Vivi passed by, inches from her, moving silently to the exit door. There was not a creak when she opened and closed it, and then she was gone, no squall of hinge or snap of the latch. The kit made a flehmening face of disgust. What had she been after? Another chest like the white one? Were there letters worth a lot of money, like Joe Grey said? She hoped, if there were such letters, that Vivi Traynor wouldn't find them. Or Richard Casselrod either. She hoped her own friends would find them and sell them for a lot of money and buy a nice big house with a nice cozy kitchen and room for a cat to visit. She would like a little bed in a sunny window or by a fireplace. Meantime, she wanted to know what Vivi Traynor was up to with her snooping and prying, and she wished that Cora Lee was there close to her because she suddenly felt very lonely. Her paws were cold with fear.

Racing up and down the empty beach in the early dawn, the dog searched frantically for his master, his black-spotted white body sharply defined against gray sky and sea. He stopped to stare at anything moving, a wave, the shadows of a wheeling gull, then plunged on again, racing so fast that his polka dot markings smeared to lines across his snowy coat. His expression was urgent and confused. From a block away, Wilma Getz saw him, where she was walking her usual two miles down the shore. She stopped, watching his frantic seeking.

She could still taste her morning coffee, its flavor mixed now with the smell of the sea. She had pulled on a red sweatshirt over her jeans, against the chill; she wore a red wool cap to keep her ears warm, her long white hair hanging down her back, bound with a silver clip. The time was barely six. She had parted from Susan in the village, after they had walked down from Wilma's house together. Susan and Lamb had turned up the shore to the north for the big poodle's run, where Lamb liked the outcropping rocks and the tide pools in which to pad a hesitant paw.

Wilma stood very still, watching the dalmatian. When the dog spied her, he came racing, so glad to see a human in this empty world. She knelt, fending off his excited licking, and took hold of his collar. Had he strayed from some tourist, a dog who didn't know the area, didn't remember how to get back to an unfamiliar motel? But she already suspected who he belonged to. Trying to hold him still, she searched for a tag or a metal plate on his collar. There were not many dalmatians in the village, and this dog was not one she knew.

The leather collar was old and curled and wet from the sea. There was no identification of any kind to tell her the dog's name or the name or phone number of his owner. He was a young animal, and so thin she could see every rib. He pushed against her, panting and slurping as if she was his last hope.

"Do you belong to the mysterious walker? To Susan's young friend? To Lenny Wells?" The dog shivered and licked at her. She looked up and down the beach. "Do you belong to the man who broke into Susan's house?"

Why would someone abandon such a nice dog? Could the young man have died from his head wound? Perhaps passed out in the bushes after he escaped Susan's, never waking again from a severe concussion? She imagined him slowly making his way to the shore with the dog beside him, trying to get away from the police, perhaps not realizing how badly he was hurt. Where had the dog been while he broke into Susan's? Why hadn't the police seen him when they searched the neighborhood? If Lenny had died on the beach, had the dog, when he could not rouse his master, run away confused and kept running?

But that was two days ago. Someone would have found the body by now. The beach was full of people once the sun came out, kids playing in and out among the greenbelt that met the sand. Why hadn't someone taken charge of the dog, and called the police or the animal shelter?

Turning back toward home with the dalmatian clinging close to her, she walked him through the village to meet Susan. He didn't try to leave her, but pressed against her leg as if in terror that she would abandon him. He had to be starved. She had turned into the village market to buy dog food when she saw Susan ahead, on the far side of Ocean, her multicolored sweater and red scarf bright against the pale stucco shops. Drawing near, Wilma held on to the dalmatian's collar. The minute he saw Lamb he lunged and squirmed, trying to race to the big poodle, leaping and dancing like a puppy so it was all she could do to hold him.

"Same dog?" she called to Susan when they were still half a block apart.

Susan nodded, holding Lamb on a short lead. "Same dog. Where did you find him?" She hurried to them and knelt to inspect the dog, looking at his collar. "Same three long overlapped spots on his left ear. Same thin face and frightened expression. Jobe, Lenny called him." She looked along the street as if Lenny might suddenly appear, then looked up at Wilma. "He wasn't with anyone? You didn't see Lenny?"

"No, no one on the beach. He was frantic, running, doubling back and forth. I couldn't leave him there, even if I'd wanted to. He's clung to me like glue. Do you think Lenny was the man in your breakfast room?"

"I keep wondering. I saw only the back of the man's head, but he was like Lenny. Same color hair, same general build. Lenny always wore-wears a cap, usually with his collar turned up." Susan hugged the dalmatian, drawing a disapproving glare from Lamb. "This poor dog. Has he been wandering for two days, trying to find his master?"

"Harper will want to know about him."

Susan nodded. "Is it all right to bring him to your house? We can put him in the garage. I brought plenty of food for Lamb. Or we could put him on a long line in the drive, leave the garage door open, make him a bed inside."

Wilma was glad she had finished her garage enclosing the carport. It had come in handy. Her English-style cottage had no backyard at all, only a narrow stone walk between the house and the hill behind that rose in a steep, unfenced wilderness. "Of course it's all right." Certainly Susan respected her front flower garden as off-limits to canine romping and digging. Lamb was always a gentleman, although it hadn't been easy for him having no fenced yard to run in.

"Oh," Susan said, watching the two dogs play, "Lamb does like him. But we can't have them together in the house, not romping like that."

"He'll settle down when he's eaten," Wilma said.

Susan snapped Lamb's leash on the dalmatian, handed it to Wilma, and commanded Lamb to heel. Heading home to Wilma's, they soon turned up the stone walk through her deep garden, the air cool and still beneath the giant oaks. The pale stone cottage, with its steep slate roof, mullioned windows, and stone chimney, sat against the hill behind as if civilization ended at its back door, the well-maintained house with its carefully tended flowers an abrupt contrast to the hill's wild tangles. They took the dogs inside through the back door, which opened to the street at the opposite end of the house from the front door, and into the kitchen. Susan fed both dogs while Wilma heated the skillet and laid strips of bacon in it. She had already made the pancake batter. Balancing the cordless phone in the crook of her shoulder as she cooked, she called Max Harper at home before he left for the station. The phone rang five times.

"Did I wake you?"

"I'm in the stable feeding the horses. Had a loaded pitchfork in my hands. This a social call?"

"We-Susan and I-have the dalmatian that belonged…"

"Have you? Hang on to him, I'll be down in twenty minutes. Sure it's the same dog?"

"Susan says so. He was running the beach, lost."