In the village library, where she liked to prowl at night, she had pored over books of antique collections like this from all around the world and from many centuries. Some of the pieces were set with real jewels and some with paste replicas, but even with those, the settings themselves were of great value. Even in photographs, they were so beautiful that she longed to touch them. The same desire gripped her now, that had so excited her when, as a younger cat, she had stolen beautiful cashmere carves and luxurious satin teddies from Wilma’s neighbors. She wanted to reach her paw in and lift out each lovely piece with her curved claws. She wanted to feel each rich necklace around her own furry neck, she wanted to look in the mirror and see that Etruscan pendant gleaming emerald bright against her dark stripes.
“Coral and turquoise,” Dulcie said softly. “Lapis lazuli. Topaz. Such beautiful jewelry to set off Rita’s own beauty. Even with jeans she wears a silk or cashmere top and lovely jewelry.”
“She calls it antique costume jewelry,” Tansy said. “She brings it back from all over the world. I’ve heard her name the places-places I’ve never heard of or imagined!”
“If someone was in here,” Joe said, “maybe casing these houses, did they find this cupboard? Did they move the key? Or did Rita? And why would a burglar open it but take nothing? If someone was casing these places and planning a burglary for later, what are they waiting for?” Joe thought about the scars on the Chapmans’ patio door, about Mango shut away from her kittens, and about the man watching from the hill below and then running. And the cats left the Waterman house, puzzled, wondering if they were on the right track at all, wondering if they were way off base, as they moved on to investigate the other two empty homes.
19
HE STOOD ON the hill beside the car hidden by the heavy cypress branches, looking down along the lower roads. There were no car lights, and only a few scattered houselights shone, muted behind closed curtains. People were settling in for the evening, and that old couple with their canes and their weird dog were gone. It had taken them long enough, nothing better to do than sit on a stone wall watching the fog roll in. He’d lost sight of them for a while, and when he looked again they’d vanished. He meant to wait another hour, until there was less likelihood of cars, before he started digging. He didn’t want someone taking a late-evening walk and hearing the sound of the shovel or seeing the reflection of his flashlight through the garage window.
Getting in the car, silently closing the door, he sat looking down at the quiet, bucolic neighborhood. Those houses down there, none of them were very impressive, just little wood-framed places, ordinary and small. A strange neighborhood to be putting a lot of work and money into a remodel, particularly with the economy in trouble. Why spend time on the nondescript place, why take the risk?
He didn’t let himself think that he was taking an even greater risk-and that he had a lot more to lose than did that contractor.
He had laid the flashlight and tools on the backseat, everything was ready. He wished he could play the radio but he didn’t want to chance it. She’d have turned on the oldies station, she didn’t like to sit quietly when they were together.
Yet she’d lie for hours soaking up the sun, silent and alone and completely happy. He hated that, hated that she’d liked being alone.
When he started getting restless, he did turn the radio on, real low, but then nervously turned it off again. Below him, the lights in one house went out, as if the occupants had gone to bed. Or were they leaving, going out? But no car lights came on and moved away. He was about to gather up his tools and get on with the unpleasant work ahead when, far down the hill, lights appeared from around a bend, heading up toward him.
He watched the car getting closer, watched it turn onto the street below and head up the hill, straight for the remodel, making him wish he’d pulled his car even deeper under the trees. As it passed the last lighted house he saw its black-and-white pattern. Black car, white door with MOLENA POINT POLICE stenciled on it. It paused before the remodel, generating in him a jolt of panic.
He could see only the driver, couldn’t tell if he was alone. He sat with the motor running, shining the beam of his flashlight over the house and yard. It paused at the dirt pile. He prayed the guy wouldn’t walk the property, that he wouldn’t try the pedestrian door into the garage, which he’d left unlocked. The thought of a cop going in there made cold sweat prick his neck and shoulders. Was this a routine patrol, or had someone seen him walking around the place and called 911?
The cop’s light played over and around the dirt pile for a few minutes but then swung back across the front door and front windows and the garage window. There, again it paused. He expected the guy to get out, maybe walk around the place. If he checked the doors, found the garage door unlocked, would he go inside? There was nothing to see in there. Yet. Would he maybe call the contractor, that the door was unlocked, meet her up here so she could check it out herself?
But the cop didn’t get out, he just sat there behind the wheel, looking. As if this was only a routine check after all, and he’d be gone in a minute. He could hear the guy talking on the radio but couldn’t make out what he said, his voice was low and the distance too great. Was it something about this house or something else entirely? Maybe only a routine call. It seemed forever before the cop moved on, heading up the hill toward him. As the squad car approached the cypress trees, he slid down in the seat, thinking about the shovel on the floor and the tools lying in plain sight on the backseat.
He watched the reflection of moving headlights, lis tened to the crunch of tires on the rough street as the unit passed within a few feet of his hidden car. He didn’t breathe, couldn’t breathe. His blood felt like ice.
But the guy didn’t stop, didn’t see his car. He remained crouched out of sight, listening to it move on up the hill. Did he hear it stop, up there? Yes, when he rose warily to look, it had paused at a lighted house high on the hill above.
Again he waited, again the cop remained in his car, just sitting there, shining his light around. Didn’t he have anything better to do? What, was he checking out a report of someone prowling around up here? Why didn’t he get out and walk the properties, then? Was it because he was alone, without backup? Was he afraid to walk these hills alone?
After what seemed like forever, the unit moved on, to disappear over the crest of the hill. He waited, listening. After some time, when he didn’t hear it coming back, he eased up, trying to get his breath, sucking on the damned inhaler and then rubbing his legs and arms to warm himself. Shortness of breath always made him cold. Doctor gave him some pills for a really bad attack, but he didn’t take them; they made him feel worse than the constricted breathing. He’d dumped them out long ago, and now he wished he had them.
When the law didn’t return, he pulled his cap lower, pulled the collar of his dark windbreaker over his face so he’d blend in with the night, and eased out of the car. He headed down the hill staying among the trees, staying in the shadows and trying not to trip on the rough ground.
Moving along the dark side of the garage where the pedestrian door etched a darker rectangle, he told himself it would soon be over and no one would ever find her. In the morning they’d fill in the trench with gravel and pour new cement to replace that part of the garage floor and be none the wiser about what lay under their careful work. By the time the cement was dry, he’d be long gone.