Cat Spitting Mad (8 page)

C
lyde Damen's
white Cape Cod cottage shook with the stutter of jackhammers and the thud of falling timbers, enough racket to collapse a poor cat's eardrums. Joe Grey sat on the kitchen counter, waiting for Clyde to make his breakfast, and watching through the window the handsome Victorian home behind them being torn down and fed, timber by splintered timber, to a series of large metal Dumpsters that stood in the wide front yard.

The house's finer fittings, the crown molding, the stained-glass windows, the hand-carved banister and carved cabinets, had long since been sold to an antique dealer, as had the fine Victorian furniture. Seventy-year-old Lucinda Greenlaw had no need any longer for large pieces of furniture since she had married Pedric and moved into his travel trailer and set out to see the world—or at least see more of the West Coast.

All the houses behind Clyde's had been sold. Both sides of that street were being cleared to accommodate a small, exclusive shopping plaza. The constant noise of the tear-down had been too hard on the other cats—
on the three ordinary kitties who could not understand the source of the threatening racket, and on old Rube, the elderly Labrador. Clyde had taken them up to the vet's to board.

Clyde and Dr. Firetti had an arrangement involving hospital and boarding bills swapped for auto repairs, an agreement that worked to everyone's advantage except that of the IRS. Clyde didn't talk about that.

“Another few weeks,” Clyde grumbled, staring out at the destruction, “we'll be looking out the window at a solid two-story wall smack in your face. The house will be dark as a tomb. No sunrise. No sun at all. You want to look at the hills? Forget it. Might as well have the Empire State Building in the backyard.”

“A handsome stucco wall,” Joe said, quoting Dulcie, “to define the back garden—turn it into an enclosed patio.”

“That view of the hills was the main reason I bought this house—that and the sunrise. A three-story wall will destroy them both.”

“It won't
destroy
the hills and sunrise. The hills and sunrise will still be there. You just…”

“Shut up, Joe. Here, eat your breakfast. Kippers and sour cream. And don't growl. You don't have to kill the kippers. You may not have noticed in your enthusiasm that the kippers are already dead.”

Clyde set his own plate of eggs on the table beside a bowl of Sugar Pops. The phone rang. Snatching it from the wall, he answered through a mouthful of egg.

He grew very still.

Joe padded across the table to press against Clyde's shoulder, his ear to the phone.

Max Harper sounded grim.

“I have an appointment with the city attorney. Ten
A
.
M
. Going to take administrative leave.”

“Because of the Marner case? But—”

“Because of Bucky's shoe, Bucky's hoofprints all over the scene. And because of new evidence.”

“What new evidence?”

“I just got the report from Salinas. The lab rushed it through. They have the murder weapon.”

“Oh. Well, that's—”

“Remember that bone-handled butcher knife that Millie's aunt sent her from Sweden?”

“I remember it. A big, stubby knife with silver inlay.”

“One of my detectives found it in my hay shed, under a bale of alfalfa.”

“But—”

“The dried blood on it was a match for both Helen and Ruthie.”

“That's insane. No one would commit a murder and hide the weapon in his own barn. Where are you? I'll come over. If you step off the case—”

“I've already stepped off. I'm going to ask Gedding to appoint an interim chief until this thing gets sorted out.”

“Max, if someone's out to frame you—”

“I've removed myself from the case. There was nothing else I could do. I'm not giving up the search for Dillon. I'll keep on with that, acting as a civilian. And I'm going to have to look for witnesses.”

“I can take some time off, help you talk to people. Help you look for Dillon.”

“I—we'll talk about it. Every cop on the central coast is looking for her. Every law enforcement agency in California.”

“But—”

“I see Gedding at ten.”

“Meet for lunch?”

“Say, one o'clock at Moreno's.”

“One o'clock.” Clyde hung up, glancing toward Joe.

But Joe Grey wasn't there. Through the kitchen window Clyde saw a gray streak vanish over the fence, heading into the village. Clyde stood looking, swearing softly, but he didn't open the door to shout after Joe.

