He had found a number error in the Benson file. And he had found, in a hard copy file for the Dawson account, two spreadsheets out of order. Such small inefficiencies could lead to far more serious errors. He did not allow such carelessness in others, and he certainly couldn't sanction it in himself.
Locking the apartment, heading down the stairs jingling his keys, he paused at the bottom of the steps glancing to his right into the weedy patio at the stacks of lumber, the sawhorses, and crated plumbing fixtures. He hoped this project wouldn't last forever. Turning left from the stairwell, he stepped out onto the driveway and to the bank of garages. Activating his pocket remote, he opened his single garage door, backed the Mercedes out, and headed down the hills.
Molena Point's shops and cottages were appallingly picturesque. In his opinion, a regular Disney World, though he would not say that to anyone. As for the crowds of tourists, those people might as well be in Fantasyland, they were so busy spending money on foolish whims. No thought to solid investment. No, the tourists weren't for him. It was Molena Point's established residents who made up the predictable cadre of his clients.
Parking in the short-term green zone in front of the Molena Point Library, he had intended to wait for Bernine in the car, but on impulse he swung out and moved through the deep garden, along the stone walk, and in through the dark, heavily carved doors of the sprawling Mediterranean building.
The central reading room was brightly lighted, its white walls and spaciousness offsetting the dark tables and bookcases. Through an office door he could see Bernine, dressed in a short pink suit, standing near a desk beside the head librarian-Freda something-a frowsy scarecrow of a woman who seemed to be scolding a third party standing nearly out of sight beyond the door. Interested, he wandered in that direction, pausing beside the book stacks.
He could see a bit of the third woman, with her back to him. Red sweatshirt, long gray hair caught back with a silver clip, faded jeans. That would be the Getz woman, the person Bernine was staying with.
Plucking a book from the shelf, something about Scottish bed-and-breakfasts, he stood slowly turning the pages, listening for any stray information that might be useful.
They were arguing about a cat. A cat-that cat that had caused all the fuss in the newspaper, the animal they called the library cat. Freda was giving the tall, gray-haired woman a real dressing-down. And she had considerable skill at it, too; she handled her authority with style, splendidly high-handed and thorough.
And certainly Bernine, standing at full attention, was being very politic; her few comments, when Freda spoke to her, were as smooth as butter. How insane, all this fuss over some cat. You couldn't walk the street without someone wanting you to sign a petition.
He turned away as this Wilma person came out. She was actually carrying the cat, holding the animal across her shoulder like a baby. She crossed the reading room rigid with anger and disappeared through an office door.
From behind the closed door he heard her talking to someone, softly arguing. Curious, he moved closer. The other voice was so soft he could not make out the words, but both women were angry. He had a strong desire to see the other speaker, such a sudden, intense curiosity that he was tempted to push open the door.
Shutting the door behind her, Wilma set Dulcie on the desk. "That woman! How did we ever get saddled with her?"
"I'd like to slash her," Dulcie hissed, her green eyes blazing. "Eviscerate her like a dead toad."
Glancing at the door, Wilma lowered her voice. "She frightens me. We don't know what she might do." She reached to stroke Dulcie. "Won't you agree to leave the library for a while?"
Dulcie's eyes widened.
"She could be capable of anything. I don't want you hurt."
Dulcie glared, her ears flat. "I can take care of myself."
"I know that. I know you can be all teeth and claws. But Freda is bigger, and she has the advantage of any number of large, heavy weapons. She could block your cat door and corner you, trap you in one of the offices. She might even turn on the gas. This petition movement has her in a rage. She's livid that the town and her own staff are trying to override her."
"You think she'd turn on the gas and risk blowing the place up? Don't be silly. And so she blocks my cat door. You know I can open any door in this library-the back door, the front door, the door to the side street. I can turn the knobs and, with a little time, I can turn every one of these dead bolts."
Wilma stroked her diffidently. "I know how skilled you are. And I know your hearing and eyesight are far superior, that there's no way she could slip up on you. But you refuse to admit that, simply because of size, a human might have some advantage. She's cruel, Dulcie. And she's angry!"
Dulcie turned away and began to wash, every lick across her tabby fur telegraphing her disdain.
Wilma walked around the desk and sat down facing her. "Please, won't you stay in my office during the day? Near your cat door? And stay away at night until the petitions go to the city council?"
Dulcie leaped off the desk, lashing her tail, and without another word pushed out her cat door. She'd had a difficult morning already, before Freda started in, and now Wilma. Tired and cross beyond toleration from leading Azrael around the village while trying to avoid his intimacies, she had come into the library needing a long nap, and there was Freda making another fuss. And now Wilma roiling at her. She felt as irritable as a bee trapped against the window; she wanted only to be left alone.
Azrael had pretended to enjoy her company as she gave him the grand tour, showed him the best places to hunt wharf rats, demurely led him along the shore and into the warehouses; as she showed him the meanest dogs to avoid and where the best restaurant garbage was judiciously hidden out of sight of wandering tourists-not that any village cat frequented such places. Why should they, when they could enjoy George Jolly's offerings? But the entire morning she didn't dare let her guard down. He had only one thing on his mind-he would keep nuzzling her. She had swayed on a tightrope between seeking to distract Azrael while Joe searched Mavity's cottage-and fighting her own distressing fascination. She didn't want to find Azrael charming; she didn't want to be drawn to him.
Well he was a good storyteller. Lying in the sun on Molena Point's fishy-smelling pier, he had told her wonderful tales of the jungle, had shown her the jungle's mysterious, leafy world awash in emerald light, the rain approaching like a silver curtain to drench the giant leaves and vines then move on again, a silver waterfall receding, glinting with the sun's fire.
He had shown her the steaming city sidewalks crowded with dirty children begging for food and stealing anything their fingers touched, had shown her black buzzards bigger than any street cat hunched above her on the rooftops, diving heavily to snatch garbage from the sidewalks; had shown her tangles of fishing boats tied to the wharves, then buckets of silver cod dumped flopping on the pier. His stories were so vivid that she could smell the stench of the open market where fly-covered sides of beef hung rotting in the tropical sun-and the tomcat's soft-spoken Spanish phrases enticed her, caressed her, though she did not understand their meaning.
She had ignored the darkness surrounding Azrael, the cloying heaviness beneath his sweet Spanish phrases-until he repeated his ugly predictions of murder.
"The people in this village, that woman Bernine Sage, and this investment person, and your Wilma Getz and her niece and that auto mechanic, all of them are drawing close to death. As unable to pull away as leaves blown to the edge of a dark pool." And Azrael had smiled as if greatly enjoying the prospect of human death. Rising, he had peered down into the shadowed world of mud and pilings below them, where Molena Point's small colony of stray cats eked out a meager living.