Shirley Murphy: Cat Seeing Double

Empty and safe. The house had that hollow feel mat heralded deserted space. Shoving the satin bag in onto the carpet, he followed it, collapsing beside it.

He didn't want to drag it over to the station or to Garza's cottage in the daylight, he'd had enough trouble getting it home without alerting some nosy citizen. Oh look, what's that cat got? Come here, kitty. Let's have a look…

Right.

He sat contemplating the several options he could employ as a safe hiding place until dark. He considered his battered easy chair that Dulcie and Clyde and several other insensitive folk said resembled the hide of a molting elephant. He had hidden several valuable items in that well-clawed and fur-coated retreat. The purse need remain there only until dark, until he could carry it unseen across the village and slip it into the police station, or maybe into Garza's car-if he didn't rupture a neck muscle, getting it there.

Shoving the little bag between the cushions, he stretched out in front of his chair across an African throw rug, wondering what Clyde had left him for breakfast. And praying that his evidence would nail Marianna Landeau. Praying that Ryan's ordeal was about to be resolved.

The pan-broiled steaks were two inches thick, crisp and dark on the outside, deep pink within, so juicy and tender that Ryan almost groaned. She had left the curtains open so they could enjoy the sunset that blazed beneath the dark clouds. Sitting across from her dad at the kitchen table, tasting her first bite of steak, she sighed with a fine, greedy pleasure. "You can do, with a plain black skillet, what most chefs can't manage even with their fancy grills."

Mike Flannery grinned. "I've heard that line." She laughed, but she watched him carefully too. He wasn't even home yet, this was only the last leg of his trip, he had come down here to help her, worried about her, and she was going to dump these ugly rumors on him, lay out all Larn Williams's lies to cheer him.

But she had to talk about this if she were to resolve her own uncertainty, her own fears. Thinking about Williams's vicious story, on top of his tampering with her billing, she had grown increasingly frightened of what else he might plan to do, of what his ultimate goal might be.

Was Williams's mind simply twisted, was he an impossible mental case? Or had he killed Rupert? But why would he draw attention to himself?

Maybe his actions were a carefully planned harassment designed to keep her off-center and perhaps complicate the murder investigation? Designed to throw the police off track and protect someone else?

Her father put down his fork, watching her, his expression half amused at her fidgeting, half a frown of concern. "Whatever's bothering you, Ryan, spit it out. Before you choke on it."

"Something someone said. It's all lies. But… Well, lies that are hard to repeat."

"If it makes you this edgy, if you're embarrassed to say it, it has to be about me. What have I done? What did someone say I did?"

She looked at him helplessly.

"It wouldn't be the first time someone told a lie about law enforcement."

"He said it was common gossip in the city but I never heard anything like it, in the city or anywhere else."

He waited patiently, buttering his baked potato.

Hesitantly she began, repeating Williams's accusations. Flannery listened without comment, without interrupting. When she finished he asked only, "Do you believe him?"

"Of course I don't believe him. But-what's he up to? Is there some strange little thread on which he could build such lies? And there's more."

She told him about the break-in, about Larn cooking her books and switching the bills. "What's scary is, this has to fit in with Rupert's murder. That's what's scary."

"What makes you think that?"

"You and Dallas always say, never believe in coincidence."

"Have you told Dallas what Williams said, and about the billing?"

"I called him about the bills, the night it happened. But what Williams said… I didn't tell him that."

"Why not?"

"Partly because I made a spectacle of myself in the restaurant when he told me those things. I lost my temper, big-time. Strong-armed him and marched him outside. I just… I suppose Dallas has heard that, by now. If Clyde hadn't come along and stopped me, I would have pounded him. What a weird bird. He just went limp, didn't try to fight me, didn't do anything. As if-"

"As if he likes the ladies to pound him?"

"That's sick."

"Can you make any connection between Williams and Rupert? Or, even between Williams and the bombing on Sunday?"

"No, I can't. It's such a muddle. Except, it all seems to connect to San Andreas. Williams lives and works there. I just finished the Jakes job there. And Curtis Farger was staying up there before the bombing. He came down from San Andreas in my truck, hidden in the back with the dog." She sighed. "Maybe one thing just led to another, but…"

"Go over it step by step, the relationships. Begin with your job in San Andreas."

"I had remodeled a house for the Jakeses in the city, so it was natural for them to come to me for their vacation addition. They approached me, in fact, before I left Rupert. After I left, I told them I didn't want to take the job away from the firm, but they said they wanted me, that they didn't want to deal with Rupert. So I agreed.

"Then when I moved down here to the village, the Jakeses recommended me to the Landeaus because Marianna and Sullivan had bought a teardown here. The Landeaus came down and we talked. She sort of scared me, she was so… austere. One of those gorgeous natural blondes, but without any warmth. Intimidating. We went over the property, I gave them my assessment, and I ended up remodeling the teardown.

"As to Larn Williams, he just showed up when I was working on the Jakeses' place. Wanted me to bid on a job for one of his real-estate clients." She looked helplessly at her father. "I can't see a connection. I didn't realize then how strange Larn is, I didn't see that." She studied her dad's preoccupied frown. "What?"

Flannery was quiet.

"Do you know something about Larn Williams?"

"Would you have a picture of Mrs. Landeau?"

"No. Why?"

"How old would you say she is?"

"I… Maybe a beautiful forty-some."

"I had a parolee who would fit that description. Let me do some checking. What do you know about her?"

"That they'd been living in L.A. for some years before they moved to the Bay Area, maybe a year ago."

"Did she say that she'd lived in San Francisco before?"

"Marianna doesn't chitchat. But she does know the city. She didn't ask directions when Hanni and I sent her to various out-of-the-way shops and decorator supply houses."

"What does Hanni think of her?"

"Cold fish," Ryan said, grinning.

"I had a woman on my caseload a few years back who would fit her description. She came out on parole after serving a conviction for bank fraud. I hadn't had her a month when she was into a complicated embezzlement operation. I told her to clean it up or she was going back. When she tried to make trouble, I sent her back. A vindictive sort. Served the balance of her sentence, when she came out I had no reason to keep tabs on her. I heard she'd moved down to L.A. and married into a fair amount of money, not all of it clean."

He cut some scraps from his steak and put them on a plate for Rock. Ryan watched him spoil the big weimaraner in a way he would never have allowed for his own dogs. "Seems far-fetched," he said, "but let me see what I can find out."

"But why would she-"

"Let's see what I can turn up. If this is Martie Holland, I'll tell you the rest of the story." Watching her expression, he laughed. "No, I wasn't involved with her."