Cat Playing Cupid (19 page)

I
T HAD BEEN
two hours earlier that morning when Dallas picked up Lindsey at her apartment and they headed up the valley to her storage locker, to go through Carson Chappell's belongings. Across the green hills, fog drifted in a pale scarf that feathered and vanished as they moved inland up the two-lane road between pastures and small farms; in the yards of the scattered houses, yellow acacia trees bloomed, their honey-scented flowers bright against the pink blossoms of plum and cherry trees; daffodils buttered the meadows in wild clumps; and new colts played and rolled in the wet grass. Lindsey drank in the freshness of the valley, trying not to think about facing Carson's belongings again, not to think about opening those musty cartons that had been untouched for nearly ten years, about handling those small possessions that would stir her painful memories.

“The things we shared,” she said, looking over at Dallas. “So sentimental and silly, you'll wonder why I kept
them. Old theater tickets when we'd had a lovely evening. A sweater I knitted for him that he tore on a fencepost. And the photograph albums from our trips together, and from office parties.”

“How many albums?”

“Maybe a dozen, but most are from before we met.”

“How long did you work for Chappell and Gibbs?”

“Four years. We dated for about two years before he…disappeared.”

She didn't want to look at the pictures again, she didn't want to stir it all up. Didn't want the weight, again, of the memories she had managed to put away. Why had she kept everything? Right now, she wished she'd tossed it all. Wished she'd never seen that newspaper clipping, wished she hadn't started this. What compulsion had made her come to the police with that clipping?

Dallas watched her with interest. She was more reluctant than she should be, considering that she was responsible for this investigation, that
she
had come to him. If not for her intense curiosity, Oregon might never have made the connection, might never have ID'd Chappell.

Probably he and Mike, seeing the article and looking over the cold cases, would have followed up. Or not, he thought. There'd been no indication that Carson had ever gone up there, that he'd ever left the state.

“Still looks new,” Lindsey said as they approached the storage locker complex. “It was built the year I rented the smallest locker.” The building was well maintained and still looked fresh. It had been designed with the charm of the area in mind, white plastered front, red tile roof, handsome plantings, so that it was not an eyesore in the
community. The narrow gardens skirting the outside walls had grown lush now, with tall yellow
Euryops,
and lavender and early daylilies.

Dallas pulled the Blazer in through the wrought-iron gate, past the white stucco office, and on in between the rows of freshly painted metal buildings. The driveways had been swept clean. Her locker was in the center of the third row, a small, six-by-eight cubicle with her padlock on the door. Inside, it was half full of stacked, sealed boxes, and one filing cabinet that held her own back tax receipts, which she had seen no need to cart with her to L.A.

After the police had gone over his apartment, Carson's mother had sold his furniture but had kept his clothes and personal papers and all the other small detritus of Carson's life. Much of that life Lindsey had never known, had never been shared with her. Carson had kept the years after college to himself, didn't talk much about them though he'd been free enough with stories from his earlier years at Cal, and with stories of his childhood growing up along the Oregon coast.

Was that why he'd slipped away to Oregon? A sudden longing for the places he'd known as a boy? A sudden urge to be among the woods of his childhood, a last look back before he settled down to their new life? A need in some way so private that he hadn't wanted to discuss it?

Dallas had brought with him a lightweight folding table to make their work easier, and a small box cutter, and as he pulled out the marked cartons that he wanted and set them on the table, she slit them open and carefully laid out the contents, starting with the boxes of household linens and pots and pans and dishes—the black skillet crusted on
the outside with years of buildup that Carson hadn't bothered to remove, the ugly set of yellow-and-brown dishes he'd promised to take to Goodwill, the espresso machine she'd given him for Christmas a few months before they were to be married.

Opening a box marked “Miscellaneous,” examining coasters, an ashtray, a handful of keys, Dallas said, “This was all Carson's? None of it was yours?”

“The vases,” she said, unwrapping the last of the three. “He never had cut flowers in the apartment, so I brought these—two of them. I don't remember this one,” she said, holding up the more garish one with distaste. “It doesn't look like anything Carson would choose.”

Wearing gloves, as he'd asked her to do, she set the vases aside and opened a small leather box containing four old watches, three pairs of dark glasses, and two tie tacks.

“I've wondered why Carson's mother kept all this. And why I keep it. Irene said in case the police might want it later. Sometimes I've thought that was sensible, sometimes that it was foolish, that his mother just couldn't bear to throw it all away—and that maybe I felt the same. What
do
you expect to find?”

