"Maybe it's something very expensive, to appeal to the opposite sex."

"I bet it has the men flocking."

Dulcie backed away from the smell, leaped to the shelves, and prowled carefully along them, skirting among delicate Dresden figures and porcelain dinnerware. To her right, a table was covered with boxes of silver flatware and stacks of lace and linens. Amazing how much care, how much time and art went into the accessories for human lives. "No matter how much we dislike Richard Casselrod," she said softly, "you have to admit, he buys lovely things."

But Joe had vanished. No shadow moved, not a sound. She mewed softly.

Nothing.

Leaping to the top of a drop-front desk, she yowled.

"In here," he hissed from beyond an open door.

Dropping to the floor, trotting under the chairs and between table legs, she paused at the door to a small, fusty office that was nearly filled with a rolltop desk. "In here?"

No answer. Moving on, she slipped into a large workroom that smelled of paint, and raw wood, wax and varnish. The floor was scattered with sawdust and with curls of wood trimmings that tickled her paws. Joe stood atop a worktable, poised rigid with interest. She leaped up.

High above them through a small window set among the rafters, faint light seeped in from the street, seeming in the dusty air to filter all to one place, onto seven white slabs of painted, carved wood that lay among a collection of hammers and screwdrivers.

Two sides, two ends, and the lid of the chest lay beside two planks that had made up the base. These appeared to fit together like two slices of bread for a sandwich, each slice hollowed out in the center to form a shallow dish. When joined by their neatly carved wooden dovetails, the base of the chest would have a hiding place.

Joe sniffed at the planks. "Smells like jelly beans."

"I smell Casselrod, too," Dulcie said. "That tweedy, musty scent. So what was hidden in here? Or did they take it all apart and find nothing? What were they looking for?"

Where the joints of the little trunk had been left unpainted, the old, seasoned oak shone deep and rich. The four sides and top had been carved in geometric patterns, with a circular design in the center. The paint over the carving was thick and uneven, filling up some of the indentations. "The circle is a rosette," Dulcie said. "It's a…" she stared at Joe. "Oh, my."

"What?"

"It's a Spanish motif. I've seen it on pictures of Spanish furniture."

"So?"

"Like the old Spanish chests in Elliott Traynor's play, that Catalina's lover carved and gave to her, where she kept some of the letters she wrote to him, that she never sent. Could this be one of those? Is that why Casselrod was so interested-why he snatched it from Cora Lee?" Her green eyes widened. "The research that Wilma collected for Elliott Traynor said that likely the old casks had been lost, broken or rotted or burned in the fire that destroyed the rancho some years after Catalina died."

Joe nosed at the rough white slabs. "This stuff doesn't look all that valuable."

But Dulcie was fascinated, tingling with a resonance that made her whiskers twitch. She wasn't sure what to call the feeling, but the sensation made her purr boldly, the same as when she had a rat by the scruff of the neck, ready to dispatch it.

Was this the key to the events of the last few days? Was the answer right there in Elliott Traynor's play? Had some of the letters survived that Catalina wrote to her lover? Dulcie was wild with excitement-but Joe was still thinking it over.

"Why now?" he said. "Why would Casselrod and the men who broke into Susan's suddenly be so interested?"

"Because now that the play is about to be produced, everyone has a script. All of a sudden, more people know about the letters."

Joe wasn't convinced but he helped her search for some old, frail letter written in Spanish, trying the desks and file cabinets and the rolltop desk which looked like a good place to hide valuables. All its drawers were locked with heavy, old-fashioned brass locks that wouldn't budge.

And later, when Dulcie asked Wilma's opinion, Wilma said, "I've always supposed the letters didn't survive. Or maybe that some collector had them tucked away. I've never given them much thought." She looked at Dulcie as doubtfully as Joe Grey had done, as if Dulcie was way off base on this one.

But then Joe and Dulcie caught Charlie snooping through Elliott Traynor's desk, something they'd never dreamed that Charlie would do. Spying was a cat's prerogative, but there was Charlie brazenly prying, shocking the cats with her nosiness and delighting them-and soon, both Charlie and Ryan Flannery would add tinder to the fires of their sharp curiosity.

In the velvet evening, Mexican music beat brassy and sweet, and the aroma of chilies and roasted meats floated on the cool air, enticing Joe Grey and Dulcie as they trotted along behind their human friends. Licking their whiskers at the good smells, the two cats tried not to draw attention to themselves. But the kit raced boldly ahead, brushing past Charlie's ankles and between Max Harper's feet with no thought to keeping a low profile. Charlie glanced down at her once, grinning, and reached down to stroke her. Walking between Max Harper and Clyde, Charlie moved together with Harper as if their thoughts, their very spirits were in perfect sync.

Lovers, Dulcie thought, watching them. Or soon to be lovers. You could always tell, in the beginning. And that made her feel sad for Clyde, made her wish Clyde and Kate would work out their differences, wish that Kate would come home, that she would get serious about Clyde and move back to the village. Clyde seemed so-unfinished, Dulcie thought. She knew, with typical female logic, that it was time Clyde Damen got married.

Though apparently Joe didn't think so. Why must he always know her thoughts? Beside her, he flicked a whisker with annoyance, his yellow eyes burning, his look saying clearly, Leave it alone, Dulcie. Leave Clyde alone, quit matchmaking. Joe said when she was matchmaking, her tail flicked in a certain way. Well, he wasn't any help, he did nothing to nudge Clyde along. For all of Joe Grey's input, Clyde could stay a bachelor forever.

Only, sometimes she did catch an irritated and speculative look in Joe's eyes that made her wonder what he and Clyde talked about, in private. Made her wonder if, alone with Clyde, Joe hassled him to get married more than she imagined. Maybe, she thought, amused, Joe didn't want her to catch him matchmaking.

When Clyde and Charlie and Harper entered the patio of Lupe's Playa, moving in through the wrought iron gate, the kit barged in right between their feet-until Dulcie snaked out a swift paw and snatched her back, hissing at her and then purring and licking her ear.

Chastened, the kit followed Dulcie and Joe away from the entry and around behind the restaurant and up a bougainvillea vine to the top of the high patio wall. Padding along above the diners' heads, the three cats slipped into a mass of purple blossoms where they were well concealed yet had a fine view of Lupe's Playa. Below them, at Harper's usual table, Detective Garza and his slim, dark-haired niece were already seated.

The patio was softly lighted by colored oil lamps that hung from the branches of three giant oak trees around which the tables were clustered. From the eaves of the building hung bright pinatas and Mexican flags. The restaurant itself, with its bright dining rooms, flanked two sides of the terrace, the lighted windows revealing more crowded tables and happy, laughing diners. Lupe's Playa was the piece de resistance for fine Mexican food, a four-star winner, Harper and Clyde said. Both men were authorities, their appraisal of Mexican cuisine a serious avocation.