something, falling off that roof. Just bruisesâand those scratches on his face from the branches.â She looked at Clyde. âDo you think he would have set off the bomb if he hadnât fallen? Do you think he would have pressed that little button?â
Clyde and Charlie and Wilma avoided looking at each other. All were thinking the same. Had no one seen Kit attack the boy?
âThe boy went to a lot of trouble,â Clyde said, âto suddenly abandon the idea. Whether he made the bomb or the old man did, donât you think a ten-year-old would do what he was told to do? If the old man forced the kid to go up on the roof, if he threatened Curtisâ¦â
âYouâre saying he would have done it,â Ryan said. âBut then fate stepped inâas if Max and Charlieâs guardian angel was looking after them, looking after all of us.â
Wilma lifted her champagne glass. âHereâs to that particular angel. May our guardian angels never desert us.â And Wilma did not need to look beneath the table to know that the guardian angel was pressing against her ankle. That particular angel purred so powerfully that she shook both herself and Wilma.
6
The platters of party food were empty, the wedding cake had all been eaten or small pieces wrapped in paper napkins and carried away as little talismans to provide midnight dreams of future happiness. The empty champagne bottles had been neatly gathered and bagged, the tables and chairs folded and loaded into waiting trucks. In the quiet night the grassy, tree-sheltered median was empty now and silent and seemed to Ryan and Clyde painfully lonely. As they headed for the few parked cars, Ryan took his hand.
The bride and groom had left for San Francisco, for the bridal suite at the St. Francis, the loveliest old hotel in the city. They had joked about arriving in Maxâs Chevy king cab, and had talked about renting a limo but considered that extravagant. The pickup wasnât fancy but it was safe on the highway, and in the city they would put it in storage during their cruise. They had three days to enjoy San Francisco before they moved into the stateroom of their luxury liner and sailed for Alaskaâor before Max realized that he couldnât leave, with the bombing case working, that theyâd have to head home again.
âMaybe only a three-day honeymoon,â Ryan said sadly, already certain of what Max would do.
âWhatever they do,â Clyde said, walking her to Dallasâs car, âtheyâre happy.â He gave Ryan a hug by way of good night, watched her settle in beside Dallas, then swung into his yellow convertible to drive the three blocks home, leaving Ryan and her uncle heading for her place to collect what little evidence might remain in the bed of her truck. Strange about the kid hitching a ride, hiding under the tarp where he couldnât be seen through the rear windowâhe had to know exactly when sheâd be leaving San Andreas. He had made his way into the town itself, maybe hitchhiking, to wait for her there.
Clyde drove home thinking uneasily about Joe, and about the kit and Dulcie. The cats would be into this case tooth and claw.
A bombing was a different game than shoplifting, or domestic violence, or even domestic murder. A bomb investigation of any kind could be more than dangerousâand you could bet Joe Grey would be onto it like ticks on a hound.
Short of locking the cat up, there wasnât much Clyde could do to stop him.
Joe claimed he had no right to try. And maybe Joe was right. As much as Clyde wanted to protect Joe, the tomcat was a sentient being, and sentient beings had free choice. Joe could always argue him down on that point.
Parking in his drive, Clyde took a few minutes to put up the top of the antique Chevy. Following the slow, cumbersome routine, pulling and straightening the canvas and snapping the many grommets in place, he thought how strange and
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