Free Cat Raise the Dead by Shirley Rousseau Murphy Page A

wheels,” Max said. The police captain’s scent drifted to them pleasantly on the little breeze that sucked in through the open drive. He smelled of horses and cigarettes, with a hint of gun oil. His thin hands, resting on the car door, were as gnarled and dark as Clyde’s old hiking boots.
    â€œAdelina Prior’s.” Clyde leaned back into the soft upholstery and grinned, stroked the steering wheel. Harper looked the car over, took out a pack of cigarettes, then changed his mind and put them back in his pocket. As if he didn’t want to smoke up that pristine beauty. His thin, lined face was drawn into a scowl. “Got another line on that green truck that hit Susan Dorriss. Not much. And not much chance it’ll show up here, but thought I’d pass the word.
    â€œMan came in the station yesterday. Seems our last newspaper article jogged his memory; he recalled an old green truck cruising the hills about the time Susan was hit, says he saw it three times that week, up around his place.” Harper nodded vaguely toward the hillside residences. “Green step-side. He thought it was a Chevybut wasn’t sure, didn’t know what year, didn’t get a plate number.
    â€œDidn’t know it was important until he read yesterday’s paper. He was out of town when Susan’s car was hit, and he didn’t see the original newspaper story.”
    Again he took out a cigarette, slipping it from the pack in his pocket in an automatic reflex. He started to tamp it on the door of the Bentley, then put it back again. “Why the hell does an accident like that happen to someone like Susan?”
    Clyde turned off the Bentley’s engine. “I’ll watch for the truck, though not likely we’ll see it at Beckwhite’s. Green. A step-side. Not much to go on.”
    Harper nodded. “Likely it’s down in L.A. by now with a new paint job, new plates, or it’s been junked.”
    â€œAnd no idea of the year?”
    â€œNone. And Susan only got a glimpse before it hit her. She thought it was American-made, a full-sized pickup, not new. Faded green paint, and with fenders, she thought. Those models can fool you, can look older than they are.”
    Harper eased his weight, as if perhaps his regulation shoes were uncomfortable. “I hate a hit-and-run, that was too damn bad. Susan’s a really nice woman; she used to walk that big poodle all over the village—before that guy put her in a wheelchair. You’d see her go by the station, Susan and the dog swinging along happy as a couple of kids.
    â€œTell you one thing,” Harper said. “That daughter of Susan’s isn’t going to give it up. One way or another, Bonnie Dorriss means to nail the guy that busted up her mother.” He managed a lean, leathery smile. “Bonnie’s really on my back, calls in every couple of days. Have we got anything new? Just what are we doing?”
    He glanced up, saw Joe and Dulcie sitting in the wide doorway to the automotive shop. “You’re bringing your cat to work?” He raised an eyebrow. “I’d think you’dkeep him out of here, after he nearly got himself blown into fish bait.”
    Joe and Dulcie glanced at each other, and Joe watched Harper carefully. Max Harper never could figure out why his old beer-drinking buddy, his ex-rodeoing buddy, was so dotty about a cat. And he knew he made Harper nervous; twice this past year he and Dulcie had upset the police captain pretty badly.
    Though whatever suspicions might needle Harper, they could be no more than suspicions.
    Highly amused, laughing inside, he gave Harper a blank and stupid gaze. He loved goading Max Harper. On poker nights he always tried to have some new little routine, some subtle new irritant to taunt the captain—not because he disliked him, only because he enjoyed Harper’s stern discomfiture.
    And what difference, if Harper was suspicious? No matter