She made her way directly up the walk of a two-story green frame house, paused to pick up the morning paper, and appeared to be fumbling with a key. Unlocking the door, she disappeared inside.
Five blocks away, a tan VW climbed the hills and parked before a half-timber cottage flanked by sycamore trees. Another lone woman emerged, a slim, sleek figure in a black business suit. She entered the house quickly, and in a moment lights came on. "If that's the cat burglar," Joe said, "she's done a real state-of-the-art makeover."
In the cupola a bee buzzed, circling their heads and diving at their ears. Dulcie slapped it down, nosed at it, then backed away. Far up the hill, at a yellow cottage, the back door opened and a man and woman appeared, dressed in shorts. Crossing the lawn, they opened a garden shed and pulled out a mower, rakes, a shovel. Above the yellow house, at a new house where the yard was still raw dirt, a woman appeared from around the back with a basket, knelt beside the front walk, and began to dig in the earth, setting out little plants, patting them carefully into the ground. Joe yawned.
"They plant grass, then have to mow it. Plant flowers, then have to weed them."
She cut her eyes at him. "I've seen you rolling on those lush lawns."
"On Clyde's moth-eaten patch of grass?"
"On your neighbors' lawns. I've seen you sitting in the neighbors' flower beds, sniffing the blooms when you thought no one was watching."
"I was hunting; those flower beds are full of moles."
She did not remind him that he hated moles.
They had been on the roof for better than an hour when a blue hatchback came up Highway One from the south and turned up into the hills just before the tunnel. Heading up a winding lane, it cut across the hills and back again, cruising. By now, seven families were working in their gardens despite the dark sky and fitful wind, diligent homeowners too conscientious to spend the morning loafing. That, Joe thought, is one of the main advantages of being a cat. Cats do not have a problem with compulsive personalities. And now, far out to sea, a web of lines slanted down where rain was pouring.
The blue hatchback paused beside a two-storied Spanish house set well back on a large corner lot. It didn't stop; it crept slowly by as if the driver was looking the place over. The way the house was angled, one would be able to see into a portion of the backyard, where a family of five was planting shrubs and small trees. The hatchback turned at the next corner and parked.
A woman emerged, a dumpy creature dressed in a long, full skirt, a sloppy sweater, and a floppy hat. Joe crept forward, watching her, his stub tail twitching. She glanced around her, studying the houses nearby, then headed up the street toward the white stucco. Approaching from the side street, she would be able to see the backyard, but might not be noticed by the busily gardening family. The cats watched her glance into the backyard then turn away, retrace her steps to the front door.
They didn't see her ring the bell. She tried the knob, glanced around again, and moved right on in. Evidently no one in the backyard noticed her, no one made a move toward the house. Maybe she belonged there. And maybe she didn't. Joe leaped to the cupola roof. Rearing tall, he studied the house, getting his bearings. Standing like a weather vane braced against the wind, he counted the streets.
"Five blocks above Janet's burned studio. Four blocks to the left."
And they fled down the trellis and across yards and sidewalks, up across the grassy park above Highway One and up the winding streets, through the high grass of the open fields, through tangles of broom and holly; across lawns and manicured flower beds, moving so swiftly that when they reached the blue hatchback- which turned out to be a late-model Honda-the motor was still ticking softly, and the tires and wheels were still warm.
Again there was dried mud smeared across the license plate. But this time, pawing together at the caked dirt, they were able to flake away enough mud to reveal California plate 3GHK499.
There was no indication of issuing county, of course. California plates did not include that information. The car could be registered anywhere in the state; only Max Harper would know, when he pulled up the number through DMV. It galled Joe that the cops had access to information the average citizen-average cat-couldn't touch.
But he guessed it had to be that way; a cop's job was tough enough. Give civilians access to the DMV files, and they'd create a ton of mischief.
Leaving the Honda, trotting on up the street to the white stucco house, they found the family still working away, lowering the burlap-wrapped roots of sturdy nursery shrubs into the earth. There the constricted bushes could stretch out their thin white roots like hundreds of hungry tongues reaching for food. A black Mercedes was parked in the drive. The cats jumped to the hood, then to the top of the car, leaving pawprints, and leaped to the garage roof, onto the rounded clay tiles.
To their left, the two-story portion of the house rose above the garage. The windows of both bedrooms were open, the sheer white curtains blowing. Within the front bedroom a figure moved, her baggy skirt and huge sweater catching the light in lumpy folds as she turned to the closet. The cats slipped closer, up across the tiles, and pressed against the wall, glancing around to look warily in through the glass.
The woman had pulled the double closet doors open and was examining the hanging garments. Her ragged gray hair was in need of a good trim and a vigorous brushing. She looked like she'd made her clothing selections from the "latest fashion" rack of the local charity outlet. Her skirt hem dipped so rakishly around her thick-stockinged ankles that one could imagine this style as the precursor of a new trend; and her shoes might soon be the "in" look, too, thick and serviceable and of a variety favored by the unfortunate homeless. Rummaging through the closet, the old lady carefully lifted a little gold lame dress dangling on its hanger.
As she turned to the mirror above the dresser, they could see clearly her reflection. Smiling with impish delight she held the slim little cocktail number up against her thick body, turning and vamping, pressing the svelte garment against her lumpy form.
Watching her, Joe choked back a laugh. But Dulcie crept closer, the tip of her tail twitching gently, her green eyes round with sympathy, with a deep female understanding. The old woman's longing filled her to her very soul; she understood like a sister the frumpy lady's hunger for that sleek little gold lame frock. Watching the dumpy old creature, Dulcie was one with her, cat and cat burglar were, in that instant, of one spirit.
"What's the matter with you?"
Dulcie jumped, stared at him as if she'd forgotten he was there. "Nothing. Nothing's the matter."
He looked at her uneasily.
"So she makes me feel sad. So all right?"
He widened his eyes, but said no more. They watched the old woman fold the gold dress into a neat little square, lift her baggy sweater, and tuck the folded garment underneath into a bag she wore against her slip. They watched, fascinated, as she searched the dresser drawers, lifting out necklaces and bracelets, stuffing them into the same bag, watched her tuck away two soft-looking sweaters, a gold tie clip, a gold belt, a tiny gold evening clutch. When she moved suddenly toward the window, coming straight at them, the cats ducked away, clinging against the wall. She flew at the open window uttering a string of hisses so violent, so like the cries of a maddened tomcat that their fur stood up. In feline language this was a grade-one kamikaze attack. This woman knew cats. This old woman knew how to communicate the most horrifying threat of feline violence, knew something deep and basic that struck straight at the heart of cat terrors, knew the deep secrets of their own murderous language. They stared at her for only an instant, then fled down the roof tiles and onto the Mercedes. Racing its length, they hit the ground running, heading straight uphill, past the white house, into a wilderness with bushes so thick that nothing could reach them.