“I don't know. That's why we're looking. As I said, anything strange or out of place—like the vase. Anything that makes you curious or uneasy.”

Opening the box marked “Papers and Files,” she laid out the musty folders. There were a few letters in one file, none that seemed very personal.

“And all that we've looked at, so far,” Dallas said, “was Carson's? None of it's yours? What about the linens and
clothes?” he said, indicating several boxes they hadn't yet opened.

“I don't remember anything of mine. There
were
some women's clothes when his mother packed up.” She reached for a box labeled only with a question mark. “None of this was mine,” she said softly. “I've never known whose they were.”

“You never lived in that apartment?”

“I never lived with him. I've never been in favor of that. It seems so…” She frowned, trying not to sound stuffy or say too much, but wanting to put into words what she felt. “An affair, yes, if you're serious. But to live together unmarried seems—so indecisive,” she said lamely. “So…uncommitted.” She felt her face burning. “That sounds prudish and old-fashioned. But living together seems such an easy way out. A casual stop at a fork in the road, knowing that later you can easily change your mind and go another way. I don't like that—I hate the idea that such a relationship isn't important, that tearing it apart doesn't matter.”

Embarrassed and uneasy, she busied herself emptying a box of tapes and books. Dallas was silent, watching her.

“I consider your view refreshing,” he said quietly. “That kind of relationship should not be incidental and ephemeral.”

She still felt uneasy. “Makes me sound like I should be wearing laced corsets and twelve petticoats.”

“When Carson disappeared,” he said, “apparently there was a good deal of gossip about other women. That had to have upset you, to wonder if he
had
been so casual and secretive after making a serious commitment.”

She looked down, nodded. “My friends kept saying, what else should he be? All men expect to play the field, to get away with whatever they can.”

Dallas busied himself going through the small boxes of old belt buckles, pocketknives, an old camera, a couple of camping knives. He checked the camera for film and found it empty. “That's what some people want our society to be. Easy sex. Easy drugs. Easy crime. The more that people promote those ideas, the more infectious, and destructive, they become.”

Lindsey looked at him directly. “
That
is very refreshing. How…how does Mike feel about that?”

Dallas smiled. “Ask his daughters. I lived with Mike and his brother while the girls were growing up. Those girls never bought into the glitzy popular trends, they knew too much. They understood how such views weaken and destroy a culture. They knew the details of many of the cases we worked, they were too well informed to get sucked in.”

Turning away, he set the resealed box on the stack they had sorted through, and picked up the one marked “Albums.” She felt a chill watching him open it. This one would be painful. All the photos of her and Carson, sometimes with friends, or pictures they'd taken of each other on day trips hiking south of the village.

They spent the next hour going through album pages, Dallas asking people's names and where certain pictures had been taken, Lindsey recalling all she could while trying to numb herself to the memories.

There were pictures from the office, taken at office parties, Ray and Nina Gibbs hamming it up, looking so
happy together. Nina overdressed in her too bright outfits and too much jewelry. Lindsey could see, in every shot, the gold bracelet Nina always wore.

“The bracelet was an heirloom,” Lindsey said. “It was the only thing about which I ever heard her make a sentimental remark, ever show any warmth regarding her family.”

She studied the last page, a party shot of herself with Carson and her sister, Ryder. “One of our clients' homes, the Richard Daltons'. That was when Ryder still lived in the village.” She lifted the album, looking closer. In the picture, the glance between Carson and Ryder had always made her uneasy. She looked a long time, then closed the album.

He said, “That picture disturbs you. Why?”

She felt herself blushing. “I…She was always a flirt, my sister.”

Dallas nodded, and began to pack up the boxes. “I'd like to take some of the albums and the box of women's clothes back to the station. As the investigation progresses, maybe something will strike a note, make a connection.”

“Take anything that might help. And you can always come back later, I'll have a key made for you.” She taped up the last box, they stacked them neatly, folded up the table, locked the door, and headed out. They were halfway back to Molena Point when Dallas took a call on his cell phone. When it buzzed, Lindsey automatically touched her pocket, then remembered she'd left her phone at home, on the dresser—as she often did when she thought she wouldn't need it. Calls from clients could go on message, she didn't like being tied to the office once she'd locked the door behind her.

“How
old a grave?” Dallas was saying. “How much of the body did you…?” He paused, listening, talked for only a minute more, then pulled over to the shoulder of the two-lane, where he could park.

“I need to make a stop, up in the hills. There's a turnoff just ahead. You have time to ride up with me? It's the old Pamillon place. It would save me half an hour.”

“Of course,” she said, interested in his sudden tension. “I have time.”

