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  "No," Dallas said, pummeling Joe as if he were a dog, until Joe hissed a warning and Dallas withdrew his hand. "Sorry," he said. Then, "No, nothing bad is going to happen. This will be a quiet, happy wedding-low key, just as Ryan and Clyde want. The department would take apart anyone who tried to make it otherwise, anyone who tried to harm those two."

  2

  I NDEED, ON THE day of the wedding there was no bomb threat, no threat of any kind, the casual but smoothly planned ceremony proceeded in a sunny manner quite in keeping with the hopes of the edgy bride and nervous groom-though a dead body had been reported.

  The information was relayed to Charlie Harper, wife of police chief Max Harper, the day before the wedding.

  A hidden grave had been accidentally uncovered not three miles from the Harpers' home, where Clyde and Ryan were to be married.

  Charlie got the word from a friend, but she didn't tell Max about it. She had no intention of telling him, not before the wedding and not afterward. On the happy day, long after the wedding cake was demolished, the sentimental tears were all wiped away, and the euphoric couple had been sent off for a two-week honeymoon in California 's wine country, still Charlie didn't tell Max that an unidentified body had been found in his jurisdiction.

  Not only was it against the law to withhold such information from the police, it was against Charlie's principles to lie, even by omission, to the one man she loved in all the world.

  But this one time, she had no choice. She couldn't tell him about the corpse. There was no logical way she could know about the hidden grave. None of their friends would have been up to the ruins that weekend, to discover it and tell her. Certainly she couldn't tell Max she'd learned about the grave through an anonymous phone call, because any anonymous call would point directly to one of Max's three unidentified informants.

  She wouldn't put those three in further jeopardy, they already had enough trouble keeping their secret. Anyway, why would one of the department's regular informants be up there in that isolated location? And why would they call Charlie instead of calling the department directly, as they usually did?

  Nor could she tell Max she'd stumbled on the grave herself. She had no reason to be wandering up there among those fallen walls where she had, not long ago, shot and killed a man in self-defense. Max knew she avoided the ruins. And it would be way too bizarre to think she'd slipped away to the old estate just before the wedding, in the middle of cleaning house and fixing special dishes for the buffet, or to think that, on the morning of the wedding, she'd saddled her mare and ridden up there when she should have been filling the coffee urn, icing the champagne, and laying out her good linen tablecloths on the extended kitchen and patio tables.

  All during the weekend of the wedding and afterward, while keeping her secret, Charlie tried to work out a scenario that would seem plausible to Max and yet would inform the department of the unknown grave. The wedding was held on the fourteenth day of February, a Sunday, at precisely eleven A.M. The couple had chosen Valentine's Day only after the weather forecaster solemnly promised that it would be clear and fine.

  The day turned out exactly so-a bright morning but cool, the sea breeze cool and fresh, the sky spreading a deep blue backdrop to the masses of white clouds that had piled to heavenly heights above the blue Pacific. The bride wore red, not so much in honor of St. Valentine as because she liked red. Her tailored suit, a muted tomato shade as soft as the spring roses she carried, complemented perfectly her high brunette coloring, her short dark hair, and her intense green eyes.

  The groom was dressed in the first suit he'd owned in more years than he cared to count; he'd chosen a pale tan gabardine that would dress down easily to their casual lifestyle. Nor was the happy couple married in the Catholic Church as one might expect of Ryan Flannery's Irish-Latino heritage. The ceremony took place not on their own patio, as they had at first imagined, but on the wide hilltop terrace of the Max Harper ranch. Besides twenty-some close civilian friends in attendance were as many of Molena Point's finest as could be absent from the department at one time without encouraging an untoward outbreak of crime in the small village. The couple had chosen a weekend without any local festivals, golf tournaments, or antique-car exhibits, any of which would have put an extra burden on the department.

  Chief of Police Max Harper was Clyde 's best man. The bride, again breaking tradition, was given away not by one male relative, but by three: her uncle, Police Detective Dallas Garza; her father, retired Chief U. S. Probation Officer Mike Flannery; and her red-bearded uncle Scott Flannery, who was the foreman of her construction firm.

