"I was in my second year at Davis when the Pamillons undertook some repairs and remodeling of the estate. It may have been then that most of the cats moved away, into the farther hills-there were fewer and fewer visits from the Pamillons for shots or to treat an occasional illness.
"And then, at about that time, there was some kind of dissent within the family, and gradually the extended family, aunts and uncles and their children, moved away and seemed to lose interest in the property. Olivia remained, living as a recluse in just a few rooms. She stayed active in the village for a long time, but then as she grew older she fired gardeners and housekeepers and maintenance people, and let the estate fall into disrepair. There were two cats she would bring to me for shots, but I felt sure the rest had moved on."
"Maybe," Kit interrupted softly, "maybe they traveled way south, on the coast, where I guess I was born, the place I first remember."
"Maybe," Firetti said. "I went up to the estate occasionally because I was concerned about Olivia. I didn't see any other than the two cats that stayed with her. I always thought the family held on to the property simply for the increasing land value. It's a big, sprawling family, all scattered now, and apparently at loggerheads with one another. The estate has been divided and redivided, with numerous deeds and trusts and wills drawn in such a way that no one can sell his share without approval from the others. I know one attorney who did some work for the Pamillons, and he said the titles and legal entanglements were almost impossible to sort out and set straight, with so many conflicting restraints and demands.
"It was knowing about the speaking cats," Firetti said, "that started me feeding and trapping the stray cats of the village, as my father had done. He fed and trapped all the feral cats around the wharf and the village, and continued to do so long after he retired. He spayed and neutered them and gave them shots to keep them healthy and then turned them loose again." He laughed. "That might have been the first TNR program.
"He made very sure, of course, that none was a speaking cat. Not much chance, they were too clever to be trapped. He would have sheltered such a cat if it so chose, would have brought a speaking cat here to live, if the cat wanted such a life.
"He was already gone when I met Joe and Dulcie." Firetti looked down at the cats, sitting on the couch listening so attentively. "You were only a tiny thing, Dulcie, when Wilma brought you for your first shots. Though I knew who your mother was, the talent is not passed on to all the kittens in a litter. But from what Wilma told me about you, from your stealing of the neighbors' pretty clothes, for instance, I suspected that you were special and that one day you would discover your talents.
"And then you arrived on the scene, Joe. In the beginning, you and Clyde were just as clueless about who you really were." Firetti smiled, his blue eyes crinkling. "I knew when you and Dulcie discovered the truth. I would see you around the village, see the changes in your relationship, see your looks at each other.
"And then, strange things happened in the village. When the owner of the car dealership was murdered, the way the police captured the killers was odd. I was fascinated by the details of that investigation-and I began to see what you two cats were up to.
"From then on, I paid attention to crime in the village. I listened to the sometimes puzzled remarks of one officer or another about cats showing up near a crime scene. And when you came to live with the Greenlaws, Kit-and I heard Officer Brennan's story about a cat jumping from a roof onto a burglar's head, didn't that make me laugh."
"I kept it all to myself," Firetti said. "All this time, I've just enjoyed the ride."
Charlie studied Firetti's smooth, oval face, his direct gaze, and was warmed by his quiet kindness. But then she thought, would nothing in the world make him tell what he knew?
There would be huge money in revealing the cats' secret, in bringing speaking cats to the attention of the world-the attention of avaricious promoters and the hungry news media.
But that was insane. John Firetti had been silent for so many years, when he could have sold out the cats at any time. Why wait until now?
No, despite money or power, here was one man who would remain true. John Firetti, like Max and the few other men she most admired, would not suddenly turn corrupt, would not deliberately use the innocent for financial gain. Here was one man who would not reveal this most hurtful of secrets, Charlie was certain of that.
7
FROM THE LIVING ROOM, through the big, open kitchen, and out onto the walled patio, Clyde Damen's house was filled with the beat of Dixieland and the happy voices of Clyde's and Ryan's friends, who had gathered with Ryan's family and with more than half the officers of Molena Point PD. The smell of hickory smoke and barbecued ribs filled the early evening; coolers stood about brimming with iced wine and beer. In the kitchen, where the big round table was loaded with appetizers and deli salads, Ryan stood replenishing a platter of cold cuts. She wore an apron over her jeans and T-shirt, a bridal present from her dad, printed with prim, old-fashioned sayings that made them both laugh…PRETTY IS AS PRETTY DOES…GENTLE JANE WAS GOOD AS GOLD, SHE ALWAYS DID AS SHE WAS TOLD…SUGAR AND SPICE AND EVERYTHING NICE…None of the clichés fit her, she was not a woman who valued sugar and spice and coy blushes. She was refilling the bread tray as Clyde came in from the patio.
He put his arm around her. "Where are the cats? Have you seen Joe?"
She gave him a puzzled look. "Charlie went off with them, with all three. She…sort of sneaked out of the house." Her eyes searched his. "What was that about?"
"I don't know…Sneaked?"
"Sneaked. She and Joe, fast and stealthy. Dulcie and Kit were waiting outside. That was over an hour ago. What are they up to?" Ryan was so new to the cats' true nature that she had no idea what might be normal behavior for them or for their human friends.
Clyde stood frowning at her. "Why would she…? What's going on? They sneaked out? What the hell…?"
"There…," she said, looking away through the crowded living room where she could just see out the front windows. "She's back, her car is pulling up…"
As they waited for Charlie and the cats, she busied herself refilling the bowls of deli salads. Clyde said, "You nervous about tomorrow?"
"Don't talk about it, I'm a basket case."
He grinned, and kissed her. They looked up as the front door opened.
Charlie came in with Kit riding on her shoulder and Joe Grey strolling beside her, rubbing against her ankles. There was no sign of Dulcie. As they crossed the living room, Joe looked up at Charlie and gave her a whiskery smile, then swaggered ahead toward the kitchen, brushing through the crowd against bare legs and sheer stockings and pants legs, his stubby tail erect, his white nose lifted to the rich smells from the buffet and barbecue. The tomcat and Charlie and Kit all looked so patently innocent that Clyde was afraid to hear what this was about-he wasn't sure he wanted to know what they'd been up to.
"Hi," Charlie said, joining them, balancing Kit as she took a piece of bread and reached for a beer.
"Where have you been?" Clyde said. "Where's Dulcie?" He saw how pale she was, her freckles a dark spill across ashen cheeks. "What happened to Dulcie?" he said quickly.
"She's fine," Charlie said, clutching Kit to her. "I have to talk to you. Can we go somewhere? It's…Ryan, you come, too."
Clyde picked up Joe, looking deep into the tomcat's yellow eyes but seeing no answers, only that same innocent stare. They headed down the hall to the guest room-this had been Clyde 's bedroom before Ryan added the new upstairs master suite. It had now been redone for guests in a far more luxurious manner than Clyde had ever wanted. Ryan's sister, Hanni, forgoing her designer's markup, had chosen golden oak and wicker furniture and three of the bright Oriental rugs that she imported. The bedcover was a puffy patchwork of East Indian prints nearly as rich as the rugs. The white plantation shutters, in the daytime, would reveal the twisted branches of the oak trees outside the window. Mike Flannery's leather bag stood on the floor beside the open closet, where a few of his clothes hung at one end of the otherwise empty rod. His leather briefcase lay open on the wicker desk, revealing half a dozen file folders stamped MOLENA POINT PD.