Cat Raise the Dead (15 page)

A nurse came to the counter, there was a short conversation about medications, then Size Nine went away with her, down the hall. The instant she left, they reared up to examine the contents of the shelves, looking for some record of the patients' names.

They found boxes of syringes, tongue depressors, small packets containing artificial sweetener and fake coffee cream. There was a row of nurses' handbags lined up, fat and wrinkled, smelling of peppermints and makeup and tobacco; but no files, no list of patients.

“Come on,” Joe said. “Check out the other counter. You watch the hall while I look.” Leaping to the counter among the medicine bottles and IV tubes and the makings for a hot cup of coffee, he sorted through the tangle, patting irritably at the boxes.

“Here we go,” he said softly, pawing a small file box out from behind the coffee canister.

She leaped up, watching the hall, watching him impatiently as he clawed through the alphabetized tabs. The cards contained patients' names and their medication information, the dosage, times per day, and for how many days.

They found no Jane Hubble, no Darlene Brown or Mary Nell Hook. They had no time to look for the others. Dulcie hissed, and they leaped down, dived back beneath the shelves as three nurses appeared.

“I'm beginning to feel like a windup toy,” Joe said. “Programmed to jump at the sight of a human. I need a good run, need to clear my head.”

“Shh. They're coming.”

The nurses moved back and forth. Medicine bottles clinked. Someone sneezed. Coffee was brewed, and the radio station was changed again. They waited nearly half an hour before Size Nine returned to pick up her stack of papers, thumped them on the desk again, and headed for the pneumatic door.

They followed behind her heels and fled into the hall. For an instant, behind her, they were as visible as
dog turds on a white sidewalk. If she had turned to look back, it would have been all over; they'd have had the whole staff chasing them.

They dodged into a bedroom, and in the dark, Joe paced. He couldn't settle. When something furry touched his nose, he jumped and raked at it, hissing.

But it was only a furry slipper. He shook it and shoved it aside. Out beyond the glass the moon was setting, its slanting light fading into the blackness of predawn. When the nurse vanished down the hall, they fled for the admitting desk.

In less time than it took for the moon to sink beyond the windows, they had searched not only that tall counter but two nearby file cabinets, clawing open the drawers, pawing through the folders. The procedure gave Joe fits—he'd been creeping and stealthy too long. All this snooping made him feel as if he was going to jump out of his skin. He needed to storm up trees, yowl at the moon. His mood would be considerably improved by a good bloody tomcat brawl.

But Dulcie pressured him on. She was most interested, of course, in the one office that was locked. They could smell Adelina's scent beneath the door, the same expensive perfume that had accompanied her into the entry the first time they saw her. The same scent which had already settled faintly into the leather upholstery of her new red Bentley the day Clyde took them for that memorable ride. Dulcie tried the door, leaping and fighting the knob, but at last she turned away.

In the two open offices they clawed open the desk drawers and file drawers, pawing through, flipping the file tabs with their claws.

They found the patients' full-sized record files, each set of documents in its own manila folder, but they found no record of any of the six missing residents. If those people had ever really existed, they weren't here now. Or at least their records weren't here.

“Maybe Jane took off for Tahiti, booked a cruise.
Maybe right this minute she's paddling her feet in some balmy tropical bay, eating coconuts.”

“Very funny.” Dulcie leaped down from where she had been balancing on the last file drawer.

“There have to be records, even if those people aren't here. Dead files.” She shivered.

“Whatever secret this place is hiding. I'm betting it's in Adelina's office.” She leaped up onto a desk. “That would be the…”

She paused, looking down between her paws at the glass-covered desk top. Beneath the glass, the desk was overlayed with photographs.

“Movies—they're movie stills. All the old reruns. Look at this, here's Clint Eastwood before he had any wrinkles. And Lindsay Wagner—she can't be more than twenty.”

Joe leaped up. Strolling across the desk, he nosed at the pictures. “Who's the washed-out blonde? She's in every shot.”

The thin woman appeared in the background behind Clint Eastwood, and at a restaurant table with a very young Jack Nicholson. Joe twitched a whisker. “She looks familiar, but I…”

Dulcie studied the lank-haired woman, frowning. “That's Adelina's sister.”

“Come on. Why would Adelina's sister have her picture taken with Clint Eastwood?”

“It is her, only younger.” The pale blond appeared as a maid standing stiffly beside a fireplace, appeared in several group scenes, and in the backgrounds behind the stars. “She's a bit player. Or she was—she's really young, here.”

