Shirley Murphy - Cat Seeing Double

"I told you it was too open. And why would I turn on the radio? I can hear the restaurant tape just fine. How about that little service counter? You could hide behind the coffeepots."

"And if I suffer third-degree burns? We don't have pet insurance." Studying the crowded dining patio, Joe picked out four possible refuges, none of which looked adequate to hide a healthy mouse. Listening to the sweet, rocking runs of Ella Fitzgerald, he considered the layout.

Maybe the best method was the direct one. The in-your-face approach. Why not? A mew and a wriggle. Well, hello, Ryan, fancy seeing you here. A good loud purr. So what are you having for supper?

The moment Ryan and Larn were shown to their table, Joe slipped through the open window of the Hudson, dropped to the sidewalk, and headed for the jasmine vine that climbed to the roof beside the kitchen.

The couple was seated nearly in the center of the patio, not his preferred location. From high up within the vine, he watched them peruse their menus. He could feel Clyde watching him-the same sense of invasion as if Clyde were looking over his shoulder while he worked a mouse hole.

Ryan was wearing a handsome pair of faded jeans, a pearl-gray sweatshirt, expensive-looking leather sandals, and gold earrings. Her color was high, her makeup more skillfully applied than Joe had before seen, her dark hair curling fresh and crisp. A nice balance between the casual and self-assured village look, and feminine charm. A very effective statement: I don't care, but still a come-on designed to intrigue Williams.

Williams, in contrast, had made a conscious and awkward effort to impress. He was not an attractive man, and his too-careful attire didn't help. He might be thirty-five or so. It was hard to tell, with humans. He was thin-shouldered, his hair mousy and lank around his shoulders, his thin face resembling a particularly sneaky rodent. He wore crisply pleated brown slacks of some synthetic fabric that had an unpleasant shine, and an expensive paisley print shirt beneath a brown tweed sport coat-all just a bit too much, particularly in Molena Point. His shiny brown shoes were meant for the city, not for a casual village evening. As a waiter approached the couple, Joe slipped down the vine, meandered across the bricks in full sight between the crowded tables, stepped beneath their table, and lay down.

Staring at Ryan's sandals and at Williams's hard, cheap shoes he sniffed the heady aroma of charbroiled burgers. If Ryan was aware of him she gave no sign- until suddenly, startling him, she draped her hand over the side of her chair and wiggled her fingers.

Maybe she did understand cats, Joe thought, grinning. He rubbed his face against her hand, wondering why she didn't make some joke to Williams about the freeloading cat. Wondering, as he listened to them order, if he might be able to cadge a few French fries.

While Joe ran surveillance on Ryan Flannery and Larn Williams, and Clyde sat in the old Hudson with his cap over his face ready to leap out and protect Ryan, or maybe even protect a certain tomcat, two hundred miles away Max Harper, standing in the high-ceilinged white marble entry of the Landeau mansion, was kept waiting for nearly twenty minutes after the short, stocky, white-uniformed housekeeper admitted him.

According to the Landeaus' sour-face maid, Mrs. Landeau was out of town but Mr. Landeau would soon be with him. She did not invite the captain in past the cold marble entry, but motioned with boredom toward a hard marble bench. As if he were one of an endless line of door-to-door hustlers selling magazines or some offbeat religion.

Accompanied by a white marble faun and two nude marble sprites, Harper waited impatiently, wondering at the architecture and decor the Landeaus' had chosen in selecting this particular mountain retreat. There was no hint of the natural materials that one expected in a country setting, no wood or native stone to give a sense of welcome. He had cooled his heels for seventeen minutes and was rising to leave when Landeau made an appearance.

Sullivan Landeau was tall and slim, with reddish hair in a becoming blow-dry, an excellent carriage, a moderate tan that implied tennis and perhaps sailing but some concern for the damages of the harsh California sun. He was dressed in immaculate white slacks, a black polo shirt and leather Dockers. His gold Rolex, nestled among the pale, curly hairs of his wrist, caught a gleam from the cut-glass chandelier. His smile was cool, faintly caustic. "Mrs. Landeau is not at home. As a matter of fact, she's down in your area, on business. Staying in Half Moon Bay tonight, then on down to Molena Point early in the morning to attend to some rental property. I hope you are not here because of some problem with one of our tenants."

"Not at all," Max said, looking him over.

Landeau waited coolly for Harper to state his business, his expression one of tolerance with which he might regard a slow bank teller or inept service-station attendant.

"Perhaps I should be speaking with an estate manager," Max said. "Someone who would be familiar with your employees."

"I am familiar with my employees."

"I'm looking for information about Hurlie Farger, I'd like some idea of his work record, what kind of service he's given you, how long he's been with you."

Landeau looked puzzled. "I'm afraid I don't know the name. Are you sure this person worked here? When would that have been? We've had the estate only three years. In what capacity would he have been employed?"

"My information is that he works here now, part-time, odd jobs on the grounds crew and filling in as a mechanic."

Landeau shook his head. "We don't have a Farger. You had better speak with my estate foreman. He's working east of here about four miles, up that back, dirt road. They're cutting timber." He glanced at his watch. "But of course they'll have quit for the day."

Max slipped a mug shot of Gerrard Farger from his pocket. The brothers so closely resembled each other that a person would have to know them very well to see a difference. "You may not recall his name, but as owner of the estate you would remember the faces of those who serve you." Max smiled. "I see he looks familiar."

Landeau had let down his guard for an instant, lowering his eyes as if deciding which way to play his response.

"My information," Max said, "is that he's worked for you for several years."

"The face, yes," Landeau said smoothly. "I believe I recognize this man. If I'm correct, if I have the right man, I believe he was fired six months ago. Something, as I recall, about an arrest, which I won't tolerate. I believe he got into some kind of trouble down in San Andreas. Burglary or shoplifting, or maybe it was something to do with a woman, I don't recall." Landeau looked levelly at Harper. "We don't condone that kind of behavior, it leads to trouble for the estate. Has he been into more trouble? I hope nothing too serious. But it must be serious," Landeau added, "for a chief of police from the coast to come all the way up here."

"Not at all," Harper said. "We're on vacation, heading home. Thought it expedient to collect what information we could, not lay more work on your sheriff." He had no way to know whether Landeau was aware of the bombing in Molena Point. "You say Hurlie Farger hasn't worked for you in six months."

"To the best of my knowledge."

"Would you say that if we show otherwise, you would be open to a charge of obstructing justice?"

"I certainly wouldn't want that," Landeau said. "It may have been less than six months."

"Or perhaps you only considered firing him? Perhaps you changed your mind and let him stay on?"

Landeau shook his head. "It's possible my wife may have done so, in a fit of charity. You know how women are."