Luis's shoulders relaxed. "It's all worked out. Nothing you need to worry over."
Joe saw her temper flare, but it was immediately hidden as she glanced down. The redhead said, "The test run won't hurt nothing."
Luis glared at him, glancing in the direction of Clyde's house. "Keep your voice down."
"He won't hear you," Chichi said. "I don't hear a thing from over there, even when he has company-that woman carpenter. What kind of guy dates a carpenter? She doesn't have any clothes but jeans and muddy boots. So, what do I do for the test run?"
"The usual," Luis said. "You and Tommie." He nodded at the redhead. "Watch, listen. Keep count-numbers, direction. You know the drill."
Tommie punched at the map, picking out another intersection. "There's an alley here, north side of the street. One of them fancy alleys, a bench halfway down it, out of the way."
Chichi nodded. "I can't wait for the big one."
Luis laughed. "Just like old times."
"Better," she said softly. Joe saw a flicker of impatience cross her face, but it was gone at once. She gave Luis another dazzling smile and touched his hand. "What a blast." When Chichi looked up at the window again, Joe pretended interest in a branch above him, stealthily moving higher as if stalking a bird. What was the woman staring at? But then she looked away, and leaned for a moment on Tommie's shoulder. "Just like old times." That made both men smile.
Joe watched Luis fold the map and stuff it in his pocket. The men rose. He didn't want to leave the tree until they were gone. When at last they swung out the door, he leaped to the roof above them, peering over. Chichi stood in the doorway then moved to the drive, watching them approach their car. Joe followed above them, trotting along beside the metal roof gutter. When they turned to get into the car, he got a better look at their faces.
The redhead, Tommie, might be thirty, his face sharply sculpted, sharp nose, sharply pointed chin, angled cheekbones, his features as harsh as his stiff crew cut. The Latino guy was about the same age, but his broad, tanned face was more pleasant. He seemed to have a built-in smile, the kind of smile that would encourage anyone to like him, the kind of smile Joe seldom trusted. They swung into the brown Plymouth and backed out. As they pulled away, Joe headed back across the roof to the lemon tree, ignoring the voice in his head that said, "Watch your step, tomcat. Keep your eye on Chichi." Dropping down among the brittle twigs and sparse leaves, he glanced into Chichi's bedroom.
She had moved the night table back into place beside the bed. She was sitting on the bed with two pillows behind her, her feet tucked up, her eyes closed, her face so sad that Joe stared, amazed. What was she thinking? What sad memory filled her?
Likely some scam that went wrong, some crime left uncommitted. But for a long moment, as Joe watched her, his critical judgment almost softened. For one instant, he almost began to like the woman-until common sense kicked in once more, until the tomcat was himself again, suspicious and judgmental. Well, he was a cat, he could be as judgmental as he chose. That was his God-given feline prerogative.
Chichi was quiet for a long time, sitting with her eyes closed, lost in some scenario he'd give a brace of mice to understand. When at last she rose and left the room, moving away through an inner door toward the front of the house, he remained in the tree, thinking.
What was this plan involving the village? What he'd heard could mean anything. Some con game, maybe during a sports event? An onslaught of pickpockets? Nothing he had heard clearly indicated a crime in the planning, but what else could it be? He heard the TV come on from the living room. The daytime soaps? Oh, spare us, he thought irritably.
But the sound of those inane and tasteless melodramas would serve him well enough; and he studied Chichi's window, below him.
It was old, of the double-hung kind. Most such windows had old, round locks, frail or long ago broken.
Clyde would say he was overreacting, that Chichi had committed no crime nor had the trio actually talked about a crime. And maybe he would be right.
Or not, Joe thought. Whatever the truth, in the tomcat's view it was best to have a look, see what he could see.
He had leaped to the sill, his face pressed to the glass when the distant TV went silent. As he sailed back into the tree, she returned to the bedroom carrying a cup of coffee. Setting down the cup, Chichi looked right at him, right smack into his eyes. Panicked, Joe dropped into the scruffy grass and fled, his macho dignity forgotten.
Slipping around the corner of the house, he sailed to the top of his own wall and dropped to his own safe patio. That woman scared him, gave him the creeps. Crouched on the barbecue, he looked down at Clyde who was kneeling beside Rube, feeding him bits of the special diet the doctor had prescribed. The old Lab was not fond of what was best for him. Joe had to agree; most often, anything really good for you tasted like shredded bank statements. Clyde looked up, scowling.
"I take it you were eavesdropping, given your usual nosiness."
Joe fixed Clyde with a cool yellow gaze.
"Can't she have company without you spying on her? What did you do, watch them through the window?" Clyde would never admit that he, too, might be curious.
Joe shrugged and twitched his whiskers. "Probably tourists, friends visiting, deciding where they want to go, what sights they want to see." He didn't say any more. He wished the conversation had been more explicit. Why were humans so vague? Whatever was going on, he would prefer not to drag Clyde in. Clyde could be so opinionated.
At Joe's silence, Clyde raised an eyebrow and returned to feeding Rube, giving the sick old dog his full attention, making it clear that he thought Joe was imagining misdeeds where none existed.
It made no difference that Joe, his tabby lady Dulcie, and their young pal Kit had solved innumerable crimes in the village. With Clyde there was always that preliminary unwillingness to accept their skill and expertise, an inborn reluctance to face facts. Giving Clyde a cool glance, Joe considered Rube. At the moment, the old Labrador was far more in need of true understanding than was Joe himself.
"He's hurting, Clyde. I don't like the way he's breathing, don't like the way he smells."
"I just gave him his medication. You know it takes a while to kick in. I called Dr. Firetti again. He's increased the dose by a fourth. Said to watch him, see if I can get him to drink more. I made him some broth, he drank half a cup. Firetti said if he seems no better in an hour, bring him in."
Joe nodded and curled up next to Rube, pressing against the Lab's warm, black shoulder. Even the feel of Rube's body was different, more rigid and ungiving. The prognosis was not good, he knew that. Death would come; the old dog was dying, and there was only so much any human could do, no matter how skilled and attentive.
He thought about death, about their animal friends and human friends who had died. At one time he'd found the concept one of total emptiness, found it easy to fall into a deep malaise over a loved one's death. Dulcie had taught him differently, Dulcie and her housemate, Wilma. Plus a lot of thinking on his own, a lot of observation-and a few very strange experiences. Yet now when he thought about Rube's impending death, trying to come to terms with it, it was a very long time before he turned his attention again to Chichi Barbi.
4
When, within the pine woods, the fleeting shadows grew bolder, Bucky snorted and bowed his neck, nervously staring. Another sprint of shadows flashed among the trees to vanish behind a tumble of deadfalls; then across the leafy carpet, a stealthy creeping so subtle it might be only light shifting among the foliage as the sun rose. If there was something there, it was small and quick. But what kind of small animals would follow them? If they were in Ireland, Charlie thought, she'd imagine being tracked by some impossible mythical creature. Beside her, Ryan and Hanni watched intently. She was glad Ryan hadn't brought her big Weimaraner. Rock was becoming well trained, considering his uncontrolled first-year running wild and unwanted. But he still had moments when his highly bred hunting instincts and keen sense of smell-and his macho nature-tore him away from all commands and sent him, defiant and disobedient, racing maybe fifteen miles or more before Ryan could find him and bring him home again, the big silver dog worn out, deliciously happy, and not at all contrite. If Rock were here, he'd be running now, chasing those mysterious cats-and cats they were, she felt certain.