Beyond the office windows the wind had quickened, and the sky was beginning to pale, the branches of the oaks twisting black against the running clouds. Joe turned, watching the office door. “What time does the shift change?”

She shrugged, lifting a tabby shoulder.

“I don't relish getting caught in here. Like flies stuck to the chopped liver.”

“We can have a little nap in the parlor while we wait. We can see the front door from there.”

“While we wait for what?”

“For Adelina to get here. Don't you want to search her office? As soon as she unlocks her door, we—”

“Sure, we'll nip right on in, she'll be so pleased. Dulcie, I want into that woman's office like I want into the rabies lockup at the city pound.”

She gave him a cool look, leaped down, and trotted away toward the parlor. Bellying beneath the damask sofa, she curled up yawning.

He gave it up and joined her. Far be it from him to back out. If they ended up murdered by Adelina's stiletto heels, there was always, presumably, another life. Unless, of course, they'd already used all nine.

They were cuddled together dozing beneath the sofa when Joe glimpsed movement beyond the black glass. Waking fully, he watched something shiny flickering through the heavy shadows beneath a lemon tree. Quickly he slid along beneath the couch for a closer look, pulling himself across the Chinese rug. Why did people make couches so low? How many cats in the world had to scrape their backs every day, every time they crawled under the family sofa? Where were people's minds? Didn't they think about these things?

Again the movement, glinting and dancing through the dark: the metallic flash of spokes.

Chrome spokes—the spokes of a wheelchair. He watched the chair turn and wheel away into the heavy shadows of the dark, predawn garden. Dulcie was beside him now, peering out. They could see, deep within the blackness, a figure standing, facing the wheelchair, as if the two were talking softly, their voices inaudible through the glass.

The cats looked at each other and slid back deeper under the couch. “I didn't hear the wheels,” Joe said
nervously. “And I didn't hear footsteps. I don't like when I can't hear something that's moving.”

Dulcie stared out at the patio. “Maybe Teddy doesn't sleep well at night; maybe he and some other patient like to roam the halls.” Uneasily, she curled up close to Joe, trying to purr, to calm herself. And at last they slept.

Joe woke to the first chirping of birds from the garden. The leaves of the lilies and azalea bushes shivered with activity, forcing Joe's eyes open wide, his metabolism to swing into high, and he crept out from under the couch.

The branches were full of birds. Flitting wings, hopping little bodies. Rigid, his muscles geared immediately into the kill mode, he crouched, staring out at that fluttering feast, at that brazen display of fresh meat, inches from his waiting claws. These birds, reared in that sheltered garden without a cat in sight, would be as stupid and tame as pet chickens.

It was early morning when she passed Police Captain Harper; he was just coming out of the drugstore as she went in. He smiled and nodded, and she turned away, hiding a laugh. He'd looked right at her, didn't guess a thing. Not a clue.

But why should he? If she went clanking by him in her black raincoat loaded and lumpy, he'd be onto her like an ambulance chaser onto a five-car collision. But dressed as she was, she could safely pass any village cop or, for that matter, could likely walk right by any hillside resident who had seen her looking for poor lost “Kitty.” People weren't that observant. Who would connect?

In the drugstore she made her purchases, thanking fate that there were three druggists in town, so frequent purchases of certain items would not be easily noticed. She returned directly to her car, dropped her packages on the seat, and drove west down Ocean. Turning along Shore Drive, she cruised slowly, admiring the large and expensive beach homes. Out over the sea, the sky was blue and clear, not a cloud. Going to be a bright, boring day. Too much sunshine, the kind of day that seemed to turn the village into a featureless cardboard diorama. She was getting tired of Molena Point. When a town began to pall on her like this, it was time to move on, time to scratch these itchy feet.

Surveying the two-and three-story residences that
faced the sea just across Shore Drive, she slowed and parked for a moment, letting the engine idle. She was powerfully tempted to give one of these beauties a try.

But every time she headed down here, she turned back again. The houses were expensive and well furnished, but the area made her nervous. Too much activity, too many tourists on the beach and wandering the sidewalks. Tourists provided good cover, but idle people saw a lot, too. And tourists drew police patrols; there were always cops cruising, checking the teenagers, spotting for possible drug sales or some unlawful sexual display; and keeping an eye on the dangerous and illegal swimming areas.

