Greeley, that she knew.
âThat federal officer could die,â Lilly said. âCage belongs in prison.â
Greeley wondered, if he was in this much trouble, would his sister, Mavity, be as hateful as Lilly Jones? He gave Lilly a gentle smile. âCage said there was some kind of suitcase or duffle bag. Said to pack up his stuff, whatever I thought heâd need. If itâs all right with you, of courseâ¦â He was growing uneasy. This old woman was going to run him offâor try to.
It would be a sight easier if he had the house to himself. If he could search in his own way, take his time. But he hadnât figured out, yet, how to accomplish that.
Lilly looked at him silently for a long time. He waited for her to tell him to get out, but then she settled back, watching him. âTell me where he is. Tell me exactly what happened. Tell me why he shot that federal officer. If you tell me all of it, weâll see about the clothes.â
12
D ulcie and Kit, too, were headed for the Jones house, racing up into the hills, skirting the canyon, where a fitful wind blew at their backs, pushing them along and ruffling their fur. Shouldering through tinder-dry weeds, they bounded into bright flower beds, then tangled grass, then across the back garden of the four senior ladies, on and on, up the ridge through all manner of backyards; at the crest of the hill, they circled around to the street, to the front entrance of the Jones house, just as Greeley had done.
The tall, brown, boxlike dwelling stood on the highest blunt ridge, nearly smothered by eucalyptus trees, a two-story structure with no architectural grace, though the trees hid most of its faults, the silvery-leafed giants crowding so close that their wind-tossed branches rattled against the siding, slapping the cracked wood.
The lumpy front yard was dry and bald, with a thin scattering of scruffy grass. There was no sign that anyone watered, or cared about growing things. Dulcie paused to pull a thorn from her paw, gripping it in her teeth and jerking hard, then spitting it out. A few parked cars stood along the street or in the narrow, cracked driveways. One imagined garages too full of trashy personal treasures to accommodate even a bicycle. No person could be seen in the yards or at the windows. In a few houses, though, lights were on. Above the darkening rooftops, the evening sky was still silvered with the fading day. Venetian blinds covered the windows of the Jones house. All were closed, so the cats could not see in; a faint light burned in what seemed to be the living room.
A block away, a water company truck was parked, as if out late on an emergency call, two uniformed men bent over the curbside meters. One was Officer Blake, a tall, balding, string bean of a man. The cats didnât know the other officer. Down at the other end of the block, three PG&E employees were working, as if perhaps attending to the same emergency: two were older officers the cats had never seen. The cats knew that Max Harper had men on call for surveillance, when he might be shorthanded. Despite the late-afternoon heat, the windows of the Jones house were all closed.
âMust be like an oven in there,â Dulcie said. âCould Lilly have air-conditioning? Oh, not in this old house.â Most folks on the coast didnât bother with artificial cooling; usually a sharp evening breeze took care of any unusual heat. Kit counted the windows and studied the size of the house, staring high above them. âWhy would she live alone, in such a big old place?â
âIt belongs half to her and half to Cage,â Dulcie said. âWhen he was on parole, Wilma suggested he get something smaller, put the money in savings, but he didnât want to do that. I guess the house is paid for, so Lilly lives rent free. Their parents bought it years and years ago, when theywere first marriedâ¦Iâll bet they never dreamed it might be a place for their
âThat federal officer could die,â Lilly said. âCage belongs in prison.â
Greeley wondered, if he was in this much trouble, would his sister, Mavity, be as hateful as Lilly Jones? He gave Lilly a gentle smile. âCage said there was some kind of suitcase or duffle bag. Said to pack up his stuff, whatever I thought heâd need. If itâs all right with you, of courseâ¦â He was growing uneasy. This old woman was going to run him offâor try to.
It would be a sight easier if he had the house to himself. If he could search in his own way, take his time. But he hadnât figured out, yet, how to accomplish that.
Lilly looked at him silently for a long time. He waited for her to tell him to get out, but then she settled back, watching him. âTell me where he is. Tell me exactly what happened. Tell me why he shot that federal officer. If you tell me all of it, weâll see about the clothes.â
12
D ulcie and Kit, too, were headed for the Jones house, racing up into the hills, skirting the canyon, where a fitful wind blew at their backs, pushing them along and ruffling their fur. Shouldering through tinder-dry weeds, they bounded into bright flower beds, then tangled grass, then across the back garden of the four senior ladies, on and on, up the ridge through all manner of backyards; at the crest of the hill, they circled around to the street, to the front entrance of the Jones house, just as Greeley had done.
The tall, brown, boxlike dwelling stood on the highest blunt ridge, nearly smothered by eucalyptus trees, a two-story structure with no architectural grace, though the trees hid most of its faults, the silvery-leafed giants crowding so close that their wind-tossed branches rattled against the siding, slapping the cracked wood.
The lumpy front yard was dry and bald, with a thin scattering of scruffy grass. There was no sign that anyone watered, or cared about growing things. Dulcie paused to pull a thorn from her paw, gripping it in her teeth and jerking hard, then spitting it out. A few parked cars stood along the street or in the narrow, cracked driveways. One imagined garages too full of trashy personal treasures to accommodate even a bicycle. No person could be seen in the yards or at the windows. In a few houses, though, lights were on. Above the darkening rooftops, the evening sky was still silvered with the fading day. Venetian blinds covered the windows of the Jones house. All were closed, so the cats could not see in; a faint light burned in what seemed to be the living room.
A block away, a water company truck was parked, as if out late on an emergency call, two uniformed men bent over the curbside meters. One was Officer Blake, a tall, balding, string bean of a man. The cats didnât know the other officer. Down at the other end of the block, three PG&E employees were working, as if perhaps attending to the same emergency: two were older officers the cats had never seen. The cats knew that Max Harper had men on call for surveillance, when he might be shorthanded. Despite the late-afternoon heat, the windows of the Jones house were all closed.
âMust be like an oven in there,â Dulcie said. âCould Lilly have air-conditioning? Oh, not in this old house.â Most folks on the coast didnât bother with artificial cooling; usually a sharp evening breeze took care of any unusual heat. Kit counted the windows and studied the size of the house, staring high above them. âWhy would she live alone, in such a big old place?â
âIt belongs half to her and half to Cage,â Dulcie said. âWhen he was on parole, Wilma suggested he get something smaller, put the money in savings, but he didnât want to do that. I guess the house is paid for, so Lilly lives rent free. Their parents bought it years and years ago, when theywere first marriedâ¦Iâll bet they never dreamed it might be a place for their
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