Leaving Joe to guard the money, Dulcie slipped among the feet of the crowd and up into Clyde ’s open yellow roadster. Crouching on the floor, she punched in the message code on Clyde ’s cell phone. Her voice was soft. “Go home now, Clyde. We have the money. Please, hurry!”
Hitting end call, wondering if he would check his messages, she slipped up onto the back of the seat for a moment to watch the crowd.
She spotted Alice Manning, with her husband. Then a blonde in a black leotard. Then, some distance away, her twin. But no. There were three. One over by the hot dog stand-all three were there. The diver had returned. Talk about nerve.
She hurried back to Joe. “She’s stashed her duffel somewhere and come back to mingle, as if she never left. They’re so exactly alike! Who would know?”
Dragging the package through the dark streets for what seemed miles, they covered a distance that ordinarily would be a hop and a playful gallop. Reaching Joe’s street at last, and his white Cape Cod cottage, they hauled their burden up the steps.
“This isn’t going to fit through your cat door.”
“Push, Dulcie. If we can get one edge under the flap…”
“It isn’t going to go, not even catty-corner.”
They got it stuck twice, then Joe ripped the plastic open.
“Hurry,” she said. “The whole neighborhood will see us, with the porch light on. Why did he leave the light on!”
Tearing with claws and teeth, they shoved one pack of hundred dollar bills through, then another, littering Clyde ’s living room with enough cash to keep every cat in the village in caviar for the rest of its natural life. Beneath the money lay a dozen small plastic freezer bags filled with jewelry. Pushing it all through, they carried each bag and packet across the room, drooling some on the money, and stuffed them under the cushion of Joe Grey’s personal and ratty overstuffed chair-its cushions so lumpy that who could tell if there was a fortune crammed down atop the springs.
“Very nice,” purred a rasping voice behind them.
They spun, crouching, teeth bared, ears back.
“You two little kitties work very well together,” the black tom said. He stood in the dark dining room, his amber eyes mirroring light from the front window. “You’ve brought it all out from the cave for us. How thoughtful. Come have a look, my dear.”
A woman stepped from the kitchen, her blond hair tangled. She wore a blue sweater over her black leotard; she smelled strongly of the sea. Joe wondered where Rube was; he prayed they hadn’t hurt the old black Labrador. Normally Rube would be growling and barking. There was not a sound, and that worried Joe. Rube was growing frail, getting on in years.
The woman looked at Joe’s chair, where Azrael was clawing the cushion aside. “So, we have the contents of our package. Very nice.” She smiled coldly. “And these are the other two with your talents, old tomcat! How good of them to help us.” Striding across the room, she tossed the chair cushion away and began to scoop the money and jewelry into a canvas bag. Her voice was not Dorothy’s harsh tones, nor Beverly ’s sweet ones.
Gail Gantry. Bending over Joe’s chair, filling the bag with money.
Crouching, Joe Grey leaped, clawing and biting her, unwilling to abandon what they had worked to retrieve. Azrael sprang at Joe-and Dulcie hit Azrael hard in an explosion of claws and teeth. Gail was in the middle, striking at cats and shouting when from the kitchen a black cyclone exploded barking and jumping at her.
Rube had her arm in his mouth. She jerked away, kicking him hard. Ducking away, Rube turned on Azrael. As the black tom sprang to the top of the CD player, Gail plunged through the door running, clutching the bag. Azrael flew out with her, just ahead of Rube’s teeth. The cats leaped to the back of Joe’s chair, watching through the window as Gail roared away in a green compact and Azrael disappeared across the rooftops-and as Clyde’s roadster shot around the corner, into the drive.
Clyde ran for the house. Bursting in, he looked at the handful of scattered hundred dollar bills that had spilled to the rug. He looked at Joe and Dulcie.
“Come on!” Joe shouted. “She has the money. She shot Larry Cruz… Come on, Clyde!”
Chapter Twelve
She’ll head for Santa Monica, Joe Grey thought as he leaped into Clyde ’s roadster and they took off after Gail’s green compact. As he drove, Clyde snatched the phone from its cradle and punched in 911. Joe stood with his paws on the dash, watching Gail slip along ahead of them just at the 50-mile limit so not to attract attention, moving south down the coast highway among light traffic, with the stolen money and jewelry tucked safely beside her.
Clyde said, “You sure she shot Larry Cruz?”
“I saw her shoot him,” Joe said patiently. “Dulcie and I followed her to the cliff. The money was hidden in that cave. She had to dive, to get in. She buried the gun on top the cliff.
“They’re coming,” Clyde snapped, looking in his rearview mirror. “Two black-and-whites. Get down, Joe! Now!”
Joe dropped to the seat beside Dulcie. Clyde could be so bossy. Clyde slowed as the squad cars passed them.
The officers were on Gail before they hit the sirens and started the red lights spinning. As they pulled her over, Clyde parked some way behind. She didn’t resist, didn’t try to outrun them as Joe had guessed she might. They watched her step out and assume the position, face to the car, hands on the roof. Watched as she was searched and handcuffed, and her car was searched. Apparently she had no other gun. She seemed very demure now, the picture of surprised innocence. For a second, Dulcie felt sorry for her; the little tabby had that pitying look in her green eyes until Joe nudged her. Then she straightened, watching with satisfaction as the blonde was locked into the back of a squad car-this woman who had killed Larry Cruz for no reason other than greed.
Police Captain Max Harper sat among the ruffled curtains and potted ferns of Otter Pine Inn’s tearoom, dressed in full uniform, the thin, leathered man looking totally out of place surrounded by delicate white wicker and Patty Rose’s fine china and fancy tea cakes-looking far more out of place than Joe Grey himself felt, cozied down on the window seat eating smoked salmon from a flowered plate. It took a certain polish, the tomcat thought, to make himself at home in any surroundings, from garbage cans to silk cushions.
From atop the baker’s rack, Dulcie watched, amused. Seeing Clyde and Max Harper at a fancy tea was a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
But how could the two have refused? Patty Rose’s requests were as imperative as a presidential summons-her purpose in this little gathering was to bid Alice and Jim Manning goodbye after their two week stay and to apologize for the ugly events surrounding the contest-not that she’d had any control over such matters.
Dorothy Daniels and Beverly Barker had been invited, but both women had gone home, deeply distressed by the shooting. Very likely, Joe thought, resolved never to be involved in another such contest. The way Joe had it worked out, Gail had been diving the morning of the tearoom break-in, because there had been another burglary just after the tryouts for the cat festival. He was guessing that Gail had gone, that morning before dawn, to stash the money. Or maybe she had waited on the beach while Larry dove.
Assume that Frances Farrow was suspicious of Gail and had followed her down the beach, Joe thought, getting her own shoes wet. Frances follows her to the tearoom, sees Gail walk in through the unlocked door-which Azrael had seen to some time during the night.
Frances sees Gail open the safe, wearing her gloves with that smell of the sea. Gail takes the money, locks the safe, is leaving when Frances appears and confronts her. Gail tells her it’s none of her business and to get out of the way. Frances refuses. Gail shoves her, hits her in a vital spot, denting the silver pendant and causing the unexpected reaction of commotio cordis-jolting the electrical circuit that controls her heart. Frances falls dead.