maybe. But we can't call Harper from here."

"Why not? There's a phone on his belt."

"Do you see a phone in this hay shed?"

She gave him a sweet, green-eyed smile. "There in the dinette, you can see it through the bay window; the phone's right there on the table."

Joe sighed.

"Go up on the shed roof, Joe. Where I can see you from the house. Signal me if he heads that way." She leaped down the baled hay and was gone, streaking for the screen door.

Joe rose and shook the hay off. Sometimes Dulcie was impossible. He swarmed up a post to the roof of the shed. Impossible, clever, and enchanting.

Clyde thought that he, Joe Grey, got rabid over a robbery or suspicious death. But Dulcie set her teeth into a murder case as if she were fighting rattlesnakes.

Keeping low, out of the men's view, and trying not to let his claws scritch on the galvanized roof, Joe slipped to the edge, where he could see the house.

Behind the bay window, a small shape moved, padding across the table.

Watching her paw at the phone, he remembered the night they'd memorized Harper's various phone numbers from Clyde's phone file. Clyde had pitched a fit because they'd left a few tooth marks in the cards; he could be so picky. It was a huge stroke of luck that Pacific Bell had recently offered free blocking for that insidious caller ID service that so many phones had subscribed to-including Molena Point PD.

Harper had caller ID blocking for his own phones, and with a little encouragement Clyde had come around-it was free, wasn't it?

Wilma, always sensible, had subscribed at once. Wilma told Clyde there was no way he could stop Joe using the phone. She said if Clyde wanted to save himself acute embarrassment, he'd better go along with the blocking.

Out in the field, Clyde stood fifty feet away from Selig, his arm raised in an exaggerated signal, shouting "Sit! Sit, stay."

Selig grinned at him and bounced around, playing with the nylon line that was supposed to control him.

Max Harper stood looking on, trying not to laugh. Faintly, Joe heard Harper's phone buzz.

Harper picked up, and listened. An irritated look spread across his lean face. His replies were brief. But he didn't hang up.

Harper might not like these anonymous phone calls, might not like the unsettling and impossible suppositions that they stirred, but he didn't ignore them.

Behind Harper, Clyde walked across the field to Selig. With a lot of pushing, he made the pup sit. Then backing away, holding the line, Clyde didn't take his eyes from the pup. The object was to get maybe fifty feet from Selig, making sure he remained sitting, to wait for a little while, then call him. The trainee was supposed to sit still until summoned by the trainer, then run directly to him and sit again, facing the tall human god.

What actually occurred was that the pup kept moving his butt around, only barely remaining in the sitting position, wild to lunge and run, and when Clyde did finally call him, Selig ran around Clyde, circling until Clyde's legs were wrapped in the line. Harper, scowling into the phone, couldn't help a lopsided grin as the pup hog-tied Clyde like a roped calf.

So far Clyde had made five attempts at this maneuver. During the first four lessons, Selig, when he was called, had run in the opposite direction, his nose to the ground.

Harper still had the phone to his ear, his expression sour but thoughtful. Dulcie would be telling him that Raul Torres arrived in Molena Point the same day as Cara Ray Crisp. That Cara Ray was staying at the Oak Breeze Motel. Dulcie wouldn't elaborate on that point She'd probably say something like, I know it's not really police business. Yet. Unless, of course, Shamas Greenlaw didn't die naturally. Joe could almost hear her whispering into the phone, Don't you wonder, Captain Harper, why a PI from Seattle-where Shamas used to live, where Shamas still had a business-would plan to meet Shamas's lover in Molena Point just two weeks after Shamas was drowned?

Joe watched Harper tuck the phone into his belt and cross the field to Clyde. If Harper had paid attention to that phone call, and if he meant to head back to the village to check on Cara Ray, he'd have to take either Clyde's car or his own pickup; he'd left his police unit parked in front of Clyde's place. Harper hadn't made a call after Dulcie hung up, as if to send one of his officers to check on Cara Ray.

Harper and Clyde stood talking, then Harper headed toward the house. Joe, flattening himself against the metal roof, was about to signal Dulcie when Harper turned toward the stable, where his pickup was parked.

Joe beat him there. As Harper stepped into the cab, Joe had slid behind him into the back section of the king cab-avoiding the slamming door by a split second. There'd been no time to get Dulcie, she was still in the house.

He'd hoped she wasn't snooping around Harper's place, prying into the police captain's personal life. She was so nosy. Oh, that would be too low.

Joe had liked the feel of the big truck careening down the hills, had listened to Harper calling the motel office, asking the location of Cara Ray Crisp's room and if she had anyone with her. Not until Harper had stopped for takeout did Joe realize how hungry he was. The aroma of fish and chips had been almost more than he could stand. Then Harper was backing into the alley, Joe drooling for a bite of fried cod.

But now the cod was gone. And Cara Ray Crisp had turned out her light and left her room. Joe listened to Harper wad up the sack and napkins and stuff them in the trash bin. Wind swirled into the cab as Harper opened the door.

And Joe was alone, shut into Harper's pickup, the door slammed practically in his face.

Leaping to the back of the front seat, he watched Harper cross the street into the patio of the Oak Breeze and move on past the pool toward the manager's office, never glancing toward Cara Ray as she descended the stairs and chose a chaise by the pool. Dropping her towel across it, she stretched out.

Cara Ray was not the only sunbather. Half a dozen other greased bodies reclined like oiled sardines laid out on grids to dry. The sun was low, but the evening was still warm, the pool as blue as the eyes of a rutting Siamese.

The police captain, moving on into the office, would quickly find out when Cara Ray had checked in, what name and credit card she had used, if she had arrived in a car, if Raul Torres had been registered, if Cara Ray had registered for a single or double, if she had been seen with anyone.

But, Joe wondered, if she had come here to meet Torres, and Torres came up missing, why hadn't Cara Ray gone directly to the police? Why wasn't she looking for the guy?

With questions buzzing in his head as thick as flies on stale cat food, he watched a young man come around the corner from the direction of the parking lot, wearing loose swim trunks, flip-flops, and an open shirt, heading for the pool. Choosing a chaise near Cara Ray but facing the opposite direction, he adjusted the back to a moderate recline, made himself comfortable, and opened a newspaper.

Behind the paper, he spoke; he didn't look around at Cara Ray. He was a big-boned, wide-shouldered guy. Square jaw, sandy hair, and freckles-If this guy isn't a Greenlaw, Joe thought, yours truly is a ring-tailed gorilla.

And was he staying at the Oak Breeze? Or had he parked in the visitors' lot behind the motel? As far as Joe knew, none of the Greenlaws was staying in a motel; they were all too tight with their cash. Had this guy met Cara Ray at Lucinda's and made a date with her? Or were they old friends? And why the secrecy?

Dropping down onto the front seat of the king cab, Joe fought the door handle, pawing and pulling at it- but even his considerable tomcat strength was almost no match for General Motors. He got the door open at last, bruising his paws. Within seconds Joe was across the street crouching in the geraniums that bordered the wide tile patio, looking out at Cara Ray reclining on her chaise beside the long, blue pool.