"You want to fill me in on your relationship with Gabrielle and with Casselrod?"
"Well, it's really Elliott and Vivi's relationship. Gabrielle was here in the city last fall. She had lunch with Elliott. And Casselrod was here in December for the antiques show. He contacted Elliott and spent some time with him, something to do with research on the new book."
As far as Joe knew, Casselrod hadn't socialized with the Traynors in the village. Now, Harper was cool to the agent. "Can you be more specific about the problem?"
"It's his writing, Captain. It's… I know this sounds silly, but these last chapters are so very different from Elliott's lyrical style, so different that I'm worried about his state of mind."
"Ms. McElroy, there's nothing the police can do about Mr. Traynor's writing skills or his state of mind. I'm not some literary shrink committed to treating writer's block. If Traynor should become violent or present some kind of danger…"
"Or, Captain, if he is in danger? I think that might be a possibility."
"If he's threatened or harmed, Ms. McElroy, of course it's our business. But he would have to file a complaint."
Why was Harper being so stuffy? And sarcastic! Joe felt a quick stab of anger at the man he admired. This woman sounded in real distress.
And he could understand why, having read Traynor's latest work. If he were Traynor's agent, he'd be worried, too. This Adele McElroy was three thousand miles away, trying to deal with a writer who seemed to have lost his grip, who seemed to be dumping a million-dollar novel down the drain. She needed some help here. Why wouldn't Harper at least be civil? Joe wanted to tell her she should hop on a plane, get on out here, deal with Traynor in person.
"Captain Harper, let me give you my number. Would you call me… if you find anything you think would be of help?"
Harper grunted. She repeated her number. Hastily Joe memorized it, saying it over to himself. The handicap of being unable to write didn't bother him often. But when a problem did arise, it really bugged him-just as Harper's attitude was bugging him.
Though to be fair, he had to consider the matter from Harper's view. This really wasn't police business. Not unless a complaint was filed, as Harper said, or something happened to Traynor that would bring in the law. Max Harper was a cop, not a social worker.
And yet, Joe thought, knowing Harper, and despite what Harper told Adele McElroy, he bet the captain would go the extra mile, that he'd look into Traynor's condition far more thoroughly than he had told Ms. McElroy he could do.
After all, there was plenty of indication that Traynor might be going funny in the brain. Like shooting raccoons in his pantry- some people might consider that strange. And Traynor's extreme irritability. And Traynor demanding that Fern Barth play the lead, instead of Cora Lee, a decision any fool could see was softheaded. And Traynor's two disappearing acts from local restaurants, apparently to avoid a face-to-face with Ryan Flannery. Added up, all this seemed to Joe Grey to amount to a decidedly squirrelly mental condition.
Sliding the phone back onto its cradle, Joe trotted down the hall, catching Dulcie's eye where she sat on the dispatcher's desk purring and preening. He watched Dulcie give the dispatcher an enthusiastic head rub, and drop to the floor meowing loudly.
Obediently Mabel Farthy came out from her cubicle. Maybe she had cats at home who had conditioned her to the imperative mew. Looking out carefully through the glass exterior door, she threw the lock and opened it.
The cats trotted through. Looking back at her, they had to hide a laugh. She stood at the glass watching them but when she saw them looking she grinned sheepishly and returned to her station.
The minute they were out of sight and earshot, Dulcie was all over Joe, lashing her tail, nudging him into the bushes so they could talk. "What was that about? What's with Elliott Traynor? His agent called? What's happening?"
Moving along through the bushes that edged the sidewalk, Joe was quiet. Dulcie nudged him harder. "What? Talk to me! Tell me what's happening!"
Joe turned to look at her. She looked so bright and sweet, peering at him through the camellia bushes-exactly like the first time he'd seen her. She'd been peering out at him, then, her dark tabby stripes blending with the foliage, her pink mouth turned up in a smile, her emerald green eyes flashing. In that one moment, he'd been hooked. Head over heels. He'd never regretted it.
"Come on, Joe. Talk!"
"Traynor's agent's worried about him. Partly because his work's overdue, partly because it isn't up to his usual standards- she's worried about his mental condition.
"She said she'd called Gabrielle, that Gabrielle said she hadn't seen them, that they were barely acquainted. The agent said Elliott had told her otherwise.
"And she said Richard Casselrod spent some time with the Traynors in New York last December."
Dulcie sat down beneath a camellia bush. "We haven't seen Casselrod with Traynor or Vivi. I don't-"
The kit appeared suddenly from nowhere, pushing under the bush beside Dulcie, batting at the fallen camellias. Pressing against Dulcie, she was very quiet. Dulcie nosed at her. "What, Kit? You feel all right?"
"Fine," said the kit in a small voice.
"You miss Cora Lee," Dulcie said. "She'll be home soon. Didn't you enjoy the library today?" Despite the success of Cora Lee's operation, everyone was concerned about her. "She'll be home soon, Kit. Home to Wilma's house until she feels stronger. Maybe you can sleep on her bed, if you're careful of her incision." Dulcie looked at Joe. "We need to-"
"Check out Casselrod," Joe said. "See what we can find. Maybe letters or an address book, something to connect him to the Traynors. And don't you wonder about Gabrielle?" Joe gave her a long look, and sprang away, heading for the shops south of Ocean.
Buffeted by the wind, and dodging tourists' feet, within ten minutes they were across the village and up onto the roofs of Hidalgo Plaza. Here on the tiles and shingles, the wind blew harder. Unimpeded by the barriers of solid walls, it shook the tops of the oak trees, the gusts so violent that it flattened the three cats against the slanting peaks. They had to dig in their claws and wait for the hardest blows to ease. Pummeled and prodded, they at last reached the lighted attic window of Gabrielle Row's sewing workroom.
The open curtains revealed five sewing machines, three padded worktables as long as beds, and racks of hanging clothes and stacks of fabric. Beneath the fluorescent lights, Gabrielle stood alone leaning over a table cutting out a pattern pinned to a length of heavy white silk.
"Could that be Catalina's wedding gown?" Dulcie said. "Or her nightie? Spanish brides had elaborate nightgowns."
The kit wriggled close between them, her black-and-brown fur tugged by the wind. "So far away, that other world," the kit whispered.
"What other world?" Joe said uneasily. He didn't like the kit's dreaming. "That talk isn't going to get us Gabrielle's address book."
"Worlds beyond worlds," the kit said. "Centuries all gone, in another time. An address book? But we can just slip in through the window. Help me push."
"Not here," Joe said. "We just wanted to make sure her apartment was empty." And fighting the wind he took off again over the roofs, then along an oak branch above an alley; then up a peak so steep they slid as they climbed and nearly tumbled down the far side, approaching Gabrielle's small third-floor window.
Though the glass, they could smell spices, and coffee grounds. Three potted plants stood on the deep sill, between the dark pane and the drawn curtain. The room beyond was dark. They pawed uselessly at the glass. It looked like it had never been opened. All the other apartment windows but one were inaccessible even to a cat, all faced a sheer, two-story drop to the street. Not a vine, not a trellis, not even a protruding windowsill.