“More!” Joe hissed. “Push harder!” She pushed, they fought the double-hung panel until at last they were able to slide it up a few inches-but no farther. Something was stopping it; when they examined the molding, they could see where nails had been driven in to prevent it from rising higher. No human could get through, but fresh air could blow in.
Slipping under, they hit the floor as softly as they could, and leaped to the table that held the cage. They stood nose to nose with the three captives.
None of the three cringed away in fear or charged the bars with territorial rage as an ordinary cat might do, on first meeting. No one made a sound; no hiss, no threatening yowl. No claws or teeth bared in confrontation. But no one spoke. The three captives glanced toward the partially open door where at any moment the old woman or Luis might appear.
The one male was as white as snow, his long fur surprisingly fluffed and clean despite the crowded conditions. His blue eyes stared back at Joe with challenge, but it was only a good-natured tomcat challenge. The tabby male was darker than Dulcie, and long-furred, with a huge, fluffy tail. His ears were as tall and erect as those of a coyote. A strange cat, with eyes that were black-rimmed and then circled with palest cream. The female did not approach Joe and Dulcie, but pressed away against the bars as if she was afraid. She was a lovely, faded calico with a long face and a questioning look in her green eyes, the look of a cat who trusts no one.
For a long time, the three feral cats stood silently assessing Joe and Dulcie, taking their measure. The look in their eyes was a hunger for freedom, as powerful as that of three convicts on death row. It was Joe who spoke.
“Where is the key?” he said softly. “Tell me quickly.” They could hear the two women talking out in the kitchen, could hear their cups clink on their saucers.
“He keeps the key in his pocket,” the white tom said. “I am Cotton. I would kill him, if I could get my claws on him. The key is always there in his pocket. Maria says he puts his pants under his pillow when he goes to bed.” The cat sneezed with disgust. “Can youget the key? Or get the lock open?” Intently, he studied Joe. “Would you dare to free us?”
The tabby tom said, “I hear them talking late at night, Maria and the old woman.Theywould free us, if Maria wasn’t so afraid of her brother.”
Joe and Dulcie circled the cage, examining the lock and hinges, and how the bars were set in place. Every joint was securely soldered, and there was no way those strong, thin bars could be bent or broken. Not without human hands and the right tools. There was no way to separate the barred walls at the corners; the hinges were soldered or welded, just as was the hasp. No way out of that prison, except with the key.
“Bolt cutters?” Dulcie said.
“If we had a pair of bolt cutters, how do you propose to lift them?” Joe snapped. “Let alone put enough pressure on them!” He stared in frustration at his paws. It wasn’t fair, this human ability to use tools, while a clever and intelligent cat was so cruelly hampered.
“Maybe there’s a second key,” Dulcie said. She had that determined, stubborn look. “If there isn’t, then we have to toss Luis’s bedroom, slip his pants out from under the pillow.”
Joe looked at her. “Is Luis someone you’d want to catch you while you’re stealing his pants?”
Dulcie flicked a nonchalant whisker. “Bring him on, I’ll shred him.” But her green eyes reflected fear. The truth was, this Luis Rivas, with his interest in speaking cats, left her chilled and cringing.
24 [��������: pic_25.jpg]
Hanni Coon’s Interiors occupied a handsome, used brick storefront two blocks off Ocean, the shop’s softly tinted windows displaying unique and intriguing fabrics and accessories. This week Hanni had arranged a lush tangle of hand-woven cottons and carved furniture from the coast of Africa. Some weeks, it was all silks and damasks and period pieces; other times, an esoteric collection from Italy or Latin America. As flamboyant and self-assured as Hanni herself, the shop could exhibit any number of elegant personas.
It was barely seven in the morning when Charlie and Ryan parked Ryan’s truck in front of the design studio. Approaching the elegant entry with its potted trees and theatrical displays, the two women looked out of place indeed dressed in their old, worn jeans and wrinkled boots; but neither cared, nor did Hanni. Peering in through the leaded-glass door, Ryan grinned at her sister. Hanni unlocked the door and opened it to the wonderful smells of freshly brewed coffee, something with onions and cheese, and the warm French rolls for which the corner bakery was famous. She was dressed in persimmon silk pants and flowing tunic, and sandals, with dangling gold circle earrings setting off her vivid complexion and short white hair. Ryan and Charlie moved quickly to the blazing fire and stood rubbing their cold hands.
Locking the door behind them, Hanni sat down at the end of the couch to pour coffee from a silver carafe into flowered porcelain mugs.
“You are a gem!” Ryan said. “I’m starved.”
“You’re always starved. Come sit.” Hanni flipped back a lock of white hair, and passed them plates of miniature quiches, of fresh mango and papaya with lime wedges, and the basket of warm French rolls cosseted in a linen napkin. “You can’t pick out rugs on an empty stomach.”
“You sure you want to do this?” Charlie said. “Sell me rugs with no markup? Your rugs�”
“It’s a fair trade. I take no markup. You let me ride Redwing whenever you don’t have the time. Now, while you two fill your tummies, I’ll just flip through the rack, find a few pieces you can study while you’re eating.” Rising, she began to slowly swing the metal arms of the ceiling-high rack that occupied the far wall, bringing the handmade rugs into view one at a time. Charlie could hardly eat for admiring the bright, primitive patterns. She wanted them all; she was asking Hanni the prices of several when she glanced out through the shop window and grew still.
“What?” Ryan and Hanni said together, craning to look.
“Don’t turn around, Ryan. She’s looking right in here. I can’t believe this.”
“Who?” they chorused. Ryan paused with her cup raised, glancing up sideways. Hanni stood unmoving beside the hanging rugs.
“Chichi Barbi,” Charlie said. “Across the street in front of the drugstore, sitting on that bench. Staring right across at us, bold as brass. Staring right in! How much can she see, in here?”
“Can’t see much, with no lights,” Hanni said. “That blonde? Oh, of course-that woman who barged up to our table�”
Charlie nodded. “I� We think� Wilma and I think she’s casing the shops for burglaries. We� My God, Hanni. With this new line of imported rugs, you have one of the most expensive inventories in the village.”
Hanni looked alarmed for only a moment, then she grinned and shook her head.
“What?” Charlie said.
Hanni laughed. “I’m not a cop’s kid for nothing. I won’t show you, in case shecansee in. I just had this baby installed, when I ordered the rugs and new rack. I can slide metal doors out from behind the walls, across the rack, and lock them. That, and the sophisticated alarm system� Someone could break a window, but they won’t get the rugs.” Leaving one of the most beautiful weavings facing Charlie, Hanni returned to the table, helped herself to breakfast, and sat down where she had a clear view of Chichi. “Does she always dress like a streetwalker?”
Ryan said, “She’s making notes.” She looked up at her sister. “Dallas and Max have gotten a call, one of those anonymous calls, that she’s casing the more expensive shops. They think she might be part of the jewelry store bunch, that they could be planning one big hit, multiple stores all at one time.”