The light from the headlamps on Pam’s VW bounced upward, illuminating hawk moths and the low-hanging branches of trees. At the end of the unpaved drive, Emma Jean’s house was dark. Deserted-looking. As I turned left to park the car, the headlights flashed across the front porch. The cat’s dishes and the rubber container of food were still there, just where I’d left them.

I killed the engine and turned off the lights. A waning moon barely broke through a thick layer of clouds in the sky. I heard night sounds: A dog barked a couple of streets away. Something small skittered through the dry leaves under the hedge lining the driveway. An owl hooted. The call sounded haunting. Lonely. I turned the car lights back on.

Talking with my sisters about all the people we knew who could have killed Jim Albert had left me feeling nervous.

“Here, Wila. Here kitty, kitty.’’

As I called, I lifted an animal carrier out of the car and set it on the rocky driveway. I grabbed a towel I’d put in the back seat. I’d been thinking about Emma Jean’s cat. I didn’t want to leave the pampered creature for too long on her own. I’d feel awful if Emma Jean did come home, only to find something had happened to her pet.

“C’mon, Wila. I’ve got food.’’

I tried not to sound too eager. I’m more accustomed to dogs than to cats. But a cat-crazy college roommate once told me that cats are just like men: Show too much interest and they turn tail and run; ignore them and they fall all over themselves for you. I arranged myself into a position of nonchalance on the bottom step of the porch. Plastering a bored expression on my face, I pretended to examine my fingernails.

“Okay, no big deal,’’ I announced to the night and to any Siamese that might be listening. “Come if you want. Stay away if you don’t. I’ll just sit here for a while and enjoy the music of the mosquitoes.’’

I started to hum.

Within moments, the cat padded out from behind a glider with a periwinkle-blue-and-white striped cushion. She seemed to remember me from before, but who can be sure? I stroked her a few times, murmuring nonsense words to her. I had the feeling Wila wasn’t going to like what was coming. But it was for her own good. Somebody had to take care of the poor critter.

I wrapped the towel around her, cocoon-like, except for her head. I lifted her into my arms, the towel protecting me from her claws. As quickly as I could, I stooped down, got her into the carrier, and shut the wire door.

Wila looked at me with betrayal in her eyes. MEOWRRR! She sounded like a cross between a lion and a rusty door hinge.

“You’ll be out soon, I promise,’’ I said to the cat. “It’s only until we get to my house. You’ll like it there, I swear.’’

With the cat safely secured on the passenger seat beside me, I decided to take a quick detour past the backyard on my way out. The car’s lights played across the lawn as I turned. There was the bird bath. The rose bushes. The shed in the back. Then I saw a big, empty rectangle of long-dead grass. What I didn’t see was the battered white pickup that had been parked at Emma Jean’s house the day after she vanished.

With one hand on the steering wheel, I fished around in my purse until I found my cell phone. Detective Martinez answered with the usual welcoming snarl.

“It’s Mace. I figured I’d better tell you. I swung by Emma Jean Valentine’s house tonight. There’s something funny …’’

Martinez interrupted me, his words tumbling out the phone. “Are you all right? What’s that horrible sound?’’

Meeeeeoooowwwrrrr!

“That’s just Emma Jean’s cat,’’ I said. “I don’t think she’s too fond of the carrier I’ve got her in.’’

“Dios mío, it sounds like someone’s being tortured.’’

“She’s a Siamese,’’ I said knowingly. “The Internet says they’re very vocal.’’

“Can’t you make her stop?’’

“The article I read didn’t include anything about a volume button or an on-off switch.’’

Meeeeeooooowrrrrr!

I raised my voice over the racket. “Anyway, I stopped by to see about the cat. I’m on my way home with her right now.’’ The light on Main Street turned green, and I crooked my neck to hold the phone while I shifted gears. “I noticed the white pickup truck that was at Emma Jean’s last night is now gone. Did you have the police haul it off?’’

Martinez answered without the usual stonewalling. “No, I didn’t.’’ He started to think out loud. “Maybe it belonged to a relative or a friend, and they came by to get it.’’

“Maybe,’’ I said. “But why now? From the look of the lawn, that truck has sat there pretty regularly for a long time.’’

“A neighbor might have used it.’’

“The houses around Emma Jean’s are on three-acre lots. Mama told me her two closest neighbors are snowbirds. They leave for the North in June when it starts getting hot, and they don’t come back until the end of November, when hurricane season’s over. She’s not close to anyone else out that way, which is one reason I came to get her cat.’’

I passed the Speckled Perch and thought about food. Two slices of pizza two hours ago wasn’t going to hold me until morning.

“We can check to see if Emma Jean’s the registered owner,’’ Martinez said. “If she is, I’ll have the information I need to put out a BOLO on the truck and tag number.’’

“Bolo? Isn’t that a Western-style string tie?’’

“Be on the lookout. BOLO.’’

“Gotcha,’’ I said, feeling stupid. I don’t watch as much Law and Order as Mama does. “I’d know the truck if I saw it again. It was old and beat-up. There were beer cans in the back of the bed.’’

“Great. That describes half the vehicles up here,’’ Martinez said.

“Watch it, Mr. Miami. I can hear you sneering.’’

I remembered the feel of the worn tread on my fingers as I ran my hands over the tires. “I didn’t think about getting the tag number, but Donnie Bailey might have,’’ I told Martinez. “We both noticed the truck had bald tires, just like the one that ran me off the road. Donnie was awfully interested in that old truck.’’

___

If ever five days felt like fifty, this was it. What a week. I was looking forward to a cool shower, a cold beer, and some hot salsa once I got Wila and her cat-related accessories settled into my house.

I smiled to myself as the VW jounced into my yard, illuminating the battle ring tucked off to one side. Looked like it was Mace 1; Wildlife 0 in this latest round of raccoon smack-down. The garbage cans were upright, lids still securely fastened with a collection of bungee cords. I might have feared the animals were lying in wait, prepared to punish the woman who shut down their nightly buffet. But the way Emma Jean’s cat was caterwauling, any living thing within hearing distance had skedaddled.