  Dallas was in full police uniform, his short, dark hair freshly trimmed. Ryan's dad, tall, sandy-haired Mike Flannery, wore a dark suit, white shirt, and soft paisley tie. Mike's brother, Scotty, had chosen the only thing in his closet that wasn't a work shirt and jeans; he wore beige slacks, a white shirt open at the collar, and a dark green corduroy sport coat that contrasted sharply with his red hair and beard. The three men walked Ryan down the aisle side by side-while Ryan's big, silver, canine companion looked on from the sidelines, so tense with excitement that the three cats, sitting beside him, thought any minute the big Weimaraner would bolt straight into the middle of the procession: That was his family marching down the makeshift aisle between the rows of metal chairs, and the big retriever shivered with nervous intensity at this obviously important event involving those he loved.

  But Rock, sitting close between Charlie Harper's left knee and Clyde 's gray tomcat, with both Charlie and Joe Grey giving him stern looks, managed to remain on his best behavior.

  No guest in attendance thought it strange that Ryan's Weimaraner and the groom's tomcat, and their friends' two cats, were in attendance; animals were an important part of their lives. Charlie stood with her fingers touching Rock's silky head, near his collar, to make doubly sure he didn't bolt to his mistress and new master; she could feel him quivering under her gentle strokes.

  As for the three cats, Charlie wasn't worried about their behavior. Joe Grey, his tabby lady, and the tortoiseshell kit knew better than many people how to act during such a solemn and important ceremony.

  Though, looking down at the cats, Charlie did wonder at Joe Grey's admirable restraint on this particular day-because this marriage would change dramatically all the rest of the gray tomcat's life. The fact that Ryan would now be living with Joe Grey and Clyde presented a whole new set of rules and priorities for the tomcat; Charlie had worried considerably about how he'd settle into the new routine.

  Any cat would find the addition of a new family member a threat to his place in the household and to his treasured habits, but for a cat who could speak with humans and who not only read the morning paper but expected first grabs at the front page, such a life change had to be stressful. Even though Ryan knew Joe's secret, had figured out for herself that he was as skilled in the English language as was she, the changes for Joe, as well as for Ryan and Clyde -for all three strong-willed individuals-would be trying. Particularly considering Joe Grey's secret involvement with Molena Point PD as their prime, though anonymous, informant.

  Well, it was no good worrying about difficulties in the Damen household. She expected the three of them would work it out. And as the wedding music of soft Irish folk songs drifted through the outdoor speakers, Charlie centered her attention on the beautiful matron of honor as Ryan's sister, Hanni, stepped out onto the crowded patio through the glass doors from the Harper living room, leading the bridal procession.

  It seemed fitting to Charlie that the bride herself had designed and constructed this part of the Harper home that was now the site of her wedding. This portion of the house was particularly bright and open, the airy living room anchored by tall, heavy pillars and soaring beams and the tall stone fireplace. The floor-to-ceiling glass walls that looked out to the sea over the Harpers' green pastures, now reflected Hanni as she led the two flower girls, the bride, and her escorts in slow and measured steps across the patio
, between the rows of seated guests to the bower of roses where Clyde waited nervously with Captain Harper and the preacher; Charlie had to smile because Hanni had tastefully dressed down for the occasion, with none of her usual flamboyance.

  Only Hanni's short, white hair, in a bright tangle around her smooth young face, could not be dimmed, her natural looks not be restrained by the tailored tan suit, somewhat darker than Clyde's; she wore none of her usual wild jewelry, but only a thin gold chain at her throat and tiny gold earrings, demure pieces she must have borrowed for the occasion, as they were nothing like her usual bizarre necklaces and pendants and wild rings for which Hanni Coon was so well known. Today, Hanni did not upstage her sister. The bride looked delicious in her soft red suit, and she looked so happy that Charlie felt tears starting, the foolish tears that weddings always stirred in her for no sensible reason.

  The Irish folk music lilted softly, the stringed instruments blending with the sea's rhythmic pounding and with the far cries of the gulls, an earthy-milieu counterpoint to the minister's voice as he intoned the words of the brief ceremony. Only when he asked for the ring was he interrupted-by the nicker of Charlie's sorrel mare, from the pasture, which made everyone chuckle.

