Кроха - Dedication

“I think,” Sam said, “I think that boy’s hair was darker. Yes, a darker brown, and longer, down around his neck. Hard to remember,” he said, “when I was sprawled there dizzy and hurt, and he was running away . . .” He looked down at his hands, at the scuff marks that the medics had bandaged.

“I guess,” Sam said lamely, “I guess I could be wrong. I was so frightened and confused when I was knocked over, the sidewalk seemed to be whirling under me, so dizzy . . .”

Max and the detectives watched him with interest. Had the Bleaks thought, with the crime scene cleared at the remodel and the yellow tape removed, Billy would be cleaning up there now as Tekla had demanded? Had they, this morning, seen Scotty, or maybe Ryan or both off in the village running errands, maybe picking up material? Assuming Billy was working alone as he sometimes did, thinking there would be no witness to the boy’s whereabouts, had they jumped at the chance to stage their little ruse, to lay the crime on Billy? A spark of inspiration that went bad? Joe and Kit, looking hard at them, wished they could stare the truth right out of that pair of liars.

“Even if you’re not sure of the identity,” Max was saying, “if you file a complaint describing the attack, that will help us. That would be considerable assistance in finding whoever did attack you. You needn’t mention Billy at all, if you’re not sure he was involved.”

He handed Sam a clipboard with a complaint form. Sam took it with his right hand, laid it carefully against his hurt left arm. The chief handed a second form to Tekla. Joe watched Max pick up one of the folding chairs and settle Tekla across the room. “You need to each do your form separately, without discussion,” he told her.

The chief and Kathleen had already taken their statements, that was the complaint. Now Max was poker-faced. Joe had seen him at the card table with that look, running a bluff.

“Describe only what you remember,” the chief told Sam. “Tell what happened as best you can, just as you told it to me and Detective Ray. You’re the only witnesses we have. Your statement is of great value.” Max’s demeanor was smooth as silk. As Sam filled out the form, bent earnestly over the clipboard, Evijean came out from behind the counter carrying her purse. One of the rookies came down the hall to take her place, relieving her for an early lunch, a blond young man brushing a speck of lint from his uniform. Evijean had hardly left when Kit stiffened, peering out the glass door.

Joe barely caught sight of Dulcie as she slid past the station following Evijean. The next minute, as two civilians came in, Kit slipped out and fled down the sidewalk, to follow Dulcie. Why was Dulcie out of the house where Wilma had meant for her to rest and act matronly? And what the hell was she up to? Joe remained still, his ears back, watching them. He wanted to follow her, too, but his questions swung so sharply back to the Bleaks that he stayed put.

The couple had finished up their complaint forms, signed them, and were handing them to Captain Harper. Something about the look they exchanged as they headed for the door held Joe.

They left the station quickly, Tekla determinedly pushing Sam’s wheelchair as if wanting to be swiftly away from MPPD and Max Harper. As Max turned to the desk with the forms, Joe leaped up beside him, rubbing chummily against his arm.

Max looked down, laughing at him. Joe was happy to lighten the chief’s mood, and as Max stroked him, he got a look at the forms with the Bleaks’ rental address.

Molena Point did not have house numbers. Sam identified the street and cross streets in the usual way, then the name of the house, Daffodil Walk, with an added note, “the guesthouse in the back.” Joe knew the house, a two-story frame painted butter yellow. Joe had never seen a daffodil in the yard. Giving Max a nudge and a purr, Joe dropped down from the counter, galloped to the glass door, and yowled stridently for the chief to let him out.

“Spoiled, worthless tomcat,” Max said, sounding too much like Clyde.

Smiling, Joe slipped through the open door, skinned up the oak tree as Max turned back inside, and scorched away over the rooftops. He wanted to arrive at Tekla and Sam’s rental before they did. He wanted to slip into the apartment behind them and hastily conceal himself.

23

Dulcie was already gone from in front of the PD when Joe Grey went racing out, headed for the Bleaks’ rental. Watching the busy lobby, she had drawn back when Evijean came out and headed along the street. A few doors down stood Effie Hoop in her red sweatshirt, smiling, waiting for Evijean. What was this? Did these two know each other? Curious, Dulcie followed, slipping along in the shadow of the building. She watched the two women hug in greeting. They glanced toward the police station, then quickly entered the new little tearoom that stood between two larger shops.

The leaded front windows were low to the ground, looking out on a row of ceramic pots planted with red geraniums. Dulcie stood half hidden among these, looking in. The tiny restaurant was charming, was most attractive to tourists. It was handy to the department, too, for a quick snack. But a cop wouldn’t be caught there with its fluffy flowered curtains, its décor as overdone as a dollhouse. It was perfect, however, for lunch for the two ladies. Dulcie wondered where Effie had left her husband, Howard. This was sure not his kind of place. And how did they know each other, Effie, with her strange remarks about San Francisco, and sour, bad-tempered Evijean? They looked as easy together as old, dear friends as they were led, laughing and talking, to a frilly corner table, its ruffled cloth printed with a tangle of daisies.

When Kit appeared suddenly pushing in beside her, Dulcie nuzzled her in greeting; both cats were so focused on Evijean and Effie that when another two ladies entered they slid inside at once and under a padded window seat.

The tearoom was small, its decorative windows framed by ruffled curtains. Though the day was warm, a tiny stone fireplace sheltered an equally tiny but welcoming flame of miniature logs. The women, only glancing at their menus, were already deep into a discussion. Dulcie crouched, listening. Hadn’t Effie Hoop or Howard mentioned a sister, that morning in the café patio over breakfast? But Effie was saying, “It doesn’t make sense. Seven attacks, three of them jurors. Those jurors dead, plus the two killed in the city. But what about the others, those here in the village that had no connection to the trial?”

She went quiet as the waitress came to take their order, setting down a pot of hot water and a selection of teas. Both women ordered a small salad and scones.

“Those other attacks,” Evijean said, “may be a diversion. The department thinks that’s what it was.”

“I suppose that’s possible. What did you find out this morning?”

“They have more photographs. They took shots this morning, too. And they have some kind of new evidence, Detective Garza came in with a box full of evidence bags. I didn’t get a look, he took them on back to his office. As for Herbert Gardner,” Evijean said, “as far as anyone knows he didn’t have any connections. No family anywhere.

“But someone’s out to get the jury that convicted him.”

“Maybe some slimy friend of his,” Effie said, “that the investigators didn’t find.”

“Whatever,” Evijean said, “Marilain’s dead, that can’t be undone. It’s not surprising,” she added. “The girl was no better than a streetwalker.”

“No matter what she was, she was our niece! Our own brother’s child. It’s not his fault she went bad.”

Dulcie and Kit glanced at each other. The two women, despite their difference in size and bulk, did look alike, their pale coloring, their long noses. Effie’s brown hair had started to go gray. Evijean was some years younger, but her hair was so faded that, under the strange blond coloring, it must be graying, too.