Pulling onto the road again, he said, “You needn't look at the grave, you can stay in the car if you like.”

“I know it's silly, but I guess I don't want to look.” Yes, she would just stay in the car, sit quietly, take time to steady herself after this morning, after opening wounds that were still raw, that she very much wished she hadn't been foolish enough to stir into new life.

A
S
D
ALLAS AND
L
INDSEY
headed for the Pamillon ruins, down in the village, in Wilma's garden, the tortoiseshell cat crouched beneath the Icelandic poppies, scowling angrily at Sage, who, impeded by his bandages and cast, had backed, hissing, into a pink geranium bush. From beyond the blooms Dulcie watched with dismay the two young cats whose argument had turned hurtful and rude.

They had come out to wait for Charlie to arrive in her SUV, to take Sage up to the ranch for the remainder of his recovery. Kit had meant to go with him, had longed to stay close to him, but after three bad-tempered confrontations this week, and then this angry bout this morning that had nearly come to teeth and claws, Kit didn't know what she wanted.

The argument had started during breakfast, which Kit hurried across the rooftops to share with Sage and Dulcie. As the three cats crouched on their cushioned chairs enjoying scrambled eggs and bacon, Sage told Wilma with
amazing boldness that Thomas Bewick's book should be destroyed at once, that the pages must be ripped out and torn to shreds before they were seen by another human.

Wilma, despite her revulsion at destroying the rare volume, meant to do just that, once she and Charlie and the Greenlaws had enjoyed the small volume for just a little while—but she didn't have a chance to say anything, she'd barely opened her mouth when Kit lit into Sage.

“That book's too valuable to burn,” the tortoiseshell hissed. “It's old and handmade and rare!” Wilma didn't know whether Kit had absorbed that biblio-friendly attitude from enjoying the library with Dulcie or from her two human housemates who would find it impossible to mutilate a book.

“A beautiful book was never meant to be
burned
!” Kit said, growling at Sage. “What do you know! You're feral, you know nothing, you don't understand!”

Wilma and Dulcie had watched her, shocked that she would be so hurtful. Sage stared at her then turned silently away, hiding his face. Though Dulcie had held her tongue for the moment, Wilma wouldn't stay out of the matter. Hastily she had fetched the Bewick book from her locked desk and shown the cats what else she'd found, during the small hours of the previous night.

Because the book's binding had puzzled her, she had examined it several times. The front cover was the traditional board with embossed leather glued to it, but the back one seemed slightly padded between the leather and the board. The edges of the leather were fixed in the traditional way beneath the gold-decorated endpapers, which were richly printed with a pattern of tiny paw prints
among delicate ferns and leaves. But there was one place that seemed a little loose, as if perhaps it had been gently lifted, at some time, and then glued down again.

Late last night, while Dulcie and Sage slept, Wilma had risen from her bed, her curiosity fixed on that one small portion of the back endpaper. Slipping barefoot into the dark living room, turning on the desk lamp, she had examined the book again. As curious as any cat, she had carefully worked at the old, dry paper until she'd loosened it enough to peer beneath. This was a difficult thing for a librarian to do. Guilt had filled her because she was devaluing Bewick's work. But she was sure someone had already tampered with the endpaper, and she wanted to know why.

She had wondered, ever since she and Charlie retrieved the book, if Olivia had hidden it because, though unwilling to let anyone else see it, she couldn't bring herself to destroy it. She still had no real idea of the book's value, though she had researched Thomas Bewick on the Web and in bound catalogs in the library. The highest price for any edition had been a little over a thousand dollars. But this title had not been listed among those auctioned or for sale, had not appeared in any source she could find.

From the writing style, the typeface, and the style of bookmaking, she was certain this was truly Bewick's work. And last night, when she'd peeked with infinite care beneath the loose endpaper and discovered a thin sheaf of papers hidden there, she'd felt a sharp wave of terrible excitement.

Carefully she'd drawn out the handwritten pages. She'd thought at first these were Bewick's letters, and wouldn't
that be a find. The papers were yellowed and dry, the ink faded.

But though the letters were old, they were not by the author. She had read them through, then put the frail missives in a heavy envelope and tucked it into her lower desk drawer along with Bewick's book, and had carefully locked the drawer.

Now this morning, because of the cats' angry confrontation, she'd retrieved the letters and read them aloud. They chronicled the experiences by three generations of Pamillons with a succession of speaking cats. She wanted to show Sage that others had known about them yet had been careful to keep their secret. But she also wanted to show Kit that secrets
did
get passed on, that Sage was right to be wary—she'd shared the letters hoping to foster a better understanding between the two cats.

