Cat Raise the Dead (3 page)

The Molena Point Library, deserted at midnight, was so silent that the book-lined walls echoed with Dulcie's purrs; the little brindle cat lay sprawled on a reference table across a tangle of newspapers. Around her the dim, empty rooms stretched away into mysterious caverns that now belonged to her alone. At night the library's shadowed sanctuaries were hers; she shared her space with no one.

There was no hustle of hurrying feet, no hasty staff, no too-bright lights, no busy patrons, no swarms of village children herded by their teachers in barely controlled and giggling tangles among the brightly colored books. In the daytime library Dulcie was a social beast, wandering amiably among sneakers and nyloned legs, receiving almost more stroking and admiring words than she could handle. She was, officially, the Molena Point Library Cat, appointed so by all but one of the library staff. Library cats were the latest trend in bibliothecal public relations; in the daytime, Dulcie was Molena Point Library's official greeter, collector of new patrons, head of PR. The one librarian who disapproved of her was a distinct minority. Her recent attempts to oust Dulcie had met with villagewide resistance. Through petitions and public hearings, Dulcie's position was now solid and secure. She had seen her own picture in the official newsletter of the Library Cat Society along with pictures of countless other similarly
appointed feline dignitaries. She was, in the daytime, a busy social creature.

But at night, she no longer need pretend to dumb ignorance, at night she could do just as she chose, she had only to paw a few selected volumes from the shelves and,
voilà
: she could follow any mystery, travel anywhere, entertain herself with any kind of dream.

Beyond the dark library windows, the village streets were empty. Oak branches twisted black against the moon-washed clouds, their gnarled shadows reaching in across the table and across the pile of open newspapers. Each paper was neatly affixed to a wooden rod by which it could be hung on a rack. Dulcie had, with some difficulty, lifted each from the rack in her teeth and leaped with it to the table, spread it out, taking care not to tear the pages.

Occasionally a light raced across the windows and she listened to a lone car whish down the street. When it had passed, her ears were filled again with the crashing of waves six blocks away against the Molena Point cliffs; and she could hear, from the roof above, a lone oak twig scraping against the overlapping clay tiles of the low, Mediterranean building.

None of the newspapers she had retrieved was a local publication; each had come from one or another California coastal town south of Molena Point. For hours she had studied these, piecing together a history of the cat burglar. Turning the pages with her claws, trying to leave no telltale puncture mark in the soft paper, she found the burglar to be both a puzzle and a grand joke. The woman was completely brazen, walking calmly into unlocked houses in the middle of the day, walking out again loaded down with jewelry, cash, small electronic equipment, and objets d'art. She had robbed some forty residences in a dozen coastal towns. This had to be the same woman who was operating now in Molena Point; though the local paper had made no mention of the cat connection. But Joe Grey was certain
of his facts, Joe had a private source of information not open to the general citizen.

Unlike Joe, Dulcie found the woman's methods highly amusing. To use a cat for cover, and to commit her robberies with such chutzpah, tickled her senses, made her laugh.

Though she was stirred by other emotions, too. Just as the antics of a brazen jay were amusing yet made her lust to kill the creature, so the cat burglar's brash nerve, while it entertained her, made her long to track and pounce.

Dulcie's own sharp, predatory lusts were as nothing compared to Joe's interest. He'd been on the trail of the cat burglar for weeks—he was fascinated by the woman, and with typical tomcat ego he was enraged by a burglar who used a cat as her alibi.

Dulcie rolled over in a shaft of moonlight and batted at a moth that had gotten trapped in the room. It kept coming back to the light, darting mindlessly through the beam. She supposed she ought to put the newspapers back in the rack, but that was hard work. If she left them, Wilma would collect them from the table in the morning and put them away; Wilma always picked up after the late-evening patrons who straggled out leaving a mess when the library closed at nine. Wilma might be gray-haired, but she was a whirlwind when it came to work; she could work circles around these younger librarians.

Dulcie's housemate walked several miles a day, worked out at the gym once a week, and could still hit the bull's-eye consistently at the target range, a skill she had acquired in her profession as a parole officer. Wilma's professional interest in helping others had made her a natural to help with the Pet-a-Pet program.

Day after tomorrow would mark their third visit to the retirement center—though Dulcie hadn't told Wilma all that she'd learned there. Best to keep some things to herself, at least for now.

