Slitting open the two resealed boxes with a small pair of scissors, shifting the boxes around to do the back sides, she found all this activity harder with her painful shoulder. The therapy she’d had in L.A. had helped but had been time-consuming and tedious. She lifted the flaps of the first box, reached in to examine the contents
Yes, the items had been disturbed, the order of the file folders was different, and the large brown envelopes had been rearranged. As far as she could remember, nothing was missing, though she’d never thought to make an inventory. Even if something were missing, there was nothing specific she thought would be of value to a burglar: old letters, recipes, maps to backcountry hiking trails, old tax receipts. She worried for a moment about the Social Security numbers on the tax records, but somehow she didn’t think that was what this burglar was after. Only when she selected the carton marked CAROLINE—KITCHEN, sliding aside five stacked boxes with her good arm, did her pulse quicken.
But no, this tape hadn’t been slit, she saw with relief, the box was just the way she’d packed it. Cutting the tape, she reached beneath several layers of carefully wrapped kitchen treasures: an old-fashioned pastry blender, Caroline’s grandmother’s flour sifter and silver pie server, a dozen ornate cookie cutters each wrapped separately, three antique fluted pie pans. Seemed as if, leaving L.A., she’d kept more of Caroline’s things than her own. Sentimental, she thought. Though in fact she’d kept much of it for Benny. She and Maryanne had divided up the keepsakes, Maryanne more than generous in sharing. Benny had loved Caroline so. Maryanne had copies, and CDs, of all the family photographs, so those were easy enough to leave behind. Easing the packages of cooking paraphernalia aside, she drew out the brown, sealed envelope that she’d hidden beneath them.
This was what the burglar had come for, she was certain. Someone had been in the house, had stolen her keys, but apparently hadn’t had time to find this envelope before being startled, perhaps. Before slipping away, leaving the job unfinished. This, she thought, smiling, was what they wouldn’t find now, if they did return. By ten tomorrow morning the envelope would be tucked away in a new safe-deposit box, with a key different from the one that had been stolen, and no one would find the new key.
She’d discovered her extra keys missing the day before, when she’d misplaced her car keys. She’d looked everywhere, then had gone to her desk to get the duplicate set: house key, car keys, safe deposit, and several others which, if she ever lost the originals or her purse were stolen, would supply immediate backup. Opening her big secretary, beside the fireplace in the living room, she’d removed the little stamp drawer to reveal the hidden compartment behind it. Reaching in, she’d drawn her hand back and bent to peer inside. The little compartment was empty. She’d stood there panicked, trying to remember if she’d taken the keys out herself, and knowing she had not. She’d thought, chilled, about someone who now could enter her home any time of day or night, come stealing in when they were sound asleep. It was at that moment that she’d been sure Pearl Toola was in the village, that Pearl had followed her, and had been here in her house. At once Maudie’s plan for Pearl had quickened, the cold, precise path that she longed to follow.
Whether she’d have the nerve to carry it through was in question, but not because she was afraid. She wasn’t. Not because she didn’t have the means. She did. But because of Benny. No matter how Benny might think he hated his mother, if Maudie took such action, that could be the end of any love between them. Such a terrible betrayal by his grandmother could rob Benny of any hope at all for the years ahead, for any kind of normal life.
She knew she was courting disaster by not reporting the break-in or the hit-and-run. Maybe she should call Molena Point PD now, tonight, and report them both, certainly report the rifled boxes, the missing keys. Maybe an officer would come out, maybe take fingerprints.
But was that what she wanted? And it was the middle of the night, what kind of response would she get? If she did report those things, she didn’t want just a cop, she’d want a detective. The person she’d really want to talk to was Max Harper. And before Harper or anyone would take her seriously, she’d have to lay out the whole scenario, explain the significance of what was missing, explain what had gone on in L.A. But even if she did that, what would her word be worth? She stood for some time, conflicted and uncertain, shivering in the cold garage, then turned back into the house. In the warm kitchen she made herself a cup of tea and sat at the table warming her hands around the steaming cup, trying to ease her concerns, putting off any discussion with Max Harper, preferring to deal with Pearl in her own way.
29
JOE LOOKED IN through the bulletproof glass door of Molena Point PD, but hesitated. He didn’t demand to be let in, didn’t yowl as he always did to attract the daytime dispatcher. Night dispatcher June Alpine might be young and pretty, but she wasn’t half as enamored of cats as was their friend Mabel Farthy. Now, instead of drawing June’s possible ire, maybe turning her cranky enough to chase him away, he scorched up the oak tree that sheltered the front of the building. Bracing himself on the tiled roof, he pawed open the small window that looked down into the holding cell. With the heavy bars welded across, the glass was usually cracked open—some of these arrestees could smell pretty strong.
This single cell, facing the main entry and the dispatcher’s desk, was intended to detain prisoners for only a short time, until they were fingerprinted and their identifying information recorded, before they were taken back to the jail that occupied its own small, fenced building just behind the two-story main building that housed the PD, the court and related offices.
Slipping in between the thick bars, through the open window, Joe dropped down to the cot suspended from the wall below, landing just at the edge to keep the flat springs from squeaking. The thin mattress smelled of throw-up and unwashed human bodies. Padding out through the door’s confining bars, he slipped along close to the base of the dispatcher’s counter where June might not see him as he headed for the hall. He glanced back twice, but both times she was turned away. Except for the lighted conference room, where three officers sat at the big table with laptops, typing up reports, all the offices were dark, the open doors revealed only blackness. Quickly he vanished through Max’s door, into the faint scent of horses that lingered on from years of contact with the chief’s western boots.
If Max had been there, Joe might have slipped beneath the credenza, out of sight, until he got a taste of what was going on. Now, with the room to himself, he leaped to Max’s desk among the perennial stacks of paperwork, scheduling lists, budget requests, collaterals—enough paper to make the tomcat glad all over again that he wasn’t human.
The computer stood dark and lifeless, harboring who knew what secrets, making him wish he were as adept at its use as Dulcie, who’d be able to pull up all kinds of secured information. She’d learned in the library, where she was the official library cat, though an often absent one. Wilma was a reference librarian, often sharing her office computer with Dulcie. When she worked late at night she would walk Dulcie through some fascinating bits of research, often exploring the cats’ own history, tied to Welsh and Irish mythology. Dulcie had learned a good deal about their ancestors in this way, though the subject didn’t much interest Joe. He was what he was. A speaking cat with a talent for spying. He didn’t give a damn about his ancestral heritage.