Watching the oceanfront houses, she considered several other areas of the village that she had so far neglected. She had, in fact, restricted her work entirely to the newer houses up in the hills, had stayed away from the village proper, from the cottages which flanked and were mixed in with the shops and restaurants, mainly because of the street traffic.

Putting the car in gear, she cruised Shore Drive. Where the houses ended, giving way to rising sand dunes, she turned back again, driving slowly, studying the three houses that interested her the most, houses where she had never seen more than one car in the drive, and never seen much activity—not a lot of people going in and out.

It wasn't hard to check out such a house—a look at the city directory, then a few phone calls to see how many different people answered; but she seldom bothered. So far, her routine had worked fine without making all that fuss.

Turning off Shore Drive up Ocean into the village, she headed for the library. Wouldn't hurt to run in for just a minute, take care of that last bit of research. She wanted more information on the cloisonné clocks. Once in a while, using this library wouldn't hurt, as long as she kept an eye on who came in and didn't get involved with
the librarians. Yesterday, in the San Francisco library, she'd been too busy learning about handmade dolls, trying to assess the value of the five dolls from the Martinez house. This whole business of handmade dolls was fascinating.

But the pricing range was incredibly large, their value depending on the skill and creativity of the artist and on his reputation, just as in the art world, where a painter spent years building a following. The price depended, as well, on whether the doll was one of a kind, or whether it had been produced in a limited edition, as was an etching or serigraph.

She had made quite certain of what she had before she approached Harden Mark. All five dolls were by a well-known name and were of small, limited editions, the retail price of each doll ranging close to five thousand.

She'd had the dolls only overnight before she packed them up to take to the city, but just having them propped on the dresser overnight she'd hated to part with the perfect little ladies. At the last minute, she'd kept one back, the blond sixteenth-century lady in the blue silk. She could always sell her later.

In the city she had come away from Harden Mark's office with ten thousand in cash, half the dolls' retail value, which was fair. She'd gone directly to her three banks, distributing the cash among them to avoid undue interest on the part of some nosy teller.

Now she drove on past the library and parked a block beyond. The library's pale stucco walls and sheltering oaks looked incredibly boring. She was getting tired of this faux-Spanish architecture. Maybe she was taking an unfair and warped view of the small coastal towns, but she found more color in San Francisco. The skies were more fitful, the wind-driven clouds seemed larger, vaster, the city more dramatic. Or maybe she just noticed the drama of the city more, looking out from the high, upper floors of the better hotels, the Mark or the St. Francis.

Before leaving the car, she reached under the seat for her good shoes, slipped them on, and flipped down the sun visor to redo her hair. The long tresses offered infinite possibilities. She pulled out the pins and combed it out, letting it fall over her shoulders.

Reaching into the backseat, she retrieved a large, floppy sun hat printed with pink flowers. Settling this low over her face, she applied a careful smear of hot pink lipstick. Peering up into the mirror at herself, she grinned, then slid out and headed up the street for the library, moving through alternate sun and shade beneath the oaks that spread across the narrow street. It wasn't such a bad village, picturesque in its way, though really too cute with all the steep roofs and balconies and gables. Maybe she'd hit two or three more Molena Point houses, then move on. Get out before the papers started about the cat burglar or before Captain Harper picked up a make on her car—though she'd been incredibly careful, painstaking in the switches she'd made.

Entering the library, she glanced around for the cat, hoping fervently to avoid it. How totally stupid, for a public office to keep a cat. There'd been a big fuss in the paper about how wonderful it was to have a “library cat,” editorials, letters to the editor. And then that battle to get rid of the beast, headed up by the librarian who was allergic to cats. And people getting up petitions to keep the animal. What idiots. Half the village thought a library cat was just darling—and of course the tourists loved it. The cat was of no earthly use, just a common cat, shedding hairs and fleas, one of those ugly, dark-striped creatures—there were hundreds like it—that you could see in any alley.

Passing the checkout desk, she studied the adjoining rooms warily but didn't see the beast. It gave her the creeps to approach a table or the book stacks thinking she might suddenly see the cat wander out under her feet. Just thinking about it made her ankles itch, as if any minute it might find her and rub against her.

The woman behind the desk kept staring, so she smiled brightly back at her. What was she looking at? Watching her like she was some kind of character. Didn't she like floppy pink hats and pink lipstick?

Well I like them, and I'm the one wearing them
. And she had to smile—if she was a character, that was just fine, she didn't give a fig what some librarian thought.