She'd like to drive up to the city early, spend several hours with Solander; Solander's Antiques was the most reliable fence, and she didn't have to hobnob with little greasy shoplifters. No, Solander was strictly first-class. Then a stop at several banks to get rid of the cash, and a nice lunch, maybe at the St. Francis. Then the remainder of the day in the art reference room of San Francisco Public. The trips made a really nice change from her everyday routine. Maybe she'd stay over, catch a play, do a little shopping.

Though before she left, she did want to get her map of Molena Point in better order. She'd nearly made a bad mistake yesterday, had really scared herself when she realized she was in the Dorriss house. And she had forgotten, if she'd ever known, that the upstairs was a separate apartment.

But no matter, she hadn't gotten that far. Though not until she saw Bonnie Dorriss's car pull into the drive, saw her getting out with that big brown dog, that poodle, did she realize where she was. Luckily the young woman had taken the dog around to the backyard, and she had slipped out the front. She hadn't time to lift anything, and the experience had left her unsettled.

Upstairs, in the Martinez master bedroom, she found a billfold containing something over two hundred in small bills. She didn't find a purse, but she did find a jewelry box and picked up a nice pearl choker and a lovely antique emerald necklace. This last could be a real find-it must be well over a hundred years old and was probably Austrian by the looks of it. If those tiny emeralds were real, she had a fortune in her hands. But even if the emeralds were only chips, or even paste, the finely made antique piece would still be worth a nice sum.

She found a few gold and silver coins in a cuff-link box, none of them in protective envelopes, but found nothing else of value. She was checking the other bedrooms when, in what appeared to be the guest room, she came on a glass case containing five big dolls.

These were not children's toys, but replicas of adult women, works of art so lifelike that at first sight they shocked her. As if, peering into the case, she was looking into a tiny alternate world, spying on live miniature people. The doors of the case were locked.

Each female figure was a very individual little being, her skin so real one wanted to feel its warmth, her tiny fingers perfect. And each lady was totally different from the others, each face different, registering very different human emotions. She could not resist the Victorian woman's aloof smile. Each tiny woman was so alive that even their individual ways of standing and looking at her were unique. In their lovely period lace and satins, these lively ladies were surely handmade. She wondered if they were one of a kind; certainly they were collector's dolls.

Thinking back, she could remember glancing at magazine articles about doll shows, and at ads for dolls, but obviously she hadn't paid sufficient attention. She had missed a whole movement here.

Well she would pay attention from now on, close attention. Her fingers shook as she fished out her lockpicks.

The operation took forever, and she was growing nervous that some member of the family would come slipping in from the pool and up the stairs before she had the glass case open. Her hands were trembling so badly that when she did get the lock open she almost dropped the first doll. The little lady's full silk skirts rustled, and her direct, imperious gaze was disconcerting.

Each doll was over twelve inches tall. They were going to make a huge bulge under her coat. But at last she got them tucked away in the deep pockets that lined the garment, and, still in the guest room, she checked herself before the full-length mirror.

Not too bad, if she stood with her shoulders hunched forward to make the coat fall away from her. She could hardly wait to research these beauties and get them up to the city.

She would take these to Harden Mark; he was the best with the real art objects. And, of course, before she saw him she needed to educate herself. There wasn't a fence in the world who wouldn't rip you off if he could.

She had finished upstairs, was downstairs in the kitchen going through Mrs. Martinez's purse, when she heard the sliding door open. She stuffed the bills in her coat and closed the purse. On her way out the back door she snatched up a handful of chocolate chip cookies.

Silently closing the door, she let her body sag as if with fatigue and discouragement, shrugging deeper down into the lumpy coat, and slowly made her way along the side of the house ambling heavy and stiff, peering into the bushes, calling softly, "Kitty? Here, kitty. Here, Snowy. Puss? Puss? Come on, Snowy. Come to Mama, Snowy." Her old voice trembled with concern, her expression was drawn with worry. She did not let down her guard until she had left the Martinez residence unchallenged-really, this was a great waste of talent-and had ambled the three blocks to her car.

Driving home along Cypress, up along the crest of the hills heading for Valley Road, passing high above the sprawling wings of Casa Capri Retirement Villa, she slowed her car, pulled onto the shoulder of the narrow road for a moment. Sat looking down with interest at the red-tile rooftops softened by the limbs of the huge old oaks and at the tangle of cottages climbing up the hill; even those small individual houses gave one a sense of confinement.

From this vantage she could look almost directly down into the patio. Though the garden was charming, shadowed now, and the lemons and the yellow lilies shining almost like gold, the high walls made her shiver. Casa Capri was beautiful, but it was still an institution, sucking dry your freedom. As the poem said, she could wear red rubber boots to dance in, she could drink wine on street corners if she chose and laugh with the bums, and who was to stop her?

Parked above Casa Capri, she eased off her heavy coat, folded it carefully with the five dolls protected inside, and laid it on the seat. Studying the sprawling complex, she laughed because she did not belong there, then headed away thinking of supper and a hot bath.

14

The patio doors were securely closed and partly obscured by the drawn draperies. Dillon could feel her heart pounding as she pressed her face against the glass, cupping her hands-and ramming the cat's face against the doorframe. Growling, he backed away as if to jump, but she grabbed the nape of his neck. "I'm sorry, Joe Cat, you have to stay here." She stroked him and hugged him, and he settled down again. He was really a good cat. She rubbed his ears, then cupped her hands once more to peer in.

The room showed no sign of life, no lamp burned, no TV picture flickering, no figure moving about or seated in a chair reading. She could see a dresser and a chair, and a bed neatly made up with a white spread, its corners tucked at exact angles. There were no clothes lying around, nothing personal, no glasses or book or newspaper, not a stray shoe, not even a wadded tissue. The surfaces of the dresser and nightstand were bare. The room was definitely empty.

Mama said they charged a bundle to stay here at Casa Capri. So why would they keep a room empty, even for the reason Eula gave? She was so intent on the room that when Joe turned to nibble a flea, jerking around to bite his shoulder, she grabbed at him again, startled.

Pressing him against her cheek, she looked behind her, glancing toward the social room. Making sure no one was watching, she tried the door, testing the latch while pretending to smell the blooms on the lemon tree.

It was locked. Well she'd known it would be. She tugged and jerked to be sure, then turned away.