Cat Raise the Dead (6 page)

The dark and ungainly old house had been built long before earthquake restrictions decreed that no building over two stories be constructed in Molena Point. With its extra height and poor condition, it was a sitting target for ground temblors. At the first 6.0 on the Richter it would likely topple in a heap of scrap lumber and rusty nails. The roof was ragged. The dark, shingled walls looked as if they were eaten with rot. The FOR SALE sign which had been pounded into the mangy front lawn led one to imagine not a new owner and fresh paint but a future with the wrecking crew.

The house stood just a block off Ocean and a block below the green park which spanned the Highway One tunnel. As the cats circled it, pressing through scraggly weeds, they found at the back a precarious rose trellis held together only by the thick thorny vines. Swarming up, climbing three stories, they gained the steep, slick roof, trotted up across it to the cupola. The old shingles beneath their paws were worn soft. Scrabbling up, gaining the high peak, they pushed into the little open cupola—onto a thick white frosting of bird lime that coated the cupola floor. The place stank of bird droppings, despite a fresh wind that swirled through the four arched openings, bringing the smell of rain.

The swift clouds were fast darkening, the colors of the village deepening, and beyond the village the sea lurched steel gray beneath the heavy, dense sky. The
sun had gone; Molena Point's citizens would be indoors checking the
TV Guide
or curled up by the fire with a book. Joe and Dulcie could imagine the cat burglar, perhaps in one of Molena Point's hundreds of little motels, bundled up, ordering room service. The sounds of passing cars rose up to them, muffled by the whine of the wind.

Looking down the steep roof to the sidewalks along Ocean, watching people heading to work or toward some cozy restaurant for breakfast, they could smell pancakes and the sweet aroma of warming syrup. The shop windows reflected the dark, swift sky. Over on San Carlos old Mr. Jolly, swinging open the glass front door of the deli, carried out four pots of bright red flowers.

He arranged the pots two at either side of the door, then paused to look up at the sky, and stood considering.

Finally he knelt again, picked up the pots, and carried them back inside. The cats watched him disappear into the warmth of the deli, then fixed their gazes on the alley behind, licking their noses, thinking of imported salmon or a dollop of warm chowder.

Some of the village shopkeepers claimed that Jolly's gourmetic gifts drew mice. Indeed they might—and what could be nicer than a fat, warm mouse with a bit of seafood quiche or a slice of Camembert or Brie?

The cupola was chill with the sharp wind. Its four open arches looked squarely to the four points of the compass, affording maximum draft, but also fine views of the village streets. Both cats could see their own houses. To their left, beneath the spreading limbs of an oak, shone the shabby roof of Clyde's white Cape Cod. That dwelling was badly in need of professional attention, but what did Clyde care? Clyde tended his cars like newborn babes, alert to the tiniest complaint, but the house—not until the roof leaked or the floor fell in was Clyde going to make any architectural adjustments.

To their right, past the shops and galleries, they could see the back of Wilma's house, its steeply peaked roof and stone chimney just visible above the hill at the back—the front garden belonged to Wilma, but the back hill was Dulcie's, a private preserve, a forest of wild grass rich with game and admirably suited to the quick, spur-of-the-moment hunt. Those mice and birds were strictly off-limits to any other neighborhood cat, if he valued his hide.

Almost directly below them, just across Ocean, shone the red tile roofs of Beckwhite's Foreign Cars and of Clyde's automotive shop. And beyond Beckwhite's among a sprawl of cottages, was the white frame house which held Dr. Firetti's animal clinic, where Barney now lay. Joe was afraid to know how Barney was doing; something about the old dog this morning had left him coldly distressed—as if Barney had already given up.

And he worried not only about Barney but about Rube. If Barney died, Rube would be a basket case. Old Barney's illness made him think how short was life, how capricious and unpredictable.

Beyond the village to the east, above the rising hills, one patch of sky was still blue between the steely clouds, its clearer light striking down on the hills, picking out every bush, every tree and flower garden. The houses and streets, rising up, were displayed as clearly as a stage set. Between the scattered houses, the grassy fields gleamed golden. And despite the threat of rain, the shadowed, darkened yards, stretching across the hills were not deserted. Three children were playing catch up on Amber Street, and, as a very little boy crouched to dig in the gutter, half a dozen kids flew down the hill on their bikes.

