Cat Under Fire (9 page)

No other repair and cleaning service would put their jobs on hold in this way—a customer waited his turn. She wouldn't make this arrangement either, to be available at any time without notice, if she wasn't just getting started.

She hadn't told Beverly how short a time she'd been in business, and Beverly hadn't asked. She reminded herself again that she had better not lose her sense of humor. She prayed that she'd be able to find additional help for the job. One fifty-year-old, addle-brained cleaning lady and one male handyman of questionable skills were not going to cut it.

 

Under the bed, the cats glanced at each other. There was only one place Beverly hadn't searched. Her footsteps tapping across the tile were bold and solid.

She stopped beside the bed, her shoes inches from
Dulcie's nose. Thick ankles in thick, pale stockings, burgundy high heels with wide straps across the instep. The springs squeaked and one burgundy foot disappeared upward, then the other, as Beverly climbed to kneel on the bed.

She had already pulled all the books out. Now a dry, sliding sound suggested that she was running her hand down the wall, maybe pressing along the moving shelf beneath which Janet had kept her tissues and clock and the missing journal. The springs complained as she shifted her weight.

They heard the movable panel rattle. Heard her suck in her breath, heard the shelf slide open.

They listened to her rummaging among the contents, but soon she closed the little niche again and eased herself down and off the bed.

When Beverly began to pull the sheets off, Dulcie snatched the diary in her teeth and they slipped out behind her, staying between the comforter and the wall. As she tugged at the bedding, jerking sheets and comforter onto the rug, they fled, streaking for the closet.

They peered out, ready to run again.

But she didn't turn, hadn't seen them. They watched her shake the bedclothes, drop them on the rug, then roll the bed away from the wall. As she searched behind it, her posterior bulged in the plum-colored skirt. At last she straightened up, brushed dust from her suit, and returned empty-handed to the living room.

The cats did not leave their shelter until they heard the front door close, heard the lock slide home, heard Charlie nailing up the plywood.

When an engine started down below they left the closet, trotted to the window, and watched Beverly drive away. Charlie left directly behind her, the Mercedes softly purring.

The apartment was still again, empty.

Crouching together on the rug with the diary lying between them, they pawed it open to the last pages.

Here were entries about the de Young opening, notes which Janet must have made only days before she died.
Ironic that Kendrick is on the museum board which is giving me two awards. A jury with Kendrick on it wouldn't even have hung my work, so I guess he didn't have any say in the matter, it's the jury that decides, bless them
.

She had tucked a clipping between the pages, a group photo of the board, taken a week before the opening. She had drawn beside Mahl's picture an owl that looked so like Mahl, Dulcie rolled over laughing. The dowdy bird had Mahl's hunched shoulders, Mahl's beaklike nose. Its eyes closely resembled Mahl's round, rimless glasses.

In the photo Mahl had his suit coat off and was holding a piece of clay sculpture, his white shirt cuff revealing, where it had pulled back, an expensive-looking watch, heavy and ostentatious.

Joe stared at it. “What kind of man would wear a watch decorated with cupids and those heavy wings sticking out. Pretty pretentious, for someone who's supposed to have the tastes of an artist.”

“Where did you learn about the tastes of an artist?”

“Not from Clyde, you can bet.”

The last entry in Janet's diary had been made the night before she died, a one-line comment which perhaps she had written just before she went to sleep.

Lovely night at the de Young. Two awards. Euphoria. All perfect. Except K. was there
.

Behind that page she had tucked a newspaper review of the exhibit, her hotel bill, a charge slip for gas, and a plain slip of paper with some numbers jotted on it.

“Could be the van's mileage,” Joe said. “For her tax records. Mileage when she left, and again when she got home.” Janet had crossed out the beginning mileage and penciled in a new one, two hundred miles larger.

“Guess she wrote the original number wrong, then corrected it—put a three hundred where she should have had a five.”

“She must have been in a hurry,” Dulcie said. “What
should we do with the diary? We can't let Beverly—or the police—come back and find it.”

“We have to get it to the police, Dulcie. It could be evidence.”

“But there are personal things in here. She wouldn't want this read in court.”

“We don't have any choice, if it's evidence. And there are things in here about Rob Lake.”

She laid a soft paw on the pages, on Janet's small, neat handwriting. “Would they read it out loud in court? If the papers get hold of this, they'll print everything—all the things she said about Mahl.” She licked her chest, smoothing her fur. “Janet wouldn't want this made public, plastered all over the newspaper.”

“It belongs with the police. Max Harper won't let the papers have it.”

“Detective Marritt would, behind Harper's back.”

