But it was Dulcie, there by the building next to the library, not the tortoiseshell kit. Dulcie, prowling along through the front garden as if she was searching for Kit. When the dark tabby turned away, moving down the little lane between the buildings, Charlie didn't call out to her.

Dulcie had been hanging around that building a lot lately. It and the library stood close together; they were of the same Mediterranean style, same white walls and faded red-tile roofs, and had been built at the same time. They had once been part of an estate that included servants' quarters, carriage houses, stables, and outbuildings. This building now housed an exclusive men's clothing shop, with an apartment behind it and a larger apartment above. Its basement, if she recalled correctly, had once run beneath both buildings, and the narrow walk between the two buildings had been a passageway for delivery carts. Dulcie, as Molena Point's library cat, considered all adjacent gardens her personal territory, off-limits to the other village cats whether she chose to hunt there or not.

The three rentals in the smaller, two-story structure had produced a comfortable income for Genelle Yardley since she'd retired. Genelle's family had, years ago, given the larger building to the library foundation. Just recently, Charlie understood, Genelle had put her rental building in trust for the library as well, for when she died-and Genelle was dying. The party that Patty had been planning for Genelle was, in fact, a final goodbye. A gesture that could only be understood in light of the two women's long and sympathetic friendship.

So much death, Charlie thought. Not a happy way to start the new year.

Though Genelle's approach to death showed an amazingly matter-of-fact attitude. Quite methodically, Genelle had updated her trust to her satisfaction and had put all her personal and financial affairs in good order. She had left a nice sum of money to Patty's children's home, and Genelle's gift of her building to the library would, indeed, be well used. The library was so cramped for space that the librarians, including Charlie's aunt Wilma, had to discard far more out-of-date books than they cared to, to make room for the new books that were needed or were in demand.

Genelle was only in her sixties, young to leave this world; Charlie realized that fact ever more sharply with each of her own approaching birthdays, though she was only half Genelle's age. She supposed Genelle's matter-of-fact approach to death was in character with Genelle's practical turn of mind and organized thoughts, which had made her a very efficient business manager for Vincent and Reed Electrical before her retirement, and certainly she had managed her own inherited money judiciously.

Charlie watched Dulcie vanish, down at the end of the alley, and wondered again what this little tabby, of such special intelligence, was hiding. Wondered if it had to do with the lane itself or with the garden of the rental building, where Wilma had often seen her prowling lately. When Wilma had asked Dulcie what was so fascinating there, Dulcie's green eyes had widened with innocence.

"Mice," Dulcie had said, staring up at her housemate as if Wilma shouldn't have to ask. "I can smell mice inside that building and I can hear them." Charlie and Wilma had been sitting in Wilma's blue-and-white kitchen, at the kitchen table, Charlie and Wilma having coffee, Dulcie in her own chair enjoying a bowl of milk, and all three of them eating Wilma's homemade sticky buns. Dulcie said, "Maybe mice that were driven inside by the rain. Succulent little mice, Wilma. They smell lovely. But there's no way to get inside, no way to get at them."

Wilma had just looked at Dulcie. "You and Joe seldom hunt mice; you much prefer to go up the hills and kill jackrabbits-a catch, as Joe puts it, that you can get your teeth into. And," Wilma had said pointedly, "I notice that you're not hunting with Joe much these days."

Dulcie had lashed her tail with such annoyance that Charlie almost choked hiding her laugher.

"And," Wilma had said further, "prowling around that building, you didn't look as if your mind was on anything remotely connected to mice."

"What else would I be doing?" Dulcie had laid her ears flat, leaped down from her chair, and stalked out her cat door, her tail lashing with an angry hurt that had shamed them both-just as she'd meant to shame them.

Charlie moved on past the library without stopping, and before heading up the hills to the senior ladies' house, she tried Wilma's cell phone again. Nothing. Then she swung by Clyde's to see if he might be at home, if he had any news of the kit. At one time in Charlie's life, she would have found it ludicrous to spend all night and day searching for a cat. But she hadn't known then what she knew now.

Clyde's car wasn't in the drive; he was either looking for Kit or had gone on to work. As she pulled up in front, Joe Grey was just leaping up the steps toward his cat door. When he heard her van he turned, scowling at her, his ears back, then ducked to slip through the plastic flap. She opened her door. "Wait, Joe!" she hissed. "Wait for me!" She swung out, glancing around to see if any neighbors were watching, if anyone had heard her. Joe had paused beside his cat door looking back at her, scowling with annoyance, the white strip down his nose drawn into a thin line, his yellow eyes narrowed.

"You didn't find her," she said softly, coming up the walk.

"We didn't find her," he snarled, hardly a whisper. She sat down on the steps.

The tomcat stopped scowling and sat down close to her. He looked tired, his ears and whiskers drooping; he looked resigned. "Lucinda and Pedric and Wilma are out looking, calling and calling her. Dulcie and I can't call her in broad daylight. And we couldn't pick up her scent. Not anywhere." He lay down, his paw touching her leg. "Lucinda and Pedric are worn out. Eighty years old, and only a couple hours' sleep."

"You don't look so great yourself."

"Village full of tourists, all you can smell is perfume and dog doo, gum wrappers and stale tobacco." Joe yawned. "Clyde went on to work. I need food and sleep, I'm bummed out. Nothing as exhausting as looking for that damned kitten."

Charlie didn't point out that the tattercoat wasn't a kitten anymore, only young and headstrong. "And you and Dulcie searched for her together?"

He just looked at her.

"You haven't been seeing much of each other these days."

"Dulcie doesn't share her appointment calendar with me," Joe snapped. He yawned again, rose, and headed for his cat door. Charlie reached out to stop him.

"What is this, Joe? What is this with Dulcie? What's wrong between you two?"

Joe laid back his ears and hissed at her.

"What? This is scaring me," Charlie said. "You're mad enough at Dulcie to eat rocks!"

His yellow eyes were fierce and unforgiving. He looked, with his angled head narrowed by anger, as formidable as a stalking cougar.

"Not another tomcat?" Charlie said softly. "I don't believe Dulcie would do that."

"What else would she be up to that she won't tell me? Even tonight, searching for the kit, she was closemouthed. Remote as all hell." He nosed at the plastic flap intending to terminate the conversation. She pressed on his chest and shoulder, making him pause, and imagining a bloodied hand. Joe had never slashed her, but now he looked like he might.

"Maybe she promised someone," Charlie said softly. "Maybe she's keeping someone else's secret, maybe she can't-"

"Promised who} Keeping what secret? There's no other cat she can talk to except the kit." His yellow eyes widened. "There's no human but the Greenlaws, and Clyde and Wilma and you."

She didn't want to mention the black tomcat that had once come on to Dulcie. They all thought, hoped, that cat was gone. Preferably, to a place where he couldn't come back. Charlie thought if Azrael ever did show up, Joe might kill him. "Couldn't there be some innocent reason for Dulcie keeping a secret? Someone else-some kind of promise that isn't meant to hurt you? Dulcie would never hurt you, Joe."