There was, within the sedate and ordered Casa Capri, more going on than the little everyday problems of the cosseted elderly. She hadn't told Wilma the stories she'd heard; she didn't want to upset her. And she wasn't telling Joe, either, but for a different reason.

She wanted Joe to join the Pet-a-Pet program out of kindness, not because he couldn't resist a mystery. If she told him what little old Mae Rose had confided to her, he'd be all over those old folks, be up there like a streak, pawing and snooping around.

No, she wanted him to join Pet-a-Pet out of compassion.

She'd longed to be a part of Pet-a-Pet from the minute she read about it. The half dozen magazine articles she'd found had her hooked—the idea of cat therapists for the elderly and for disturbed children seemed a truly wonderful venture, a way to do some real good in the world.

The trouble with Joe, the only fault he had, was that he didn't give a damn about doing good. Telling him of the cats she'd read about, who had helped people, had no effect but to make him laugh.

She'd told him about the cat who helped Alzheimer's patients recover some of their vanished mental capacity ‘through his unconditional love and by spurring fond associations in their minds,' and Joe scoffed. The therapist cat, Bungee, had a special magic, a real curative power for those old people, but when she told that to Joe, he had collapsed with laughter, rolling against a rooftop chimney, shouting with high amusement.

“I don't see what's so funny. The article told how patients who practically never spoke would talk to Bungee, and how several old folks who had to be spoon-fed began to feed themselves, and how the agitated ones were calmer if they could pet and stroke Bungee.”

Joe had swatted idly at the roof gutter, dislodging a wad of leaves. “You can't believe that drivel.”

“Of course I believe it. It was a legitimate magazine article; it had pictures of Bungee with the old people.”

“Hype, Dulcie. Nothing but hype.”

“Hype for what? The cat isn't running for president.”

“Is he making a movie?”

“Of course he's not making a movie. Can't you understand anything about helping those less fortunate? It must be terrifying to grow old, not to have a strong body anymore, not be able to leap or storm up a tree.”

“Since when do humans leap and storm up trees?”

“You know what I mean. Don't be such a grouch. It must be terrible to feel one's joints stiffen and have pains and aches and bad digestion.” Her own digestion, as Joe's, was efficient and diverse. Mice, rats, caviar, lizards, Jolly's imported cheeses and pastrami, all were enjoyed with equanimity and no tummy trouble. “I just mean, it's terrible to get old. If we could—”

“So it's terrible to get old. So are you alone going to save the world?” He opened his mouth in a wide cat laugh. “One small tabby cat—what are you, Bastet the mother goddess? Healer of mankind?”

“Just a few old people,” she had snapped. “And who are you to say I can't help? What does a mangy tomcat know?”

That ended with claws and teeth and a fur-flying scuffle across the roof. Fighting, they rolled so near the edge that Joe nearly fell to the pavement below. As he hung swinging, and then crawled up again, they'd stared at each other, shocked; then they'd raced away across the roofs, dodging the flue stacks and chimneys.

But no matter how she flirted and teased him, he hadn't changed his mind about visiting Casa Capri. She felt so frustrated she'd been tempted to tell him Mae Rose's story. That would get him up there in a minute.

But then he'd be all fake purrs, fake wiggles, snooping around, caring nothing for the old people, caring for nothing but Mae Rose's little mystery that might, after
all, be only a figment of an old woman's twisted imagination.

Mrs. Rose was a tiny woman, a little miniature human like an oversize doll, the kind of life-size old-lady doll you might see in the Neiman-Marcus windows at Christmas. There was no Neiman-Marcus in Molena Point, but Wilma did her Christmas shopping up in the city, returned home to describe the wonders of the store's Christmas windows. Dulcie could just imagine Mae Rose in one of those elegant displays, the little old lady sitting in a rocking chair, her bright white hair all wispy and glowing like angel hair on a fancy Christmas tree, her round face with too much pink rouge on her cheeks, her plump little hands, her twinkling eyes as bright blue as the blue eyes of the finest porcelain doll.

But Mae Rose wasn't all fluff. Not if you could believe the old lady's stories about what went on behind the closed doors at Casa Capri.