“You think Harper would let anything happen behind his back?”

“Marritt messed up the investigation, didn't he?”

Joe sighed. “You're not really sure of that. We'll hide it for tonight, until we decide what to do.” He rose and headed for the kitchen.

Pawing open the lower cupboard doors, he prowled among the pans until he found a supply of plastic grocery bags rolled neatly and stuffed in an empty coffee can.

Within minutes they had bagged the diary to protect it from the damp and rain, and had dragged it outside and hidden it beneath the deck, pushing it deeper under than the bowls which Charlie had left for the white cat.

“That was nice of her,” Dulcie said. “I guess
Charlie
believes in the white cat.”

“I didn't say I don't believe in him. I just think he's—Oh, what the hell. Maybe he'll show up and eat the damned kibble.”

She gave him a long green stare, but then she snuggled close. “Come on, let's go con that old Mrs. Blankenship, see what we can find out.”

“Suck in your stomach, try to look hungry.”

“I am sucking it in, I can hardly breathe.” She let her ears go limp and forlorn, let her tail droop until it dragged the ground.

“Yeah. That's better, that's pitiful. You really look like hell.”

“Thanks so much.”

“A starving stray, not a friend in the world.”

The plan was, she'd approach the old woman alone as this was definitely a one-cat job. One starving, pitiful little kitty could turn the hardest heart, while two cats tramping the neighborhood would give the impression of mutual support, of perhaps greater hunting options. A pair of cats could never achieve the same high degree of helplessness and neglect, elicit the same pity.

“She's still watching,” Joe said, peering out at the old woman. “And even if she didn't see us come into the bushes, she's already seen us together, up at Janet's house. She knows you're not alone. I don't think this is going to work.”

“It'll work.” Dulcie studied Mrs. Blankenship. The soft, elderly woman looked a perfect mark, like some old grandmother there behind the curtain, her nose pressed to the glass. “But before I go into my half-starved act, we need a little drama, a little pathos. How about a cat fight? Before you nip out of here, how about you beat the stuffings out of me.”

Joe smiled. “A screaming frenzy of a fight.”

“Exactly. Poor little kitty torn apart by the big ugly bully.”

“So who's ugly!” He lit into her, kicking and clawing, knocking her out onto the lawn. She screamed, yowled. He was all over her, they rolled clear of the bushes tearing at each other, raking and kicking, tearing divots from the grass—but not a bit of fur flew. They didn't lay a claw on each other. Dulcie's screams were loud enough to have drowned out all the fire engines in Molena Point, her voice ululating in crescendos of terror and rage.

Mrs. Blankenship's troubled face remained pressed against the glass for only an instant, then the old woman's window banged open. “Stop it! Stop it! Leave her alone!”

They gave it a few more licks for good measure, then Dulcie escaped into the bushes. The old woman yelled again, and Joe fled, hissing and snarling.

He paused behind a rhododendron bush out of sight.
I'm pretty good at this acting stuff, a regular Robert Redford
—
or maybe Charles Bronson
. He pictured himself bashing skulls, leaping atop runaway cars.

Mrs. Blankenship had opened the screen and was leaning out, beckoning to Dulcie. “Kitty? Oh you poor, poor kitty.” She reached out as if Dulcie would come to her outstretched hand. She was dressed in a flowered bathrobe, her gray hair confined beneath a thick, old-fashioned net.

Dulcie crept out from her shelter, staring up.

“Come on, kitty. Oh you poor, pretty kitty.”

Dulcie mewled pitifully, her voice unsteady and weak.

“Oh, you poor little thing. Come on, kitty. Are you hurt? Did the bad tomcat hurt you?”

At least
, Joe thought,
the woman knows how to tell a tomcat. Broad shoulders, thick neck. It doesn't take a look at your private parts, necessarily, to know you're a stud
. He watched Dulcie creep across the lawn, walking slowly, managing to limp. Shyly, warily, she approached the window. This cat was no slouch, either, as an actor—she could play Scarlett to his Rhett.

“Oh, you poor, poor kitty. Come on up here to Mama. Can you jump? Are you hurt too bad, or can you jump up?” The old woman tapped on the sill with a shaky finger.

But Dulcie lay down on the grass, trying for the wan, coy effect. Lying upside down, widening her green eyes with longing, she let her little peach-colored paws fold over her poor empty tummy.

Yes, that did it. Mrs. Blankenship leaned farther, her lumpy bosom pressed down over the sill. Her body in the flowered robe was round and soft, the robe bleached out from numerous washings, baggy and wrinkled. Her eyes were a faded brown. And her hair was not gray, but the color of old, dried summer grass.