They watched an old man cutting his steep hillside lawn with a hand mower, as if perhaps modern power equipment was not designed for such extremities of terrain. The wind grew colder. Shivering, Dulcie snuggled close to Joe. “Maybe the old burglar'll show up—who
could miss that white Toyota?” She snorted. “Mud on its license plate—what a tired old trick.”

“It's worked, though. So far. Mud so thick I couldn't even scratch it off.”

“Don't you wonder if she noticed?”

He shrugged. “So she noticed. So if she's scared of cats, that ought to chill her.”

“Or maybe she'll have some other car. If she can burgle a house, it should be no problem to ‘borrow' someone's car for a few hours.”

They watched intently each vehicle that moved across the rising hills, watched a station wagon wind back and forth making its rounds, picking up children for some Saturday event, watched a FedEx truck trundle up the hills on its appointed stops, the driver running to each door and leaving his package, racing back to the truck again as if his pay scale was structured on swift timing.

A small red sedan turned up from the Highway One tunnel and parked beneath some maple trees on a residential block, and a lone woman emerged, a dumpy creature; the cats watched her so intently she should have felt their gaze like a laser beam.

She made her way directly up the walk of a two-story green frame house, paused to pick up the morning paper, and appeared to be fumbling with a key. Unlocking the door, she disappeared inside.

Five blocks away, a tan VW climbed the hills and parked before a half-timber cottage flanked by sycamore trees. Another lone woman emerged, a slim, sleek figure in a black business suit. She entered the house quickly, and in a moment lights came on. “If that's the cat burglar,” Joe said, “she's done a real state-of-the-art makeover.”

In the cupola a bee buzzed, circling their heads and diving at their ears. Dulcie slapped it down, nosed at it, then backed away. Far up the hill, at a yellow cottage, the back door opened and a man and woman appeared, dressed in shorts. Crossing the lawn, they opened a garden shed and pulled out a mower, rakes, a shovel. Above
the yellow house, at a new house where the yard was still raw dirt, a woman appeared from around the back with a basket, knelt beside the front walk, and began to dig in the earth, setting out little plants, patting them carefully into the ground. Joe yawned.

“They plant grass, then have to mow it. Plant flowers, then have to weed them.”

She cut her eyes at him. “I've seen you rolling on those lush lawns.”

“On Clyde's moth-eaten patch of grass?”

“On your neighbors' lawns. I've seen you sitting in the neighbors' flower beds, sniffing the blooms when you thought no one was watching.”

“I was hunting; those flower beds are full of moles.”

She did not remind him that he hated moles.

They had been on the roof for better than an hour when a blue hatchback came up Highway One from the south and turned up into the hills just before the tunnel. Heading up a winding lane, it cut across the hills and back again, cruising. By now, seven families were working in their gardens despite the dark sky and fitful wind, diligent homeowners too conscientious to spend the morning loafing.
That
, Joe thought,
is one of the main advantages of being a cat. Cats do not have a problem with compulsive personalities
. And now, far out to sea, a web of lines slanted down where rain was pouring.

The blue hatchback paused beside a two-storied Spanish house set well back on a large corner lot. It didn't stop; it crept slowly by as if the driver was looking the place over. The way the house was angled, one would be able to see into a portion of the backyard, where a family of five was planting shrubs and small trees. The hatchback turned at the next corner and parked.

A woman emerged, a dumpy creature dressed in a long, full skirt, a sloppy sweater, and a floppy hat. Joe crept forward, watching her, his stub tail twitching. She glanced around her, studying the houses nearby, then headed up
the street toward the white stucco. Approaching from the side street, she would be able to see the backyard, but might not be noticed by the busily gardening family. The cats watched her glance into the backyard then turn away, retrace her steps to the front door.

They didn't see her ring the bell. She tried the knob, glanced around again, and moved right on in. Evidently no one in the backyard noticed her, no one made a move toward the house. Maybe she belonged there. And maybe she didn't. Joe leaped to the cupola roof. Rearing tall, he studied the house, getting his bearings. Standing like a weather vane braced against the wind, he counted the streets.

