Shirley Murphy - Cat Breaking Free

Ryan had called her when she left the restaurant, so mad she could hardly talk. Charlie lay puzzling over what Slayter had told Ryan, puzzling over Slayter's arrival in the village at just this time, as well as Chichi's sudden appearance right next door to Clyde. And she began to wonder why Max had received no anonymous phone tips on this case.

Still, though, Max and Dallas were gathering information and biding their time, waiting for more police files to come in from L.A. So maybe Joe and Dulcie were doing that, too.

She was smiling to herself in the dark, thinking about two little cats wandering the station, pawing through reports, tucking away sensitive facts, when she heard, in the still night, one of the cats in the kitchen crunching kibble.

That would be the kit, she thought, grinning. In a little while, she saw the little cat's shadow prowling the patio, restlessly stalking, her long, fluffy tail twitching. Was Kit, too, thinking about the jewel robbery? More likely, about the new house. Charlie thought about the amazing accident that had brought Kit here, to the Greenlaws. That wild band had never before, in Kit's lifetime, traveled this far north. What had drawn the clowder to Hellhag Hill, and drawn the Greenlaws to picnic there? Surely that had been a wonderfully happy accident. Or had it been more than an accident?

That meeting between Kit and the Greenlaws, then Charlie herself moving to Molena Point, had resulted in Charlie's book in progress. Serendipity? A happy accident? Or a gift of grace? A gift she would do her best to honor.

Snuggled close to Max, Charlie promised herself that she would produce, in this book, the best work she could create, an adventure to touch the heart of every reader. She lay smiling, lost again in the story-and the next thing she knew the alarm was buzzing and she was out of bed before she came fully awake. Pulling on her jeans and sweatshirt and boots, she went to feed the horses and dogs and then to start breakfast.

Picking up the two girls again the next morning, Ryan headed straight for the ranch, no stopping this morning for breakfast; she and Rock had shared a bowl of cereal; though he'd had his dog food to himself. She wanted to get the upstairs dried in before any chance of rain. Early spring on the central coast could be temperamental, California wasn't all sunshine and warm beaches. The roughing in was finished, the roof raised and the new studs in place. Today they would get the exterior sheeting and roof sheeting on. The flooring was being delivered this morning, too, and the drywall, all of which needed to be stacked under cover before bad weather hit. When she stopped for the girls, they climbed in the back seat sleepy and quiet; they were silent until, in the center of the village, Dillon came alert, suddenly glued to the window.

"There she is again!" They were passing a small cafe patio that was half filled with early breakfast customers. "What does she do, at the crack of dawn? For hours, like that? Looking up and down the street and writing things down. She's spying on someone. How long's she been sitting there?"

Ryan glanced in her rearview mirror. "What?'

"That same blonde," Dillon said, "that lives next door to Clyde, that bimbo who was all over him yesterday when we pulled up at his house. Who is she?"

"That cheap blonde with the tight sweaters and big boobs," Lori specified.

Ryan glanced at Lori, amused, and turned off Ocean up the highway, heading for the Harper place.

"We've seen her four times," Lori said, "sitting in different restaurants early in the morning. For hours, alone, watching the street. Writing something in a notebook. She's never eating, just coffee. How much coffee can a person drink?"

"Hours, Lori? How would you know that?' "We've been taking the dogs to the beach," Lori said. "Susan Brittain's dogs." Susan was one of the four senior ladies Lori had lived with since her father went to prison. Lori loved the standard poodle and the Dalmatian, and got along well with them. "I don't like that woman, she's a tramp."

Ryan gave her a stern look in the mirror, trying not to laugh.

"Well she is. She's there when we go down, real early before school, and she's there when we come back. Once was later, Saturday. We were in the library." She glanced at Dillon, who grinned sheepishly.

Dillon's current English teacher was assigning long, detailed papers, and would not let the kids go online to do their research. It had to be from books, with the sources properly noted, all footnotes in correct form-and no adult help.

Dillon had never worked this way, she said all the kids complained. Two dozen parents were so angry they were trying to get the teacher fired. But a dozen more applauded her. Dillon found the new method very hard and demanding. She didn't care, at the moment, that the training would put her in the top ranks when applying for college. She didn't care that she was learning to do far more thorough and accurate research than anyone could ever do online, or that you couldn't do adequate college work without those basics. But while Dillon wasn't happy with the assignments, Lori was having a ball.

Two years younger, Lori tried not to be smug that she knew her way among the reference books. Before Lori's mother died, she'd often taken Lori to work with her in the library, and had often let her help with reference projects.

No one had said Dillon couldn't have help from a younger child. Surely her teacher had never imagined that a twelve-year-old would have those skills. And while Lori was hugely enjoying the challenge, and Dillon was learning, the situation deeply embarrassed the older girl.

Below the highway, the sea gleamed in the brightening morning, the little waves flashing silver up at them. The tide was in, the surf pounding high against the black rocks, the smell of the sea sharp with salt and iodine and little dead sea-creatures. Ryan glanced at the girls. "So what do you think she was watching?"

Dillon shrugged. "Hard to tell. I didn't see anything very interesting. A man from the shop across the street watering his garden. Cars creeping by. Couple of tourists walking their dogs."

"Which shop, Dillon?"

"That posh leather one," Lori said. "With the Gucci bags."

"And the other times?"

"Dormeyer's Jewelry once," Lori said. "When we took the dogs down before supper, and were coming home. Sunday night, gray-haired man closing up, locking the door."

"That was Mr. Dormeyer," Dillon said. "He owns the shop."

"Was anyone with him?" Ryan asked. "His wife?"

"A woman left about an hour before," Lori said. "Gray hair, a long skirt and sandals. He left last, locked the door."

Ryan nodded. Gray-haired Mena Dormeyer usually wore long, flowered skirts, and sandals, even on cold winter days, varying her wardrobe only with a heavy, hand-knit sweater. And maybe with wool tights under the skirt, she thought. She slowed for a car to pass in the opposite direction, then turned left onto the Harpers' lane. Moving slowly between the white pasture fences, approaching the barn, she studied the new end walls of the second story, their skeletons pale in the early light. The side walls had been stripped of the old roofing shingles but were still covered with age-darkened plywood. Scotty's truck was parked in the yard. She caught a flash of his red hair and beard as he disappeared around the back of the barn, where they had stashed their ladders and equipment out of the way of the horses. Parking the truck, she watched the girls head into the house to get permission before they saddled the horses.

Ordinarily, Dillon would have been welcome to work on the construction, doing odd jobs, but Ryan didn't want her on the second floor, balancing on open joists. Dillon's work permit spelled out clearly the safety precautions Ryan would take. Ryan had not only signed the agreement but had of course promised Dillon's parents that she would be closely supervised. This was not medieval England, where a fourteen-year-old was expected to do adult work and was paid a bit of stale bread and a lump of coal.