“Oh, you poor, sweet little girl. That terrible tomcat. Come on, sweet kitty. Come on, dear. I'll take care of you.”

Dulcie remained shy and frightened.

“I can't come out to get you, dear, Frances will see me, she'll have a fit.” Her face wrinkled up, petulant and cross. “She doesn't like animals—doesn't like much of anything. Come on, kitty, you'll have to come up on the sill—if you're not too hurt to jump. Oh, dear…”

Dulcie played coy for another few minutes, wondering about this Frances, thinking maybe she ought to cut out of there while she had the chance. But at last she rose haltingly and approached the window.

“Come on, poor baby. Poor sweet baby, I won't hurt you.”

She stood looking up, then gathered herself both in spirit and in body, and leaped, exploding onto the sill, their faces inches from each other.

“Come on, pretty kitty. Come and let me see. Did that old tomcat hurt you?” Old Mrs. Blankenship's wrinkles were covered with a thick layer of powder. Her brown eyes were faded. She had fuzz on her face and little hairs in her ears.

Standing on the sill halfway in through the window,
Dulcie let the old woman stroke her. Mrs. Blankenship's hands were very fat, very wrinkled, laced with thick, dark veins like little wriggly garden snakes. But they were surprisingly strong-looking hands.

And the lady did know how to stroke a cat. She rubbed gently behind Dulcie's ears, then held out her fingers so Dulcie could rub her whiskers against them. Next came a nice massage down the back, her strong hands rubbing in all the right places. With this, Dulcie abandoned her shyness, purred extravagantly, and padded right on in over the sill and onto the dressing table, stepping carefully to avoid the clutter of little china animals, small framed photographs, medicine bottles, and half-empty juice glasses. She could hardly find room to set a paw. She just hoped she was doing the right thing. Hoped this old lady didn't turn out to be some kind of serial cat killer.

The table had been dusted without moving anything, so that around each little china dog and pill bottle shone a thick circle of grime. The stuffy, too-warm room smelled of Vicks VapoRub. Mrs. Blankenship did not close the window. The old lady seemed to understand that a cat with an escape route open behind her was far braver than a cat locked suddenly in a strange house. Dulcie smiled, giving her a dazzling green gaze and another loud purr.

“That's it, pretty kitty. Come on, sweet kitty.” The old woman patted her lap by way of invitation. As Dulcie oozed down off the dressing table onto that ample resting place, Mrs. Blankenship's round wrinkled face broke into a smile of delight. “Did that old tomcat hurt you? Let me see, kitty. Let me have a look.”

Dulcie lay limp and cooperative as the old woman examined her, her fingers exploring carefully for battle wounds inflicted by the tomcat, her mumbles of endearment meaningless and soothing, words which she had perhaps employed one time or another with countless other cats.

“I can't find a scratch, kitty. Not a sign of blood.” She looked so puzzled that when she touched Dulcie's shoulder, Dulcie deliberately flinched.

She examined Dulcie's shoulder, but, “Nope, no blood. Maybe a bruise or two. Otherwise, you look just fine, kitty. I think you were only scared.” She settled back comfortably, with Dulcie curled in her lap, Dulcie taking care to keep her claws in. Mrs. Blankenship petted her, and dozed, and woke to mumble, then dozed again, seeming truly content to have a little cat in her lap.

But after some time in the hot room, pressed against Mrs. Blankenship's round stomach, Dulcie began to pant. The room was not only hot, but the smell of Vicks made her nauseous. Maybe she should have encouraged Joe do the spying.

Not that he had volunteered.

Mrs. Blankenship's sweet talk and little snoozes were interrupted only when a younger, dark-haired woman entered the room carrying a neatly folded stack of clean towels and sheets.

She stopped in the middle of the room, stared at Dulcie, stared at the open screen. “Oh, Mama. Not a cat. You haven't brought a cat in here.”

“It's hurt, Frances. And starving. Go get it something to eat.”

“Mama, this is a stray. Why would you let a stray cat in the house? It'll be full of fleas. It could have rabies, ringworm, anything. Why did you let it inside?”

“Where else would I bring a hurt and starving cat but inside? The poor thing needs food. Go get it some of that steak from last night.”

“It doesn't look starving. It looks like a mangy freeloader.”

Dulcie lifted a soft paw, gave Frances an innocent smile, her green eyes demure. The woman stared back at her with no change of expression.

Well the same to you, lady. Go stuff it
.

