The Chapmans arrived the day after Charlie called them, Theresa rushing straight to the laundry to see to the kittens, hugging and snuggling the babies and Mango. She was distressed by the loss of her miniature paintings, which had not been insured, but that didn’t matter in comparison to her concern over her little cats, she’d wanted only to hold the cats and love them, making sure they were well and safe.
The Longleys returned the next day. Earl Longley was still angry with Charlie and threatened to sue her for negligence, but she didn’t think that would happen. She thought he’d cool down when he’d collected what promised to be a large insurance settlement based on the appraisals that he had kept current of his rare books. The Watermans remained in Greece. Rita talked with their insurance agent and filed their claim by e-mail, then put the matter aside to enjoy their vacation. There were as yet no viable leads to any of the stolen property, no response to the police fliers from any fence or from legitimate dealers. There were no leads to the whereabouts of Ed Becker.
Two weeks after the murder, Ryan finished her studio. That Sunday she and Clyde and Scotty moved her desk, her blueprint cabinet, her drawing board, and her computer from where they’d been crowding the guest room, up the stairs and into her bright new space; then she and Clyde threw a Sunday-night party.
Wilma arrived carrying Dulcie, wearing a new embroidered denim jacket over a red sweater and white jeans, her long silver hair clipped back with a bar of gold and coral. The Greenlaws walked from home, across the village. They arrived with their canes, Kit trotting eagerly beside them, just as Dallas pulled up in his old tan Blazer with Detective Davis. Everyone had a tour of the solarium-like studio with its high ceiling, its three skylights supported between the heavy beams, its glass walls, Mexican-tile floor, and Ryan’s treasured antique fireplace that she and Clyde had brought home from their honeymoon trip. The mantel’s hand-painted tiles featured pictures of cats, and the rearing cat in the center matched exactly the carved cat that graced the old Pamillon mansion where the wild clowder now lived; but that was a story of its own.
Ryan’s dad arrived with Rock on a leash and Lindsey Wolf on his arm. Lindsey wore pale jeans, sandals, and a honey-toned cashmere sweater that complemented her honey-brown hair and hazel eyes. Her infectious smile shone comfortably, and often, on Mike Flannery. When they let Rock loose, the big silver Weimaraner moved quietly among the guests, graciously accepting any and all offerings, working the room as adroitly as were the three cats. Snowball was the only antisocial little soul among the five animals. She was thrilled to be home from the vet and was happy to see her friends, but she soon retired upstairs to the master bedroom, away from the crowd and the noise.
The Chapmans had been invited, and when they arrived the cats wound around Theresa’s ankles purring so extravagantly that both Charlie and Ryan gave them looks that sent them padding away again. But they looked back at their friend lovingly, saying little cat prayers that she was safe. She was wearing a pink T-shirt that set off her pink cheeks, and pale jeans and sandals. Her long brown hair was tied back haphazardly, and was streaked from the coastal sun. Carl Chapman, always quiet, stood smiling complacently as Juana Davis asked about Mango’s kittens; Joe and Dulcie watched, amused. Had Juana weakened after all this time of living alone without a pet? Did she finally mean to give in to the pleasure of a feline companion? The squarely built detective, in her dark uniform, made Theresa look even slimmer and somehow more ethereal. As they discussed the basics of responsible kitten care, they joined the others gathered around the big kitchen table, taking up plates, dishing up helpings of the casseroles and salads. Max Harper was loading his own plate when his cell phone rang.
Answering it, he stepped into the guest room where he could hear without the din of conversation. His back turned, he didn’t see Joe Grey slip into the room behind him. When the tomcat leaped on the small writing desk and lay down at his elbow, the chief scowled at him, then grinned and stroked Joe as he talked, mildly amused by the tomcat.
The Damen guest room had recently been redone, with plantation shutters, furniture designed in a combination of wicker and golden oak, and bright primitive rugs. Joe, stretching out just inches from the phone, could hear only half of what the caller was saying; soon he sat up straight, closer to the cell phone, nearly pressing his ear against it. If Clyde saw his nosy display, he’d kill him. The caller was Captain Jim Cahill of the CHP.
Joe knew Jim, he was a nice guy, he used to stop in the station when he was dating a woman in Molena Point. Good build, tanned, nearly bald, but with the remaining hair shaved clean, brown eyes, and always an easy smile, even when his thoughts might be less than complimentary. Max had known Jim since their days at San Jose State, before either hired on with their respective departments.
From what Joe could make out, the CHP had just pulled an RV out of the ocean, somewhere along Highway 1. Cahill was saying, “Driver’s dead. His description matches that on your dispatch, the prints belong to an Ed Becker, Sacramento address. He’s about six one, maybe two hundred pounds, black hair. We have a mug shot, I’d say he was a good-looking guy before his face got all scratched up.”
“Damage from the wreck?”
“No, this happened earlier, before the RV went over the side. Band-Aids still half stuck to him. RV was three-fourths underwater, on its side. A fisherman spotted it about four hours ago. We had to get divers, heavy equipment up there to get it up the cliff. No plates on it, and the divers couldn’t find any.”
“Anything inside?”
“It’s loaded, Max. Furniture, small imported rugs, looks like everything you describe. Everything soaked, the cartons of miniature paintings and books soaked through. The antique jewelry is all tangled together, and the seawater could cause corrosion.” He laughed. “The paperweights aren’t damaged.”
“What were the scratches?” Max said, returning to the detail that puzzled him.
“Don’t know, but he’s a mess. Maybe the coroner can shed some light.”
“And you have the body and the RV where?”
“Vehicle’s impounded at San Mateo PD. Body’s in a mortuary there until we can send it down to your coroner.”
Max jotted down the phone number and address of the mortuary. “I’ll make arrangements and get back to you.” They talked for a few minutes about personal matters. Jim still had bird dogs, five English pointers. His wife had just retired from her job as a hospital nurse and planned to take a few private cases. She wasn’t a hunter, but she liked to fish, and they were planning a trip to Alaska. Thanking Jim and hanging up, Max finished up his notes then sat looking at Joe Grey, who lay innocently stretched out across the blotter. He scratched the tomcat’s ears for a moment, then rose and returned to the party. Joe waited a while, so as not to seem too obvious, and then followed him back to where supper was being served.
IN THE KITCHEN, as Max picked up his loaded plate from the counter where he’d left it, he frowned at Dulcie and Kit. “You haven’t been sampling my dinner?” The two females sat in the bay window not inches from the plate. They looked innocent enough, and he had to admit that the plate didn’t look as if they’d been at it. Only when Joe Grey jumped up on the counter and padded across to sit beside the other two did Max get that uneasy feeling these cats sometimes gave him, a puzzled sense of missing something, that he could never quite figure out. He looked up as Charlie came to stand beside him, putting her arm around his waist.