Read Online Cat to the Dogs by Shirley Rousseau Murphy - Free Book Online
Authors: Shirley Rousseau Murphy
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Maybe they hadnât found the cut brake line, maybe that was why he was uncommunicative.
âThere was a billfold, too,â Joe told him. âIn the dead driverâs hip pocket. Leather. A bulging leather wallet. Did you find that? An old wallet, misshapen from so much stuff crammed in, the leather dark, sort of oily. Stained. A large splinter of broken glass was pressing against it.â
He repeated the information but refused to give Brennan his name. He hung up before Brennan could trace the call; a trace took three or four minutes. He didnât dare involve Wilmaâs phone in this. She and Harper were friends. Joe wasnât going to throwsuspicion on herâand thus, by inference, cast it back on himself and Dulcie.
Pawing the phone into its cradle and pushing out again through Dulcieâs plastic door, he headed toward the hills, trotting up through cottage gardens and across the little park that covered the Highway One tunnel. Gaining the high, grassy slopes, he sat in the warm wind, feeling lonely without Dulcie.
She was so busy these days, spying uselessly on Lucinda Greenlaw. Maybe that was all that was wrong with her, watching Lucinda too much, feeling sad for the old woman; maybe it was her preoccupation with the Greenlaw family that had turned her so moody.
Â
All day Joe hunted alone, puzzling over Dulcie. At dusk he hurried home, thinking he would find Dulcie there because Clyde had invited Wilma to dinner, along with Charlie, and Max Harper.
He saw Wilmaâs car parked in front of the cottage, but couldnât detect Dulcieâs scent. Not around the car, or on the front porch, or on his cat door. Heading through the house for the kitchen, he sniffed deeply the aroma of clam sauce and twitched his nose at the sharp hint of white wine. Pushing into the kitchen, he looked around for Dulcie.
Clyde and Charlie stood at the stove stirring the clam sauce and tasting it. Charlieâs red hair was tied back with a blue scarf rather than the usual rubber band or piece of cord. Her oversized, blue batik shirt was tucked into tight blue jeans. She had on sleek new sandals, not her old, worn jogging shoes.
Wilma was tossing the salad, her long white hair, tied back with a turquoise clip, bright in the overhead lights. The table was set for four. Two more places, with small plates and no silverware, were arranged on the counter beside the sink, on a yellow place mat. That would be Charlieâs doing; Clyde never served so fancy. The sounds of bubbling pasta competed with an Ella Fitzgeraldrecord, both happy noises overridden by the loud and insistent scratching of what sounded like a troop of attack dogs assaulting the closed doggy door. He wondered how long the plywood barrier would last before those two shredded it.
âI just fed them,â Clyde said defensively. âTwo cans each. Big, economy cans.â
Joe made no comment. He did not want to speak in front of Charlie.
Charlie knew about him and Dulcieâshe had known ever since, some months ago, she saw them racing across the rooftops at midnight and heard Dulcie laughing. That was when she began to suspectâor maybe before that, he thought, wondering.
Well, so that one night leaping among the village roofs, theyâd been careless.
Charlie was one of the few people who could put such impossible facts together and come up with the impossible truth. And it wasnât as if Charlie was only a casual acquaintance; she and Clyde had been going together seriously for nearly a year. Joe liked her. She treated him with more respect than Clyde ever did, and she was, after all, Wilmaâs niece. But still he couldnât help feeling shy about actually speaking in front of her, not even to ask where Dulcie was.
âSheâs on the back fence,â Wilma said, seeing him fidgeting. âWhere else? Gawking into Lucindaâs parlor.â Wilma shook the salad dressing with a violence that threatened
âThere was a billfold, too,â Joe told him. âIn the dead driverâs hip pocket. Leather. A bulging leather wallet. Did you find that? An old wallet, misshapen from so much stuff crammed in, the leather dark, sort of oily. Stained. A large splinter of broken glass was pressing against it.â
He repeated the information but refused to give Brennan his name. He hung up before Brennan could trace the call; a trace took three or four minutes. He didnât dare involve Wilmaâs phone in this. She and Harper were friends. Joe wasnât going to throwsuspicion on herâand thus, by inference, cast it back on himself and Dulcie.
Pawing the phone into its cradle and pushing out again through Dulcieâs plastic door, he headed toward the hills, trotting up through cottage gardens and across the little park that covered the Highway One tunnel. Gaining the high, grassy slopes, he sat in the warm wind, feeling lonely without Dulcie.
She was so busy these days, spying uselessly on Lucinda Greenlaw. Maybe that was all that was wrong with her, watching Lucinda too much, feeling sad for the old woman; maybe it was her preoccupation with the Greenlaw family that had turned her so moody.
Â
All day Joe hunted alone, puzzling over Dulcie. At dusk he hurried home, thinking he would find Dulcie there because Clyde had invited Wilma to dinner, along with Charlie, and Max Harper.
He saw Wilmaâs car parked in front of the cottage, but couldnât detect Dulcieâs scent. Not around the car, or on the front porch, or on his cat door. Heading through the house for the kitchen, he sniffed deeply the aroma of clam sauce and twitched his nose at the sharp hint of white wine. Pushing into the kitchen, he looked around for Dulcie.
Clyde and Charlie stood at the stove stirring the clam sauce and tasting it. Charlieâs red hair was tied back with a blue scarf rather than the usual rubber band or piece of cord. Her oversized, blue batik shirt was tucked into tight blue jeans. She had on sleek new sandals, not her old, worn jogging shoes.
Wilma was tossing the salad, her long white hair, tied back with a turquoise clip, bright in the overhead lights. The table was set for four. Two more places, with small plates and no silverware, were arranged on the counter beside the sink, on a yellow place mat. That would be Charlieâs doing; Clyde never served so fancy. The sounds of bubbling pasta competed with an Ella Fitzgeraldrecord, both happy noises overridden by the loud and insistent scratching of what sounded like a troop of attack dogs assaulting the closed doggy door. He wondered how long the plywood barrier would last before those two shredded it.
âI just fed them,â Clyde said defensively. âTwo cans each. Big, economy cans.â
Joe made no comment. He did not want to speak in front of Charlie.
Charlie knew about him and Dulcieâshe had known ever since, some months ago, she saw them racing across the rooftops at midnight and heard Dulcie laughing. That was when she began to suspectâor maybe before that, he thought, wondering.
Well, so that one night leaping among the village roofs, theyâd been careless.
Charlie was one of the few people who could put such impossible facts together and come up with the impossible truth. And it wasnât as if Charlie was only a casual acquaintance; she and Clyde had been going together seriously for nearly a year. Joe liked her. She treated him with more respect than Clyde ever did, and she was, after all, Wilmaâs niece. But still he couldnât help feeling shy about actually speaking in front of her, not even to ask where Dulcie was.
âSheâs on the back fence,â Wilma said, seeing him fidgeting. âWhere else? Gawking into Lucindaâs parlor.â Wilma shook the salad dressing with a violence that threatened
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