"I bet you had enough of big city crime, too."
Wilma nodded. "In Molena Point, I don't have to watch my backside."
Charlie laughed. "People-friendly," she agreed.
And cat-friendly, Dulcie thought. Compared to San Francisco's mean alleys, which Joe had described in frightening detail-the bad-tempered, roving dogs, the speeding cars, the drunks reaching out from doorways to snatch a little cat and hurt it-compared to these, Molena Point really was cat heaven, just as Clyde told Joe.
Clyde said Joe was lucky to have landed here. And despite Joe's smart-mouthed replies, Joe Grey knew he was lucky-he just would never admit it.
Beyond Ocean, as they approached Clyde's white Cape Cod cottage, Dulcie could smell the smokey-meaty scent from Clyde's barbeque and could hear Clyde's CD playing a soft jazz trumpet. Pete Fountain, she thought, purring as she leaped down from Wilma's shoulder and in through Joe's cat door.
In Clyde's weedy backyard, a thick London broil sizzled on the grill. Clyde and Max Harper sat comfortably in folding chairs sipping beer. Harper, lean and leathery, looked even thinner out of uniform, dressed in soft jeans and Western shirt. Above the two men, in the maple tree, Joe Grey sprawled along a branch, watching sleepy-eyed as Dulcie threaded out the back door between Wilma's and Charlie's ankles. The little tabby headed across the yard, slowed by the inspection of the household cats sniffing and rubbing against her and by Rube's wet licks across her face. The old Labrador loved Dulcie, and she was always patient with him; she never scratched him for his blundering clumsiness and sloppy greetings. Trotting quickly across the grass, escaping the menagerie, she swarmed up the tree to settle on the branch beside Joe, her weight dropping them a bit lower among the leaf cover.
Below them the picnic table was set for four and loaded with jars of condiments, paper napkins, plastic plates, bowls of chips and dip, and now Wilma's covered bowl of potato salad. Wilma laid the foil-wrapped garlic bread at the back of the grill and put her beer in the Styrofoam cooler, tossing one to Charlie and opening one for herself. As she sat down, Clyde handed her a sheaf of papers.
Looking them over, she smiled. "What did you do, Max, threaten your men with desk duty if they didn't sign a petition? Looks like you got signatures from the jail regulars, too."
"Of course," Harper said. "Drug dealers, pimps, they're all there."
She looked up at Clyde. "Two of these petitions are yours. You've been intimidating your automotive customers."
Clyde tossed a roll of paper towels on the table. "They don't sign the petition, they don't get their car-though most of them were pleased to sign it." He tipped up his beer, took a long swallow. "All this damn fuss. If the village wants a library cat, what's the harm? This Brackett woman is a piece of work."
"Next thing," Harper said, "she'll be complaining because my men circulated petitions on their own time."
"She'll try to get an ordinance against that, too," Charlie said.
"She'd have a hard time," Harper said. "Those petitions aren't for financial or political gain, they're for a cat. A poor, simple cat."
Dulcie cut her eyes at Joe. A poor, simple cat? But she had to smile. For someone so wary of certain felines, Max Harper had responded to the library cat battle like a real gentleman-though if he knew the petitions were to help one of his telephone informants, he might go into shock.
Clyde adjusted the height of the grill to keep the meat from burning. The aroma of the London broil made the cats lick their whiskers.
Harper looked at Charlie. "So your landlord tossed you out."
"I'm back freeloading on Wilma."
"And you've joined Sicily Aronson's group," he said. "I stopped in the gallery to have a look." He nodded his approval. "Your animals are very fine." Charlie's cheeks reddened. Harper glanced up at Dulcie and Joe as if inspecting them for a likeness. "You make those cats look…"
He paused, frowning, seemed to revise what he'd started to say. "It's fine work, Charlie. And the Aronson is a good gallery- Sicily's people sell very well. I think your work will be very much in demand."
Charlie smiled. "That would be nice-it would be great to fatten up my bank account, stop feeling shaky about money."
"It'll come," Harper said. "And Charlie's Fix-It, Clean-It appears to be doing well-except," he said, glancing at Clyde, "you need to be careful about questionable clients."
"If you hit it big," Clyde said, "if you sell a lot of drawings, you could put some money with Jergen, go for the high earnings. A bank doesn't pay much interest."
"I don't like the uncertainty," Charlie told him. "Call me chicken, but I'd rather depend on a small and steady interest."
Clyde tested the meat, slicing into one end, a tiny cut that ran bloody. In the tree above, the cats watched, mesmerized.
Harper passed Charlie a beer. "Have you found a new apartment?"
"Haven't had time to look. Or maybe I haven't had the incentive," Charlie said. "I get pretty comfortable with Wilma."
"There are a couple of cottages empty down near Mavity's place. We cleared one last week-busted the tenant for grass."
"Just what I want. Handy to my friendly neighborhood drug dealer."
"In fact, it's pretty clean down there. We manage to keep them at bay."
Molena Point depended for much of its income on tourism, and Harper did his best to keep the village straight, to stay on top of any drug activity. But even Molena Point had occasional problems. Several months ago, Joe remembered, there'd been an influx of PCP and crack. Harper had made three cases and got three convictions. In this town, the dealers went to jail. Harper had said that some of the drugs coming into the village were designer stuff, experimental pills.
Clyde said, "I could turn one of the new apartments into two studios. You could rent one of those."
"Your permit doesn't allow for more than five residences," Charlie said.
"Or you could move in here, with me."
Charlie blushed. "If I move in with you, Clyde Damen, I'll sleep in the laundry with the cats and Rube."
At the sound of his name, Rube lifted his head, staring bleerily at Charlie. The old dog's cataracts made his eyes dull and milky. His black muzzle was salted with white hairs. When Charlie reached to pet him, Rube leaned his head against her leg. The three household cats wound around Clyde's ankles as he removed the steak from the grill. But when the foursome was seated, it was Charlie who took up a knife and cut off bits of her steak for the animals.
The CDs played softly a string of Preservation Hall jazz numbers, the beer was ice cold, the steak pink and tender, the conversation comfortable, and as evening drew down, the fog gathered, fuzzing the outdoor lights and enclosing the backyard until it seemed untouched by the outside world. It was not until the four had finished dinner, the animals had had their fill, and Charlie was pouring coffee, that Harper mentioned the burglaries.
There had been a third break-in, at Waverly's Leather Goods. "They got over four thousand in small bills. Didn't take anything else, just the cash." Waverly's was the most exclusive leather shop in the village. "We have one partial print-we're hoping it's his. The guy's real careful.
"The print doesn't match any of the employees, but it will take a few days to get a make. He may have taken off his gloves for a minute while he was working on the safe."