  Joe Grey, watching Dallas Garza and Mike and Scott Flannery give away the bride, caught again a hint of bridling on Dallas 's part as he glanced over at Mike, and wondered again if Dallas 's competitive look centered on thoughts of Lindsey Wolf.

  But when Joe looked at Dulcie to get her reaction, his tabby lady seemed to have noticed nothing, she seemed lost either in the sentimental ceremony or off in some distant thought, and did not even notice his glance.

  ***

  W ATCHING RYAN and Clyde joined in holy matrimony, the tabby cat, like Charlie, had to swallow back her own tears. What was it that made females weep at weddings?

  She watched Clyde kiss the bride, and then the crowd surrounded the happy couple, laughing and congratulating them, and Dulcie had to hide a wild urge to laugh with delight, not only because of the joyous moment but because practical-minded Ryan Flannery-Ryan Flannery Damen, now-was a member of the inner group, because Ryan had guessed, all on her own, that the three cats could talk to her and understand her, because Ryan had guessed their impossible secret.

  As the guests milled around them, the three cats, to avoid the surge of crowding feet, leaped to the top of the cold barbecue, out of the way-cops were a raucous crew, and their civilian counterparts were just as enthusiastic. Rock had joined the fray, yipping and dancing around the newlyweds, abandoning any attempt at obeying Ryan's carefully taught manners.

  The couple was toasted, and toasted again; they danced the first dance, and posed for pictures, and cut the cake. Max put on a tape of Irish jigs, and everyone danced: eighty-year-old Lucinda and Pedric Greenlaw; Dulcie's housemate Wilma, and Mike Flannery; the four senior ladies dancing with handsome young cops; fourteen-year-old Dillon Thurwell and twelve-year-old Lori dancing with cops, too, their faces flushed, their eyes laughing. Hanni and her husband danced while their three boys inhaled party food. If this was a small, quiet wedding, Dulcie thought, heaven help a cat in the midst of a big, all-out celebration. Atop the barbecue, she pressed close between Joe and Kit, enjoying their human friends' rowdy pleasure.

  By three o'clock that afternoon the party was winding down, the cake had been demolished, only scraps remained on the buffet, and the bride and groom had departed for their drive up the coast.

  Most of the officers had gone back on duty. The senior ladies had left, as had Dillon and Lori, the two girls clutching their pieces of wedding cake to put under their pillows. "I will marry a cop," said red-haired Dillon, winking at portly Officer Brennan. But Lori, with her dad still in prison, pushed back her long dark hair and was silent. Lori didn't say what kind of man she'd marry.

  The party dwindled to a quiet, mellow aftermath, melancholy and sentimental. Why anyone should feel sad after a wedding, Dulcie wasn't sure. This was the start of a new life for Ryan and Clyde -but while everyone was giddily happy, the cats could not ignore the undercurrent of sadness that now turned folks silent and thoughtful.

  But of course Dulcie's housemate felt sad. Wilma was the closest thing to an older sister that Clyde had, and as happy as she was for him, surely she felt she was losing a bit of him-it would be Ryan, now, to whom Clyde would tell his secrets and ask for advice, to whom he'd voice his dreams and fears.

  But Wilma knew that was as it should be, and Dulcie could see that her silver-haired housemate was more happy than sad. Wilma had said to Dulcie more than once that it was time Clyde settled down with the right woman-and Ryan was surely the right woman. Two mates of equal strength, Dulcie thought. Two people honest enough and with enough crazy humor to sustain the hardest bumps that might lie ahead.

  From atop the barbecue the tabby cat watched Mike and Dallas and Scotty fold up the metal chairs from the patio and carry them out to Scotty's truck, to be returned to the furniture rental. All three men looked both well satisfied at this milestone in Ryan's life, and yet quiet and nostalgic. The cats watched Charlie and Hanni clean up the empty plates and platters and lay out the remaining food in a fresh but smaller array on the big round kitchen table, nesting the dishes on trays of ice. And as the sun dropped and the afternoon grew chill, the few remaining friends retired to the living room, where Max lit a fire on the hearth.

