Shirley Murphy - Cat Seeing Double

But she couldn't keep him. When would she hunt him? When would she work him? It wouldn't be fair to the dog.

Pulling up beside the little park she dropped the choke chain over his head, fastened on the leash, snatched up her sandwich bag as she stepped out, and gave him the command to come. He was immediately out of the truck sitting before her as she closed the door, then moving to heel.

Oh, yes, a dream dog, a treasure.

Leaning over the truck bed she opened the kibble bag and scooped a large serving into one of the two bowls she had bought. Carrying the bowls and a bottle of water and her own breakfast she headed for a sprawling cypress tree near the edge of the park, settling down beneath it on the grass. The cool fall morning was silent except for the cries of the gulls and the faint whish of a few passing cars. The dog lay down beside her alertly watching the kibble bowl that she still held. At the other end of the park some children were playing catch, their voices cutting the silence. A few tourists wandered across the grass or sat on the scattered benches, and a pair of joggers passed her. When she put the bowls down, the kibble vanished quickly, as did half the water. She didn't offer more food, she didn't want him throwing up. Their alfresco picnic apparently presented an interesting study because several cars slowed to have a look. She savored her hamburger and fries, wondering if she was stupid to take the dog over to the jail. Would his presence encourage Curtis to talk, or was that wishful thinking?

Whatever she thought of the kid, up in San Andreas he had seemed so tender toward the dog. But knowing now what he was capable of, that he had tried to kill half the village, maybe this visit was futile. And she wondered if, when she faced Curtis again, she could keep her anger under control.

Still, if Dallas didn't find the old man, Curtis was the only lead they had to unraveling the full story of the bombing. Her preoccupation with that urgent matter served very well to ease her own fears, to put in perspective her own precarious position. This boy, son of the man Max Harper had helped prosecute for drug making, had nearly killed Max and Charlie and maybe the entire wedding party.

The silence of the early Sunday afternoon was broken suddenly by Dixieland jazz blaring from an approaching convertible, and a pale blue Mercedes pulled to the curb, parking illegally in the red zone, the top down, her sister Hanni behind the wheel. Hanni's short silver hair was styled to a flip of perfection, her long silver earrings caught the sunlight, her million-dollar grooming made Ryan feel, as always, all ashes and sackcloth, made her snatch uselessly at her uncombed hair and stare down at the stain on her sweatshirt.

Hanni remained in the car quietly observing the dog in a way that made Ryan bridle with possessiveness. Then she looked up at Ryan with such concern that Ryan knew she'd heard about Rupert, that probably Dallas had called her. Hanni would know every detail: Ryan's gun found in the trash, the bullets embedded in her garage wall, the fact that Ryan had no witness to her own whereabouts during the time that Rupert was killed.

"Private picnic?" Hanni called, turning the CD down to a soft rhythm and swinging out of the car. Her long, thin legs were encased in faded blue jeans that matched exactly the blue of the Mercedes, her slim, tanned feet cosseted in expensive handmade sandals. Above the denims she wore one of numerous handmade sweaters, this number a bright rainbow of many colors that set off Hanni's prematurely gray hair. She stood looking at the dog with wide-eyed admiration.

"Where did he come from? He's beautiful. Dallas didn't mention a dog." She waited impatiently for an explanation, watching Rock, not Ryan. Then seeing that no answers were forthcoming she sat down on the grass oblivious to dirt or grass stains-she wouldn't have any, and Ryan didn't know how she did that. Watching Ryan, Hanni searched gently for an exact reading to the morning's events, making Ryan's throat tighten. Sympathy always made her cry.

"You can tell me the bad stuff later," Hanni said. "Except, is there anything I can do?"

Ryan shook her head. "It… I don't think I want to talk about it." She looked up at Hanni. "The dog isn't mine. Well, maybe he is if I can't find the owner. If I could figure out how to keep him," she said hastily. "He showed up this morning, he was up in San Andreas."

"You brought him back with you?"

"No, I told you… he showed up on his own. He was in the kitchen when I went up after… after Dallas left."

Hanni frowned, puzzled.

"He was hanging around up at the trailer, with those kids. They said he was a stray."

"A dog like this?"

"We tried to find his owner." She told Hanni the story, and how she thought the dog had found his way to Molena Point.

"And now you're going to reunite him with that Farger boy? See if you can get the kid to talk?" Hanni stared at her. "You think you can soften up that kid? You think if he joined that old man in setting a bomb, you can get the kid to spill on him?"

"I need to try. The dog might make a difference."

Hanni just looked at her; but then her gaze softened. "If I can help, I'm here." Rising, she rubbed the dog behind the ears then opened his mouth with easy familiarity and looked at his teeth. "Young. Maybe two years old." She gave Ryan a clear, green-eyed look. "If you can't find the owner, you have a real treasure. He's some handsome fellow." She rose and backed away watching him move as he followed her. When she sat down again the dog dropped down beside her stirring a hot surge of jealousy in Ryan. To look at her and Hanni, anyone would pick Ryan as the rough-and-tumble dog person, not impeccably groomed Hanni Coon. Yet it was Hanni who seemed able to train the roughest dog and still look like she was dressed for a party, not a smear of dirt, not a hair out of place.

Hanni lifted the dog's silky ears and looked inside, checking for ear mites and for a possible tattoo. She avoided mentioning Rupert directly. They both knew Ryan would be under investigation for his murder and that Ryan too might be in some danger. Picking up Ryan's purse Hanni opened it, reached into her own purse and, shielded by the dog and by Ryan, she slipped an unloaded revolver into Ryan's bag with a box of shells. She looked up at Ryan. "Until this is over, until you get yours back."

"Did Dallas…?"

"No. He doesn't need to know," she said, ignoring the intricacies of California gun laws that gave a person a carrying permit for only specified models. Hanni patted Ryan's hand with sisterly tenderness. "I'm headed for the Landeau house. You have time to come along?"

"The rug arrived from England, it's in San Francisco. It will be down by truck, a day or two. I went over this morning to see if the gallery had delivered the sculpture for the fireplace. The floor's wet, I guess from last week's rain."

"Wet? How can it be wet?"

"The Landeaus have already installed the sculpture, I don't know when they were down. Not there now, and I can't get them on the phone. I nearly sank in water, the floor's soaked. That temporary rug under the skylight. We need to find the leak, we can't put down the new rug, with a leak."

"There is no leak. I didn't build a leaky house. What did they spill?" Ryan could feel anger heat her face. "I installed that skylight myself, Scotty and I. It couldn't have leaked, it has a huge lip and overhang and it's all sealed, you saw how it's made. That's the top-of-the-line model. It's molded all in one piece, absolutely leak-proof. We checked with the hose, Hanni! Did you call the Landeaus? What did they say?" The idea that an item she'd ordered and checked out might be shoddy infuriated her.

She had finished the Landeau remodel shortly before she left for San Andreas. The Landeaus had bought the place as a teardown, meaning to start from ground up, but she'd talked them into gutting and refurbishing the well-built old cottage, turning it into a small and elegant Mediterranean retreat. She had torn out walls to create a flowing space for living, dining and master bedroom, and removed the old ceilings. The high, angled roof beams rose now to an octagonal skylight directly over the sunken sitting area.