Frances Blankenship was sleekly groomed, her short dark hair perfectly coiffed. She was dressed in tailored white pants and a pink silk blouse, and pale lizard pumps, probably Gucci's, over sheer hose. Dulcie let her gaze travel down the woman's length, and up again to that smooth, unsmiling face. Very sleek. But not likable. This was a woman who would throw a sick cat out in the freezing rain and laugh about it.

“Go get the steak, Frances.”

Sighing, Frances went. Dulcie watched her retreat, wondering what power the old woman had over that cold piece of work?

She could hear Frances in the kitchen, heard the refrigerator open, then a
thunk, thunk
, as of a knife on a cutting board. In a few minutes Frances returned carrying a small portion of cold steak cut up on a paper napkin. Dulcie hoped she hadn't seen fit to lace it with oven cleaner or some equally caustic substance. Frances put the little paper with its offering down on the floor, stood studying Dulcie with a new degree of interest.

“Give me the napkin, Frances. I'll feed her. Couldn't you have managed a plate?”

Frances passed over the napkin. Dulcie, in the old woman's lap, sniffed at the meat but could smell only the rare steak and the scent of what was probably Frances's hand cream.

Mama held out a little piece of good red steak.

Here goes nothing
. Dulcie snatched it from her fingers as if she were truly starving. And as she wolfed the meat, Frances watched her with what Dulcie now read as a definite increase of attention.

The steak was lovely, nice and red in the middle. Obviously the Blankenships had a good butcher; probably the same meat market Wilma frequented, the small butcher shop up on Ocean. The little repast could only have been improved by privacy. She didn't mind the old woman's presence as she ate, but Frances's intent stare made her nervous. When she had finished eating,
Frances wadded the napkin, threw it in the wastebasket, and looked down benevolently at Dulcie. “I guess you can keep the cat, Mama. If it makes you happy.”

Dulcie watched her warily.

But maybe Frances was only considering what a nice diversion a cat would afford. If Frances was Mama's only caregiver, maybe she was thinking that if Mama had a cat to entertain her, Frances herself could enjoy more freedom. Hoping that was the answer, Dulcie settled back again, against Mrs. Blankenship's stomach.

 

She remained in the Blankenship household for four days, missed four days of the trial, and endured increasing claustrophobia in the hot, crowded dwelling. Four days can go by in a blink or they can drag interminably. She soon learned that Frances was Mrs. Blankenship's daughter-in-law. The first thing she learned about the old woman's son, Varnie, when he came shouldering in from work the first night, was that he did not like cats.

Varnie Blankenship was a short, square man, sandy-haired, with peculiarly dry, pale skin reminiscent of old yellowed newsprint. He worked at the nearby harbor, at a pleasure boat rental, tending the small craft. He arrived home smelling of grease, sweat, and gasoline.

Varnie was fond of a large, heavy supper. Frances cooked his meals, but she ate little. During the time Dulcie was in residence, Varnie read no books. He read only the daily newspaper, then folded it up into a small packet and stuffed it in the magazine stand. His spare time was taken up with television, with some activity which he performed out in the garage, and with submissively dusting his mother's curio collection, his broad hands clumsy but patient.

The entire house was crammed full of bookcases and little shelves and tables, and every surface, shelf, and tabletop and cabinet top were crowded with china animals and other assorted knickknacks. The china shop atmosphere
did not fit Frances, and certainly it didn't fit Varnie. Yet Varnie seemed resigned to caring for the clutter, moving among his mother's curios and dusting away like an uneasy and oversized servant. Maybe Frances and Varnie had moved in with his mother, not the other way around. Maybe the old woman had willed the house to them, provided they cared for her collection. Who knew? Maybe Varnie's subservience was generated by some propensity in the old woman to abrupt changes of mind.

Whatever the Blankenship family arrangement, the crowded house made Dulcie feel increasingly trapped. She didn't dare jump up onto any surface for fear of sending hundreds of little beasties shattering to the floor; she padded around the rooms as earthbound as any dog. She was unable even to rub her face against a table leg for fear of tipping it, of knocking down an armload of china and porcelain curios in a huge landslide. The rooms were a fireman's nightmare, and a mouse hunter's paradise. There were a thousand places for mice to hide, and their scent was heavy and fresh.

But she didn't dare. Who could chase a mouse in this maze without incurring major damage?
Good thing Joe isn't here, he'd lose patience and send the entire clutter crashing
.

In the evenings, moving warily among the crowded rooms, trying to eavesdrop but stay out of Varnie's way, listening to their every conversation and idle remark, she heard nothing about Janet, nothing about the murder or the fire. And so far, the old woman's monologues were confined to baby talk. It would be really too bad if she'd gone to all this trouble for nothing.