  Immediately the cats and Rock stretched out before the blaze, taking the best places. Their friends slipped out of their jackets, shoes came off, a few beers were opened. This was the second party this weekend, and for a while, a peaceful silence reigned as each in his or her own mind wished the newlyweds well, wished them a happy and safe journey on their honeymoon and through a long life. Among their small group only Charlie was strung tight.

  Only Charlie and the cats were torn, on this memorable day, by a secret that had nothing to do with the wedding and that they had shared with no one, certainly not with the groom and bride.

  To share the discovery of a body with Clyde and Ryan, just now, would only send them off on their honeymoon worried about Joe, about all three cats, as Clyde always worried.

  Every time a crime was committed, a robbery or a murder, or in this case the discovery of a corpse, every time Molena Point PD had a new investigation, Clyde worried and fussed. When "that little meddler," as he called Joe, leaped into the middle of an investigation, and though Clyde knew there was no way to keep the three cats out, still he nagged them, harangued Joe, and was sure the cats would end up hurt or dead. Joe couldn't convince him otherwise. Arguing with Clyde Damen was as pointless as trying to herd caterpillars.

  Charlie had learned about the body yesterday evening as she was getting ready to leave for Mike's retirement party. She'd had no idea, when she went out to do the last-minute stable chores, that she would soon be sneaking into the party, avoiding her friends, and would slip out again quickly, Joe Grey and Dulcie and Kit stealthily following her, and the blood of a fourth cat staining her hands.

  3

  M IKE FLANNERY'S retirement party, the night before the wedding, had been a casual cookout on Clyde Damen's patio to celebrate Mike's moving from San Francisco to the village. Most of Mike's family had long since removed to Molena Point from the city, Hanni to open her interior design studio, Dallas to sign on as a detective with Molena Point PD, Ryan to escape the husband she was divorcing and to start her own construction firm, and Scotty to work for her.

  Mike, having retired the previous week as Chief U.S. Probation Officer for the Northern District of California, had enjoyed an impressive court ceremony before U.S. judge Donald Clymer and then a crowded and congratulatory office party complete with gag gifts, a thick scrapbook of office pictures from past parties and ceremonies, and deeply felt good wishes; Flannery had been a demanding but infinitely fair and well-loved chief. On the day of the ceremony and party, Mike's rented truck waited, ready to leave San Francisco, packed with the few belongings he meant to keep; the secu
rity deposit on his vacated apartment had been refunded, he had sold his aging car and had closed his bank accounts-not that he was in a hurry to depart the city. Not much of a hurry.

  Early that evening, as the first partygoers assembled, up at the Harper ranch Charlie Harper, dressed in fresh jeans and a clean shirt, was ready to head down the hills to join the celebration; she had just put an insulated carrier full of potato salad in the back of her SUV, and had gone to feed the horses and dogs and put them up for the night when, from deep within the stable, a small voice spoke to her. She pause, startled. "Who's there?"

  Earlier, opening the pasture gate, she'd moved the four horses into the barn, followed by the two gamboling half-Danes, the big, fawn-colored mutts had let her know that nothing was amiss in the stable by the way they frolicked around her, carefree and untroubled. But now, as she finished graining and started to fill the water buckets, Hestig gave a huff and Selig growled, staring toward the rear door that she'd left ajar for air circulation.

  The Harper barn had two rows of stalls facing each other across a covered alley where she and Max groomed and saddled the horses or doctored them. A wide, sliding door opened at the front, and another similar door at the back. This was open only a few inches, and as Charlie paused, watching the dogs, the soft voice spoke again from the shadows.

  "Charlie? Charlie Harper?" A voice barely discernible through Hestig's puzzled rumble.

  Charlie took Hestig's collar, though the dog didn't lunge or bark. He only cocked his head, watching the dark corner.

  There was no one standing there, nothing that she could see, and the chill she felt was not of fear but of anticipation.

  The miracle of hearing that small, wild voice here in the barn made her shiver. Quietly she approached the back of the barn until, where the shadows were deepest, she made out a little white smudge crouched and watching her. She knelt some distance from the pale cat. " Willow?"