What good would it do? He couldn't make Joe come back. And, under the present circumstances, he guessed he didn't want to.

If Joe could help Harper, Clyde promised himself he'd never again make one disparaging, discouraging, cutting remark aimed at the tomcat. Would never again tease either Joe or Dulcie. He was, in fact, so upset about Harper that he poured coffee on his cereal and had eaten half the bowl before he realized how strange it tasted.

 

By the time Max Harper entered Lowell Gedding's office at ten, the two sleuths in question had concealed themselves handily behind a Chinese planter of maidenhair fern, on the wide ledge inside the city attorney's bay window.

Gedding didn't like screens on his windows, nor were screens needed in Molena Point. The sea wind kept flies away. And the decorative burglar grid that
covered the window offered ample security. The window could safely remain open, allowing access to no living creature larger than, say, your ordinary house cat.

The morning sun washed pleasantly across the white walls of Gedding's office and across the pale Mexican-tile floor. A white, hand-woven rug was positioned on the amber tiles directly in front of Gedding's dark antique desk. Three walls were bare. On the fourth expanse hung five black-and-white Ansel Adams photographs: stark, hard-edged studies of sand dunes, magnificent in their simplicity.

Gedding sat behind his desk, relaxed and cool. He was a slim, bald, deeply tanned man in his sixties, with the look of the military about him. His gaze was direct, his body well honed, easy in its nicely tailored business suit of a dark, thin fabric. His green eyes were intense.

“Sit down, Max. I gather this is about the Marner murders.”

Harper nodded.

“You have nothing further on Dillon Thurwell?”

“Nothing. Search parties are out, her picture on the Web and to the wire services. We—the department has the murder weapon.”

Gedding leaned forward.

“Detective Davis found it yesterday. They got the lab report back this morning. The blood of both victims was on it.”

“And?”

“It is a butcher knife from my kitchen. It was found in my hay shed.”

“Is it a common make, a knife that could be duplicated?”

“It is a one-of-a-kind carving knife made in Sweden. Swedish steel, hand-carved bone handle and silver inlay.”

Gedding looked deeply at Harper. “Why would someone set you up, Max, but do it so obviously? Had you missed the knife prior to the murder?”

“I hadn't used anything out of that drawer in weeks except a couple of paring knives. It could have been gone for some time.”

“It's not like you not to remember details.”

“In your own house? In a place you're so used to, you stop seeing things?”

“I suppose. So what now? You've already removed yourself from the case. You're not here to ask for administrative leave?”

“Exactly why I'm here. Someone took that knife from the house. Someone either borrowed my horse or came up with a set of matching shoes for his own horse, and marked both shoes. Someone with a pair of boots like mine, the soles worn into the same indentations.”

“You've checked the house for any signs of break-in.”

“The detectives have been over it three times.”

“No one has a key?”

“No one.”

“Surely a houseguest or dinner guest could have taken the knife, anyone coming in. Have you made a list of who's been there?”

Harper handed a list across the desk. “Everyone
who's been in my house the last three months. A few close friends and the plumber. You can see I have a big social life.

“I don't think the killer's name is there. No one comes in my place, Lowell, except friends I trust fully.”

“That include Crystal Ryder?”

“She…” Max hesitated. “She's been up at my place three times, uninvited. She didn't go in the house any time—that I know of.”

“
Could
she have gone in?”

“Yes, I suppose she could have. While I was feeding or working with the horses. I didn't like her coming up there. When she showed up, I went on with my work.”

“That's why she isn't on the list.” Gedding's tone was cool.

“Exactly why. Because she wasn't inside, to my knowledge.”

“That's not the way I heard the story. Talk in the village has you two pretty close.”

“Put her on the list,” Harper said. “Make a notation that I never saw her go inside, never saw her inside the house.”

Gedding leaned back in his chair. “I've received two anonymous phone calls that when you left the restaurant, the day of the murder, you were seen riding your buckskin up the mountain following Helen and Ruthie and Dillon. Riding
up
the mountain, Max, away from your place, not down the hills toward home as you said in your statement.”

