At least Rube had a nice backyard. And the patio's heavy Spanish-style trellis provided fine aerial walkways for the cats. To say nothing of the warmth-the high stucco wall at the back trapped the afternoon sun so the patio was warm as a spa, holding the heat well into evening where an animal could stretch out for a luxurious nap.
Ryan had even provided a decorative tile border around old Barney's gravestone. The golden retriever, Rube's lifelong pal who had died last year, was buried just beyond the oak tree. Ryan had, with tenderness, retained the small sentimental elements that were important to their little family while, in more practical terms, pursuing a remodeling regimen that would make the house worth twice its present value.
Clyde's "building money" for this project had been, just as when he bought the old apartment house, cash earned from the sale of his restored antique cars. The latest vehicle, a refurbished 1942 LaSalle, Clyde had purchased in a shocking condition of rust and neglect. Now, renewed nearly to better than its original state, the antique car had sold almost at once for more than enough to complete the upstairs project, a sum hard to comprehend in terms of kitty treats or even in confections from Jolly's Deli.
Watching his contented housemates, Joe was glad Clyde hadn't sold their little home. As for the house next door, it had not been turned into a restaurant after all, but had been sold again. The one property alone, apparently, hadn't been large enough to make the venture cost-effective.
Listen to me, Joe thought, alarmed. Cost-effective? Worth twice its present value? Sometimes I worry myself, sometimes I sound way too much like a human. Next thing you know, I'll be buying mutual funds.
It was well past noon when Ryan and the carpenters broke for lunch, when Clyde's car pulled in. The sudden silence of the stilled hammers and power tools was so profound it left Joe's ears ringing. Any sensible cat would have left the scene hours before to seek a quiet retreat, but he didn't want to miss anything-and now he didn't want to miss lunch. He watched Clyde come up the steps toting a white paper bag that sent an aroma of pastrami on rye like a benediction, watched Ryan hurry down the makeshift stairs and around to the backyard to see that Rock had water and a few minutes of petting, before she ate her lunch. As she returned, Joe settled beside Clyde, where he sat on the new subfloor, opening the white paper bag. He felt sorry for the household cats, that they couldn't have gourmet goodies. The vet had warned Clyde long ago about the dangers of such food to felines. Dr. Firetti had no idea of the delicacies in which Joe and Dulcie and the kit indulged, apparently without harm. They all three checked out in their lab tests and exams with flying colors. "Healthy as three little horses," the doctor always said, congratulating Clyde and Wilma on their conscientious care. "I see you're sticking to the prescribed diet." And no one told him any different.
Listening to Ryan's soft voice, Joe tied into his share of Clyde's sandwich, holding it down with his paw. Far be it from Clyde to cut it up for him. Glancing above him, he saw that Ryan hadn't yet cut loose the roof along the peak. All was solid up there over their heads. The two carpenters sat at the other end of the room, their radio playing some kind of reggae, turned low. Both were young and lean and tanned, one with a rough thatch of hair shaggy around his shoulders, the other, Wayne, with dark hair in a military trim that made Joe wonder if he was moonlighting from some coastal army camp. Ryan's uncle Scotty hadn't yet arrived.
Ryan was saying, "When I got home last night, Rock took one sniff at the stairs and the door and charged into that apartment roaring. He knew someone had been in there. He raced around looking for him, pitching a fit. Took me a while to get him settled. I didn't want to discourage him from barking but 1 sure don't want the neighbors on my case."
"Neighbors ought to be happy to have a guard dog in residence. Put it to them that you had a prowler and you're sure glad the dog ran him off."
"I wonder if the neighbors saw Larn, if anyone saw him come in. You'd think if they had, they'd have called the station."
"Did you tell Dallas?"
"Yes. He's checking for prints, something for the record." She looked at him solemnly. "My dad called early this morning from Atlanta, he'd heard about the murder on the news."
"He didn't know?"
"I asked Dallas not to tell him. There's nothing he can do and I thought it would only distract him. Don't those TV stations have anything to fill up their time besides a murder clear across the country? They gave it the same spin as the San Francisco papers, contractor's money-hungry wife."
Clyde handed her a container of potato salad, glancing across at the carpenters. The two men were deep in conversation, paying no attention to them. "What are you going to do about Williams?"
"Wait and see what he does. I sent a correct bill this morning to the Jakeses by registered mail. Put the doctored billing in my safe deposit box with a note about the circumstances."
Clyde raised an eyebrow.
She shrugged. "Just being careful."
"Your dad was upset when he called?"
"Mad as hell, ready to kick ass. I told him it would be okay, I told him Dallas would get it sorted out. He'd already talked with Dallas. He'll be back at the end of the week, plans to catch the shuttle on down here."
"You told him about Larn Williams, about the billing switch?"
"Yes. He agreed with me, that I should wait to see what Larn will do."
Clyde was quiet.
"If Larn wanted… he could have killed me the night he killed…"
She stared at him, her eyes widening at what she had said, what she'd been thinking. They were both silent.
"I have no way to know that," she said quietly. "That just slipped out. I… it will be interesting to see if Larn calls me again. Maybe to see if his switch of the billing worked." She smiled. "Maybe I can lead him on, maybe learn something."
"What does that mean? You wouldn't go out with him."
"That would be foolish."
"That's not an answer."
She was silent.
"Would you call me if you decide to see him? Let me know where you're going?"
She just looked at him.
"Will you call me? I make a good backup. Like the safe deposit box."
She grinned. "All right, I'll call. If you'll stay out of the way."
"Totally invisible," Clyde said. They were finishing their lunch when Dallas showed up wearing scruffy clothes and driving a rusted-out old Chevy. He stood in the yard watching Ryan descend.
"On my way up the hills, see if I can find Gramps Farger. A tip that he's living up there in some old shack." Dallas looked at Ryan. "We have some blowups of the murder-scene photos. Found the hint of a tire mark, thin tire like maybe a mountain bike. Lab is doing an enhancement."
He put his arm around her. "From the small amount of blood and the condition of the body, and the angle of the shots, coroner says Rupert wasn't killed in your garage."
Ryan relaxed against him, letting out a long sigh. "I didn't know any news in the world could sound so wonderful."
Clyde said, "What's this about Gramps Farger?"
Dallas moved toward the back patio out of range of the two carpenters. "I got a tip, early this morning, a young woman. She said the old man's living in a fallen-down shack up along that ravine above the Pamillon estate." The detective leaned over the gate to pet Rock who had come racing up. Rearing, the big dog planted his front feet on top the gate and reached to lick Dallas's face.
Dallas rubbed behind the dog's ears. "That old place was sitting vacant. We check on it every couple of weeks-he could have moved in right after our last run up there. A guy can make a lot of mischief in two weeks. Informant said he's dumping bags of trash down among the ruins."