When Braden introduced them, Wylles looked at her so blankly she couldn’t tell what he might remember. Yet even if his memory had mended, he might not remember her. He had seen her only once, that day in his chamber. And he had been drugged and ill, and her hair had been brown, not calico. But what was he doing here? Why would Wylles come to the Cat Museum?
Braden said, “Are you here doing research, Olive? Or just for an outing?”
“You poke fun at me, Braden.”
“I don’t make fun at all. I think you’ve done some fine work. What did you find out about the radiocarbon tests?”
Olive smiled, her wrinkles deepening. “Tenth century, just as I suspected. The door is genuine, Braden. It is an ancient Celtic piece and quite valuable.”
“Then you will remove it from the garden?”
“Not at all. No one has stolen it so far, and it’s in amazingly good condition.” The old woman shook her head. “No, I like it where it is. I don’t know who installed it in the garden, but for some reason I can’t explain, I feel it would not be right to move it.” She was watching Melissa, taking in her piebald hair and her long dress.
Braden said, “Melissa has been posing for me. We were working in the museum gardens.”
Melissa saw Wylles’ hand move faintly and his eyes narrow, but the next moment his face was dull, closed. She didn’t know whether he had masked his sudden perception, or whether the awareness was fleeting and he had sunk again into the lethargy of drugs and spells.
When they were in the car heading down the hill, Braden said, “You really don’t feel well. You’ve lost all color. Would you rather go straight home?”
“No, just some hot tea, and something to eat. I guess I was chilled. I’ll be fine. Just hungry.”
But she wasn’t fine. She had seen, in Wylles’ look, a quick hatred. Maybe because Braden was painting her, making images. Wylles’ rage upset her, as had Olive’s prying into the history of the portal. The old woman’s interest could stir Siddonie’s spite, or worse, could awaken some other power that would best be left alone.
She watched Braden maneuver between denser traffic, swerving around a cable car. “How would I look into McCabe’s safe deposit box? Where would I find it?”
He braked for a light, glancing over at her. “I can call McCabe’s attorney and find out.” He slowed, looking intently at her. “This is important, isn’t it? I’ll call from the restaurant.”
She ordered while he phoned. The attorney, Mathew Rhain, was out of town. He would not be back for a week. The safe deposit box was in his office. She said, “Is there no way we could see into the box before he gets back?”
“I asked. The secretary said no, Mathew is the executor. He’s sailing—a call would have to be ship-to-shore, and that won’t open the box. It would have to be a very unusual matter to bring him back before next week.”
He looked at her deeply. “I left my phone number. Rhain will call as soon as he gets back.” His dark eyes were so intent; she thought he saw her distress more clearly than she had meant and that alarmed her, though she was warmed and comforted by his caring.
He said, “Whatever it is, Melissa, I’ll help if I can.” Then their sandwiches came and he said nothing more; they ate companionably and he didn’t pry. Driving back over the bridge, he took her hand, drawing her close, but he didn’t question her. She said, “Your neighbor was doing research in the Cat Museum?”
“I doubt it. Probably just an outing for Tom, to help him get his strength back. He was pretty sick recently. Though he does help her with the research sometimes. He’s very bright. But I don’t think her project has anything to do with cats; it’s about doors. She’s been fooling around with this since before Alice died. They were both fascinated with the garden door.”
“The door of the cats.”
“Yes.”
“She doesn’t find the door of the cats—unpleasant, the way you do?”
He looked at her sharply. “Did I say that?”
“No, you didn’t say it,” she said softly.
He remained silent.
She said, “What does Olive do with her research? What’s it for?”
“She’s published half a dozen pamphlets on local history and artifacts. Small presses, no money in it, but it gives her something to do—makes her feel good. She’s done some speaking to Bay area groups. Alice always encouraged her, but Olive can get carried away.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “She’s not a nut. The research she does is solid—she was a research librarian. I have a librarian friend who’s worked with her, who says Olive is very demanding of herself, very careful. She’s just—so intent about what she does. Well,” he laughed, “I shouldn’t criticize that.”
She grinned at him. No one could be more intent: his whole being, when he was working, seemed concentrated into one powerfully honed strength. As if Braden, in his own way, made strong magic.
They parted at the garden, Braden to rough in a painting, and Melissa heading for the village thinking, like all females since the time of the priestesses of Bast, about garments to adorn and entice.
Chapter 41