Dulcie told herself, when she was feeling sensible, that probably the disappearance of certain patients was the old woman's imagination. Mae Rose said that six patients had vanished, that when a patient had a stroke or became severely ill, sick enough to be transferred from the Care Unit over to Nursing, that was the last anyone ever saw of them. When Mae Rose's friend Jane Hubble was sent to Nursing, Mae Rose claimed she was not allowed to see Jane anymore. Jane had no family to care that she had vanished or to try to find her. Mae said that none of the six who had disappeared had a family.

As Dulcie lay curled on Mae Rose's lap, with Mae Rose tucked into her wheelchair, Mae told her about Lillie Merzinger, too, and about Mary Nell Hook, both of whom had gone to Nursing and were not seen again. Mary Nell Hook, who had cancer, was moved to Nursing where she could be on pain medication. Mae said if Mary Nell Hook had died of the cancer, then
why didn't the staff tell them all, and maybe take them in the van to Mary Nell's funeral.

Mae Rose said Lillie Merzinger had owned a cocktail bar when she was younger, and when she came to Casa Capri she brought her record collection from the forties, that she played the old records in her room, and they all liked to listen. But when Lillie had the heart attack and was taken to Nursing, no one ever heard her music anymore. Well of course Lillie was too sick to play her records. But couldn't they have played her music for her, over in Nursing?

Dulcie couldn't point out that there might be reasons for them not to play music in a sick ward, that maybe it would disturb the really ill patients. Sometimes it was all she could do to remain mute. She couldn't argue with Mae Rose that there might be reasons for not letting everyone go visiting over to Nursing, where people would be disturbed; she couldn't say anything. All she could do was purr, hold her tongue and purr.

Mae Rose never mentioned her wild tales to Wilma; probably she thought Wilma wouldn't believe her. The sensible thing to think was that Mae's stories were only an old lady's crazy imaginings, tales woven to keep from getting bored.

But try as she might, Dulcie couldn't leave it at that. She kept wondering how such stories got started in Mae Rose's mind, from what crumb of truth they might have grown. The stories picked and nipped at her as persistent as a hungry flea nibbling.

Lashing her tail, she stared out through the dark library windows, past the knotted oak branches, where the lifting moon beckoned. Midnight was near—hunting time. She needed no clock—her sense of time was far better than the ticking white clock hanging on the wall above the checkout desk; a cat knew when the mice and rabbits stirred. Leaping down, she trotted through the shadows into Wilma's office, hurried past Wilma's desk and out her cat door to the narrow village street.

Moonlight brightened the shop windows and flower boxes and sheltered doorways, sent long shadows stretching out from the potted trees and the tubs of flowers, and from the old oaks that shaded the sidewalks taking up part of the street, narrowing the flow of daytime traffic. Oak branches reached across rooftops and fingered at balconies; and between the knotted limbs the moonlit clouds ran swiftly. The hunting would be fine, the rabbits giddy and silly in the racing light.

She felt giddy herself, felt suddenly moon silly. Felt like rolling and playing.

And, though both cats and rabbits play and dance in the moonlight, that did not prevent her from hungering for rabbit blood. Heading south through the village, she was wild with conflicting emotions—the hunger to hunt, but hunger as well for things she could hardly name. She stopped every few doors to stand upright and stare into a lit shop window.

The little coffee shop kept baked breads and cookies piled in baskets just behind the glass; the scent was heady and sweet. But she stopped for a longer look into the dress shop, admiring a red silk cocktail sheath. For strange and mysterious reasons, the richly draped garment made her little cat heart beat double time.

To the casual viewer Dulcie was only a plain tabby cat. Yet beneath her sleek dark stripes, beneath those neat, peach-tinted ears, fierce yearnings stirred. Longings that had never belonged to an ordinary feline.

Ever since she was a small kitten she had coveted silk stockings, little silky bras, black lace teddies, soft gauzy scarves and the softest cashmere sweaters. By the time she was six months old she had taught herself to claw open any neighbor's window screen and to leap at a doorknob, swinging and kicking until she had turned it and fought the door open. Wilma's neighbors for blocks around were used to Dulcie's thefts. When they missed a silk nightie, or a pair of panty hose which had been hung over the bathroom rack to dry, they had only to
walk up the block to Wilma's house, rummage through the wooden box that Wilma kept on her back porch, and retrieve their lost garments. Neighbors, heading for Wilma's porch to look for stolen undies, often ended up in pleasant little social gatherings.