Make a fuss over him, Rock. A fuss and a diversion. And don't make a liar of me, in the eyes of that security guard. Who knew when she might need to rely on that guard for some yet unimagined emergency? When he looked up, watching her, she smiled and petted Rock.

Her dad was among the first off the plane, right behind the first-class passengers. She waved to him but kept Rock out of the crowd, letting Dad come to her winding his way through, his tall, lean frame easy in a suede sport coat and jeans and boots, his familiar grin, his pleasure at seeing her.

He didn't hug her or touch her until he knew what the dog was all about.

"Make a fuss over him, a big fuss, he's supposed to be your dog. I'll explain later. His name's Rock."

Mike Flannery took in the badge on her lapel, and Rock's vest, and let Rock smell his hand then talked softly to him until Rock was dancing around him, whining and so happy with this new friend that any minute he might start barking. Dad glanced at her, laughing. "This better be good. I'll get my bags. Where's the truck?"

"New… red Chevy king cab. Short-term parking, aisle three." She grinned at him and headed for the door, the big dog looking back longingly at Mike Flannery-and so did she. Just being with Dad had chased away her stupid doubts.

She had settled Rock in the backseat when Dad came across the lot with his all-purpose, scarred and battered elk-hide bag. She stowed it in the backseat beside Rock, but where Mike could keep an eye on it so the big dog wouldn't chew. "We have plenty of time for breakfast. We'll go to the Courtyard where Rock can lie under the table-he doesn't need elk-hide for breakfast." Wheeling out of the airport, she headed for the freeway.

"So why is he supposed to be my dog? What's with the working dog getup? All that fuss just so you could take him into the airport?"

She grinned. "Weimaraners are famous for tearing up the inside of a car."

"So I've heard. This is the stray Dallas told me about? Looks like he's not a stray anymore."

"I guess."

"You've had him vetted? Had his shots?"

"Urn… Not yet. Haven't had time."

Her father looked at her sternly.

"It's just two days. Maybe I can-"

"You want me to do it? I'm hanging around for a few days. I can drive one of Harper's surveillance wrecks."

She turned off the highway into the village. "Would you? It's Dr. Firetti, up near Beckwhite's Automotive."

"I know Firetti. Shall I have him check for an ID chip?"

She was surprised at the sinking feeling that gave her, that maybe Firetti would find Rock's owner with that simple electronic scan. "I guess you'd better." As she pulled up before the Courtyard, Flannery looked intently at her, and patted her knee. "It'll be all right. Outside of being afraid you'll lose your fine hound, what else is bothering you? Besides, of course, Rupert's murder?"

She swung out of the truck, saying nothing, and unloaded Rock, moving ahead of her father into the restaurant. When they were seated, he gave her a questioning look. "You don't want to talk about it, this early in the morning."

"Not really. Not here. Just… gossip." The longer she put it off, the harder it would be.

"Gossip about you, because of the murder? Well I wouldn't-"

"Could we talk about it tonight?"

"Shall I pick up some steaks?"

"Perfect." Fishing in her purse, she found the extra key Charlie had given her, and watched him work it onto his key ring. They talked about the remodel she was starting for Clyde, about Scotty moving down to the village to work for her, about the rug she and Hanni were laying and how excited Hanni was, about all the inconsequentials. They enjoyed waffles and sausage and quantities of coffee then she dropped her dad and Rock at the police station. But, heading for the Landeau cottage, she was again tense with unease. Too many things going on, too many problems butting at one another.

Scotty said life wasn't full of problems, it was rich with decisions. He said a person was mighty lucky to have the privilege of making choices, even hard ones. That the more carefully you thought out your decisions, the more the good times would roll. All her life Scotty had told her that if you did nothing but worry, if you were indecisive and scared to make decisions, then the good times would escape like a flock of frightened birds.

She guessed she'd better listen. If she got herself into a knot, she wouldn't conquer any of the present tangles. They would conquer her.

It wasn't yet dawn when the three cats arrived at the Landeau cottage, Joe fidgeting and pacing, consumed with getting inside for a look at the mantel. The kit too was wired, so excited to be out and free again and on an adventure. She had been home at Wilma's since the night before, when Cora Lee reluctantly returned her and was pleased to stay for dinner. Now that Dallas had arrested Gramps Farger, now that the old man was safely tucked away in jail, it had seemed all right to bring the tattercoat home.

The kit loved Cora Lee, and certainly she had loved Cora Lee's extravagant attention, but the kit easily grew restless. Cora Lee said she'd been peering out the windows with far too keen an interest. Having promised not to let the kit out, Cora Lee had worried at her unrest.

Now behind the Landeau cottage in the dark woods where the three cats crouched, the kit's tail lashed with excitement. Her eyes burned round and black, she could hardly remain still.

"Cool it, Kit," Dulcie said softly. "We're not set to charge that cottage like a platoon of commandos."

The kit eased the tail action to a slow twitch. But her eyes remained wide and burning. If they'd been hunting rats, her enthusiastic vibes alone would have cleared the premises. As the cats watched for Ryan and Hanni, above them the sky faded from black to dark pearl. The moon hung low in the brightening sky, circled by a nimbus of mist. Within the cottage, beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass, there was no sign of Larn Williams. The bed was neatly made. The sunken sitting area shone like a softly lit stage. Joe watched intently the flawed black niche in the fireplace, but the moon's diffused fight, from a different angle at this later hour, showed him nothing. He could smell on the breeze the stink of exhaust from the departed Jeep. The cats were dozing when Hanni pulled onto the granite parking.

She wasn't driving her powder-blue convertible but a white van with the dolphin-shaped logo of her design studio. Certainly the Mercedes wasn't made to haul the ten-foot rug that stuck out the back where the rear doors stood open and tied together. Swinging out, she began to unload some huge, Mexican ceramic pots that were wedged in beside the rug. She was dressed this morning in faded designer jeans and a tomato red velour top that set off her short, windswept white hair and her flawless complexion and dangling gold earrings. "Smashing," Dulcie whispered. Hanni Coon had a wonderful talent for elegance. If Dulcie were a human, she'd kill to look like that.

Hanni had the pots unloaded when Ryan's truck turned in. Ryan swung out dressed in her usual nondescript work jeans, a navy flannel shirt over a cotton blouse, and rough work boots. Hanni looked her over, a quick assessment of how Ryan might dress herself, how Ryan might look, a hasty glance that seemed to the cats little more than habit. "Where's Rock?"

"Dad's back, he called last night, I picked him up this morning. He's getting Rock vetted."

"He came directly here? Because of Rupert! We could have dinner. He's staying at the cottage?"

"I… There's something I need to talk with him about."

"Personal? About the murder?"

Ryan looked at her helplessly. "That okay?"

"Of course it's okay. Can I help?"

"No, just… Could I explain later? It's… Makes my stomach churn. I'm trying to be cool."