Ryan didn't see behind her the two cats' response to her longshoreman's description of Rupert, didn't see Joe Grey's yellow eyes narrow with amusement, and Dulcie's green eyes widen with laughter at her characterization of the man she so despised.
2
She was reaching for her suit jacket when she remembered she'd have to change purses, that she couldn't dress up for a wedding and carry a canvas backpack. Crossing the studio in her slip, Ryan glanced again at the two cats sprawled across the blue-and-garnet rug, admiring Dulcie's chocolate stripes and Joe's sleek silver gleam. Quietly they stared up at her, Joe's gaze burning like clear amber, Dulcie's eyes as bright green as emeralds. But the intensity of their concentration forced her to step back. And as she moved away toward the dressing room she was certain that behind her they were still watching.
Strange little cats, she thought. Why was their interest so unsettling?
"Strange little cats," she had once told Clyde.
"How so? Strange in what way?"
"There's something different about them. Don't you notice? I've never had cats, only dogs, but…"
"All cats are strange, one way or another. That's what makes them appealing."
"I suppose. But those two, and the black-and-brown one you call the kit, sometimes they behave more like dogs than cats. The way they follow you around. And all three cats seem so intense, their glances are so… I don't know. The way they look at a person, the way the kit looks at you, they're not the way I think of cats." She had watched Clyde, frowning. "Neither Wilma nor you finds your cats odd? Doesn't Wilma ever comment on how different they seem?"
Clyde had shrugged. "I don't think you've observed cats very closely. Cats are strange, cats stare at you, and every cat is different in some way. Unpredictable," he'd said. "Dogs are more alike, easier to understand."
"I see," she'd answered doubtfully, wondering why he sounded so defensive.
Glancing in the dressing room mirror, she slipped on the beige linen suit without a blouse. The deep V of the neck set off the best of her tan-perfect for cleavage if she'd had any. Well, her tan was good. No one could tell it was a farmer's tan, ending where her shirt collars and sleeves began. With jacket and skirt in place, and pantyhose, most of her little bruises and cuts from working construction were well enough hidden.
The thought did nag her that she ought to do something about her general appearance, the most pressing item being her hair, which badly needed cutting. Two months on the job without stopping to get a haircut had left it longer than she liked, and ragged. Her nails were rough too and her skin felt as dry and leathery as an old carpenter's apron. What she could have used was a week at some cushy spa with luxurious daily massages, perfumed oils, professional hairstyling, steam baths, manicure, pedicure-a complete overhaul guaranteed to put all emotional and physical parts back into working order.
It amused her to wonder what those high-class masseuses and beauty specialists would make of her calloused, torn hands and cut thumbs and assorted body bruises-little marks of hard labor earned by toting heavy lumber and plumbing fixtures, and leaning into two-by-fours to hold them in place as she nailed them solid. At least her fancy masseuse could have admired her slim butt and super muscle tone, even if the skinny package was as full of bruises as the dents in an ancient farm pickup.
Fastening on an ivory pendant, she brushed back her dark hair into some semblance of order and sprayed it, and applied lipstick. So much for elegance. She'd leave the pizzazz to her sister. Hanni would arrive at the wedding dressed in something that caught all eyes, something almost too wild, too far out, but that would look great on Hanni, with her prematurely white, wildly curling coiffure, her long lean body and her total self-assurance. Hanni was the show-off of the family, the onstage personality, the would-be model, Ryan thought warmly. She'd missed Hanni and Dallas, just as she constantly missed her dad. She hadn't seen much of him since she left the city, but she missed him more now, knowing he was so far away, on the East Coast. He'd been gone for nearly a month, conducting training sessions; she'd be glad when he was home again.
She found herself looking forward eagerly to the wedding, to a bit of social life, to being with friends, and with at least two members of her family. And looking forward too, to the quiet and meaningful ceremony.
Just because her own marriage had been ugly didn't mean she had to rain on others' bliss.
The marriage of Max Harper, that wry-witted police captain who, Clyde said, had seemed so very alone after his wife died, was a cause of celebration for the entire village-or at least for all those who didn't hate Harper, who didn't fear Harper's thorough and effective response to village crime.
To see Charlie and Max marrying pleased Ryan very much. The two were just right for each other. Two no-nonsense people who, despite their down-to-earth attitudes, were each in their own way dreamers. Though you'd never know that about Max Harper; he'd never let you know that.
Charlie and Max had wanted a small, private wedding that better fit their approach to life and was in keeping with Max's low-key style as chief of police. But the villagers were so excited about the occasion, everyone wanted to be a part of the wedding. The couple had settled for a ceremony in the small village church with the wedding guests mostly police officers and their wives and a few close friends, but with all the village crowded around in the adjoining rooms of the church and in the garden, and at the open patio doors where they could hear the couple's vows. The garden buffet afterward would be for the whole village.
She thought about Rupert's message. Someone's asking… about your plans for the weekend… Areyou going to some wedding?… I don't want anything on my conscience…
She shook her head. That was all talk. She was stupid to let Rupert worry her, that was exactly what he wanted. Rupert's warped sense of the melodramatic was inappropriate and embarrassing.
Finished dressing, she decided to make fresh coffee for Clyde; he was usually early, a quality mat had at first annoyed her but that she'd come to find reassuring. Clyde didn't like to be late and neither did she. Having not seen each other for over two months, they could sit and talk for a moment before being swallowed up in the crowd and the ceremony. The coffee was brewing when she heard him double-timing up the stairs. She opened the door eagerly, before he had time to knock, forgetting the mice on the mat.
He stood at the edge of the mat staring down without expression. She remained silent, unwilling to respond to his corny joke, and wondering again how he'd accomplished it.
Looking up at her, he started to grin. His short, dark hair was freshly cut, his shave smooth and clean, making her want to touch his cheek. She loved the scent of his vetiver aftershave. She had never seen him in a suit before, only in jeans and a polo shirt or, for evening, jeans and a sport coat. Today, as best man, he had dressed handsomely, choosing a dark navy suit, a pale, pinstriped shirt and a rich but subdued paisley tie. He seemed truly surprised by the dead mice.
"That's what your tomcat brought me."
"He does that," Clyde said casually. "He does that at home."
"Leaves mice on the mat? Lines them up like a pack of sausages? Come on, Clyde."
Clyde looked at her innocently. "All in a row. I haven't been able to break him of it." His look was blank and serious.
She didn't pursue it. Maybe the cat had done it on his own. This was not the day to discuss the vicissitudes of Clyde's cat.