Once she read them aloud, she'd locked up the envelope and the book again and had gone off to work, leaving the three cats to wait for Charlie and praying they'd settle their differences.

But immediately the argument began. Sage wanted to try the lock, get at the book, and destroy it at once. Dropping awkwardly down from his kitchen chair, he'd hobbled through to the living room and attacked the drawer, clawing at the lock until Dulcie drove him back.

“This is my house! Wilma will take care of the book in her own time, in her own way.”

“How can you be sure?” Sage hissed.

“I
am
sure. I trust her with my life—every day I trust her to keep our secret.”

“Even if she means well,” Sage had growled, “even if she
means to destroy it sometime, if she doesn't do it
now
, someone could find it. If it's so valuable, someone could steal it, to sell. Maybe someone's already looking for it—Willow
said
there was someone searching among the ruins.

“If they find it and read it,” he hissed, “they'll come looking for us, too, looking for speaking cats!” He'd glared at Dulcie, his ears flat, his eyes blazing, and he'd attacked the desk again.

Together Dulcie and Kit drove him through the house and out the cat door into the garden, both lady cats hissing and clawing at him. There he'd waited alone, crouched miserably among the poppies, watching for Charlie's car, waiting to be taken away from this place.

But then at last Kit had slipped out again among the flowers to make up and be with him; Sage was her lifetime friend, her dear companion, and Kit did not want to see him hurting.

Dulcie had followed her, but then drew back as Sage told Kit how Stone Eye would have destroyed the book. “
That
was why we attacked Willow's band,” he said angrily. “Because
they
knew where the book was hidden. Stone Eye had known about the book for a long time, and he wanted it gone.
He
would have clawed it to shreds.”

Dulcie listened, shocked. She had watched Kit race back into the house lashing her fluffy tail, and when Charlie came to pick up Sage and Kit, only Sage was there, alone among the poppies.

“Where are Dulcie and Kit?” Charlie asked, glancing toward the house and then kneeling among the flowers, lifting his calico-smudged white face to look at him more clearly. “What's wrong?”

“Dulcie's in the house,” he growled.

“And Kit?”

Sage shrugged. “With her, I guess.”

Charlie looked at him for a long time, then picked him up and settled him in the car. “Stay here, Sage. Be still and stay here.” Her voice said she would brook no nonsense. And she went in to find the lady cats.

She found Dulcie sitting on the desk, but Kit was huddled behind the couch. When Charlie hauled her out, and got to the cause of the argument, she insisted Kit come up to the ranch with the young tom.

“I mean to show Sage my book, Kit, with the drawings of you. I'm thinking of doing some drawings of Sage, and of you two together.” This was what Charlie called a white lie, but it forced Kit's attention, bristling with jealousy.

“You wouldn't draw him,” the tortoiseshell whispered.

“Why wouldn't I? He's a very handsome young cat.”

“Because…Because he's all in bandages. You don't want—”

“That might be quite interesting,” Charlie said. “I might even do a book about Sage and how he was attacked.”

“You wouldn't!” Kit hissed, flattening her ears, glaring up at Charlie. “You wrote a book about me. Why would you want to write one about Sage!”

“Well, of course if you don't want me to take him up to the ranch and take care of him…Don't want me to fix him a big bed and special treats, if you don't want to come up and share the nice shrimp I bought, and the roast beef and rum custard, and make sure I change his bandages the way Wilma does—if you want Sage to be all alone, to go back alone to the clowder and never see him again…”

Glowering at Charlie's blackmail, Kit stalked through the house and out the cat door to the car, her ears flat, her tail low. When Charlie opened the door, she leaped in past Sage like a streak, over the back of the seat and down onto the shadowed floor among a tangle of bridle parts and sketch pads. There, crawling under a strong-smelling saddle blanket, she rode in sulking silence.

Kit didn't know how she felt. She cared for Sage, but he enraged her. She wanted to be with him, but she didn't. She felt a terrible disappointment in him for wanting to destroy the beautiful book. And why did he have to admire and try to be like Stone Eye? Wasn't there more to Sage than that hard and narrow view? Hunched in the dark under the horse blanket, Kit put her chin down on her paws and tried not to think about Sage, and could think of nothing else.

And when they got to the ranch, the moment Charlie parked and opened the door, Kit leaped out and raced straight to the barn and burrowed in a pile of straw. There she spent the rest of the morning, wishing Sage would come out and apologize, and ready to tear him apart if he tried.