“There's nothing I can say to that, Lowell. It isn't true. I didn't do that. I went directly home, took care of
Bucky and the other animals. Answered the phone—that tip about Baker. I showered and dressed, and headed for Baker's place. You've read my statement.”

Gedding sighed. “And you have no changes to make to that statement?”

“None.”

“It's turning into a tangle. The best bet—not that I think your people can't handle it, but to get them off the hot seat—would be to call in an outside detective.”

Harper nodded. “I think you have to do that. Someone on loan from another district.”

“I can talk to San Francisco. I have a friend in the department there. Good detective—Dallas Garza. The family has a weekend cottage down here. I'm sure he'd welcome a change of scene.”

Behind the Chinese planter, narrowed yellow eyes met blazing green eyes. Neither Joe nor Dulcie had thought of an outside investigator.

And how had Gedding come up with a candidate so fast?

The cats had thought there was mutual trust here. Joe had heard Harper tell Clyde, more than once, how Gedding had stood by him when the mayor or city council meddled in police business.

What bothered Joe was, one council member had pushed hard to hire Gedding. And that man wanted Harper out of the department. So where did Gedding's loyalties lie?

“Garza's brother-in-law,” Gedding said, “is chief U.S. probation officer in San Francisco. I believe Wilma Getz worked with him before she retired. Garza's niece—she's the interior designer that Kate
Osborne works for. But you know the family—they have a weekend cottage in the village. Kate and Hanni, when they were small, used to play together.”

“I know who they are,” Harper said stiffly. “Should I say,
small world,
” he added dryly.

Gedding shrugged and straightened the papers on his desk. “Have you made any other arrangements?”

“When your man arrives, Ray and Davis are prepared to step off the case, if he so chooses. I've put Lieutenant Brennan in charge of the department.

“As for my personal life, I don't plan to stay at home. I've taken my horses up to Campbell Ranch, they'll keep them ridden. As long as I live alone and isolated, there'll be a shadow on my activities. I'm locking up my place and moving in with Clyde. Unless,” Harper said with a twisted smile, “unless you plan to put a leg bracelet on me.”

Joe Grey felt his belly lurch. Though Harper was joking, the thought of an electronic monitor made him twitch. If Harper had to phone the station for permission to walk out his front door, he might as well be locked in a steel kennel.

It was noon when Harper left Gedding's office, now on official leave. The cats were about to slip out through the window when Gedding made a long-distance call; they subsided again, beneath the potted fern.

Gedding was apparently talking with the chief of police in San Francisco. It was all very low-key. Gedding was as nice as pie; apparently he and Chief Barron went back to college days. Barron seemed to be telling him that Garza was busy on a case and suggest
ing he send another man. Gedding was gently insistent. He wanted Garza, badly needed Garza. It was a long and oblique discussion that left the cats fidgeting. It ended, apparently, with San Francisco's assurance that Garza was on his way.

“Most informative,” Joe muttered as they hurried out along the parking lot.

“Informative, and confusing. Look. Harper's still here.”

In the parking lot shared by the courthouse and police headquarters, Harper was putting some cardboard boxes in his king cab pickup; the cats could see a pair of field boots sticking out from the top and a gray sweatshirt.

“He's cleaned out his desk,” Dulcie whispered.

“Dulcie, don't be concerned about Harper. No creeping lowlife is going to get the best of Max Harper.”

He wished he believed that.

Dropping the box and the boots in the truck bed, Harper closed the canvas cover. He looked more than tired. The minute he drove off, the cats trotted down to Ocean and over to Moreno's Bar and Grill, where Harper was headed.

Padding down the narrow alley past Moreno's front door, they slipped in through the screened kitchen door, pawing it open behind the backs of a cook and two busboys. Past the bar into the restaurant, and through the shadows to the far corner, to Clyde and Harper's usual booth. Sliding beneath the table unseen, they cringed away from Clyde's size tens. The carpet smelled like stale French fries.