“Five blocks above Janet's burned studio. Four blocks to the left.”

And they fled down the trellis and across yards and sidewalks, up across the grassy park above Highway One and up the winding streets, through the high grass of the open fields, through tangles of broom and holly; across lawns and manicured flower beds, moving so swiftly that when they reached the blue hatchback—which turned out to be a late-model Honda—the motor was still ticking softly, and the tires and wheels were still warm.

Again there was dried mud smeared across the license plate. But this time, pawing together at the caked dirt, they were able to flake away enough mud to reveal California plate 3GHK499.

There was no indication of issuing county, of course. California plates did not include that information. The car could be registered anywhere in the state; only Max Harper would know, when he pulled up the number through DMV. It galled Joe that the cops had access to information the average citizen—average cat—couldn't touch.

But he guessed it had to be that way; a cop's job was tough enough. Give civilians access to the DMV files, and they'd create a ton of mischief.

Leaving the Honda, trotting on up the street to the white stucco house, they found the family still working away, lowering the burlap-wrapped roots of sturdy nursery shrubs into the earth. There the constricted bushes could stretch out their thin white roots like hundreds of hungry tongues reaching for food. A black Mercedes was parked in the drive. The cats jumped to the hood, then to the top of the car, leaving pawprints, and leaped to the garage roof, onto the rounded clay tiles.

To their left, the two-story portion of the house rose above the garage. The windows of both bedrooms were open, the sheer white curtains blowing. Within the front bedroom a figure moved, her baggy skirt and huge sweater catching the light in lumpy folds as she turned to the closet. The cats slipped closer, up across the tiles, and pressed against the wall, glancing around to look warily in through the glass.

The woman had pulled the double closet doors open and was examining the hanging garments. Her ragged gray hair was in need of a good trim and a vigorous brushing. She looked like she'd made her clothing selections from the “latest fashion” rack of the local charity outlet. Her skirt hem dipped so rakishly around her thick-stockinged ankles that one could imagine this style as the precursor of a new trend; and her shoes might soon be the “in” look, too, thick and serviceable and of a variety favored by the unfortunate homeless. Rummaging through the closet, the old lady carefully lifted a little gold lamé dress dangling on its hanger.

As she turned to the mirror above the dresser, they could see clearly her reflection. Smiling with impish delight she held the slim little cocktail number up against her thick body, turning and vamping, pressing the svelte garment against her lumpy form.

Watching her, Joe choked back a laugh. But Dulcie crept closer, the tip of her tail twitching gently, her green eyes round with sympathy, with a deep female
understanding. The old woman's longing filled her to her very soul; she understood like a sister the frumpy lady's hunger for that sleek little gold lamé frock. Watching the dumpy old creature, Dulcie was one with her, cat and cat burglar were, in that instant, of one spirit.

“What's the matter with you?”

Dulcie jumped, stared at him as if she'd forgotten he was there. “Nothing. Nothing's the matter.”

He looked at her uneasily.

“So she makes me feel sad. So all right?”

He widened his eyes, but said no more. They watched the old woman fold the gold dress into a neat little square, lift her baggy sweater, and tuck the folded garment underneath into a bag she wore against her slip. They watched, fascinated, as she searched the dresser drawers, lifting out necklaces and bracelets, stuffing them into the same bag, watched her tuck away two soft-looking sweaters, a gold tie clip, a gold belt, a tiny gold evening clutch. When she moved suddenly toward the window, coming straight at them, the cats ducked away, clinging against the wall. She flew at the open window uttering a string of hisses so violent, so like the cries of a maddened tomcat that their fur stood up. In feline language this was a grade-one kamikaze attack. This woman knew cats. This old woman knew how to communicate the most horrifying threat of feline violence, knew something deep and basic that struck straight at the heart of cat terrors, knew the deep secrets of their own murderous language. They stared at her for only an instant, then fled down the roof tiles and onto the Mercedes. Racing its length, they hit the ground running, heading straight uphill, past the white house, into a wilderness with bushes so thick that nothing could reach them.