Cat Raise the Dead (2 page)

She never took large paintings, of course; she took nothing she couldn't conceal beneath her coat, but she could not resist a miniature. Her fence in San Francisco had some good contacts for stolen art, and the village of Molena Point was famous for its small private collections
as well as for its galleries. There was, in fact, a good deal of quiet money in Molena Point, a number of retired movie people, their estates hidden back in the hills, though she avoided these. With a household staff in residence, who knew when you'd bump into an unexpected maid lurking in one of the bedrooms, or come face-to-face with the butler in the master's study placing cigars in the humidor as in some forties' movie.

The middle-class houses were better for her purposes, affluent enough to have some nice antiques and silver and jewelry, but not so rich as to include live-in help. And the occasional alarm systems she encountered were usually turned off when people were about the place. Her usual routine was first to slip upstairs into the master bedroom, take care of the jewelry, clean out a purse or billfold left lying on the dresser. She had taught herself well about gems, and could usually tell the real thing.

Looking out through the dark glass, she saw the cat rise suddenly. He flashed her one intent look, his stare so insolent that all of Wenona's lurid stories came back to her. She was, for an instant, almost crippled with fear.

He looked, then moved away into the blackness beneath a neighboring porch, only his white parts still showing, like bits of discarded white paper.

Why was he so persistent? Why did he care about her? Why would a cat—any kind of cat—care what she stole?

So far, the cat seemed the only living presence that had guessed her scam. The Molena Point
Gazette
didn't have a clue; its little reports of local burglaries hadn't printed one word about a woman looking for her lost cat. And, as far as she could tell, the Molena Point cops were equally ignorant. They seemed to have made no connection with her successes up and down the coast—Santa Barbara, San Jose, Ojai, San Luis Obispo, Ventura. Of course the minute the papers blabbed her cat scam
she had moved on, checked into a new town, and the furor in the old town quickly died, at least in the press.

She tried to hit each town quickly, work it for just a few weeks, then get out again. Montecito had given her some really nice hauls. She'd chosen its smallest cottages among the extravagant mansions and had made some rare finds. She was amused at herself that she'd saved all her newspaper clippings, like some two-bit actress saving stage reviews—some of them were a real hoot.

But those towns down the coast had been practice runs. Molena Point was the real gem. This village had never been properly worked, and she was enjoying every minute. Or she had been, until the cat showed up.

As she fingered the heavy gold jewelry and stroked the nice fat roll of bills inside her coat, outdoors the gray cat rose again and came out from beneath the porch. And now he didn't so much as glance at her. He turned away, trotted away purposefully up the side street as if she didn't exist, moved off toward the front of the house, prancing insolently up the center of the sidewalk under the streetlight, his stub tail wiggling back and forth, his tomcat balls making him walk slightly straddle-legged. And he was gone, not a glance backward.

She had no notion what had taken him away so suddenly. She did not feel relieved, only apprehensive. When he didn't appear again she let herself out, slipping open the laundry-room door. Listening to the smallest boy's giggles from the kitchen, she engaged the push-button lock, quietly shut the door behind her, and headed up the street for her car.

But approaching her own car in the black night where she'd parked it beneath a maple tree, the Toyota's pale, hulking shape seemed suddenly possessed, as if the cat watched from beneath it. She could not approach. Fear of the unnatural cat gripped her. She turned away from her own car and headed downhill toward the village—a coward's response.

She'd have to get rid of the Toyota. She couldn't
bear that the cat knew this car. Burdened by her heavy coat, she stumped along down toward Ocean Avenue, telling herself she wasn't fleeing from the cat, that she was going down to Binnie's Italian for a nice hot supper and a beer, for a plate of Binnie's good spaghetti, told herself that once she was fortified with spaghetti and a couple of beers she'd enjoy the little climb back up the hill to her waiting car, never mind that the coat weighed a ton. Making her way down toward the village, she fought the urge to look behind her, certain that if she looked, the cat would be there on the dark sidewalk, following her, his white paws and white markings moving like disjointed parts of a puzzle, his yellow eyes intent on her, a beast impossible to believe in—and impossible to escape.

Early-morning sun slanted into the Damen backyard, illuminating the ragged lawn, picking out each bare patch of earth where busy canine paws had been digging. Sunlight sharply defined the ragged weeds pushing up among straggling rosebushes along the back fence. Warm sunshine washed across the chaise lounge, where the tomcat lay scowling with anger. Having been rudely awakened from a deep and happy dream, he stared irritably at his human housemate.

Clyde Damen had only recently awakened himself, had brought his first cup of coffee out to sip while sitting on the back steps. He was unwashed, his dark hair resembling an untidy squirrel's nest, his cheeks black with stubble. He wore ancient, frayed jogging shorts above hairy legs, and a ragged, washed-out T-shirt. In the cat's opinion, he looked like he'd slept in a Dumpster. Joe Grey observed him with disgust. “You want to run that by again?” The cat's look was incredulous. “You woke me up to tell me what? You want me to do what?”

Clyde glared at him.

“I can't believe you would even
think
such a thing,” Joe said. “Maybe, because I was awakened so unkindly, I didn't hear correctly. What I thought I heard was an amazingly inane suggestion.”

“Come on, Joe. You heard correctly.” Clyde sucked at his coffee. “Why the indignation? What's wrong with a little charity? I hadn't thought you'd be so incredibly
narrow-minded.” He sipped his brew, sucking loudly, and scratched his hairy knee. “I think it's a great idea. If you'd try it, you might find the project interesting.”

Joe sighed. He'd had a disappointing night anyway. He didn't need to be awakened from his much-needed sleep to this kind of stupidity. “Why me? Why lay your idiot idea on me? Let one of the other cats do it. They won't know they're being used.”

He'd returned home last night dismayed at his own ineptitude, and now he wasn't even allowed to sleep out his sulk. He'd been deeply and sweetly down into delightful feline dreams when Clyde came banging out of the house, picked him up, jerking him cruelly from slumber, and laid this incredibly rude suggestion on him. The next instant, of course, Clyde had yelped and dropped him, blood welling up across the back of his hand.

Joe had immediately curled up again and closed his eyes. Clyde had sat down on the step and stared at his hand, where the blood ran wet and dark. But then, guileless, and with incredible bad manners, Clyde made the suggestion again.

“Bloodied hand serves you right,” Joe said now. He gave Clyde a narrow, amused cat smile. “I don't come barging into the bedroom waking you out of a sound sleep to tell you how to live your life—not that you couldn't use a little advice.”

“I only suggested…”

He looked Clyde over coldly. “I can't believe you'd lay that kind of rude, thoughtless request on me. I thought we were friends. Buddies.”

Joe knew quite well that the idea hadn't originated with Clyde. And that was what made him really mad.

Cat and human stared at each other as, around them, the morning reeked of sun-warmed grass and rang with birdsong, mostly the off-key blather of a house finch. Joe smoothed his shoulder with a pink tongue. Unlike his human housemate, he was beautifully groomed, his
short coat as sleek and gleaming as gray velvet, his muscled shoulders heavy and solid, his handsome white paws, white chest and throat, and the white strip down his nose as pristinely clean as new snow, his eyes as deeply golden as slanted twin moons.

He knew he was a handsome cat, he knew what a mirror was for. He knew that look of adulation in his lady's green eyes, too. But, thinking of Dulcie at that moment, of her beautiful tabby face and soft, peach-tinted ears, he was filled with her betrayal. Complete betrayal. It was Dulcie who had put Clyde up to this insanity; it was Dulcie and her human housemate, Wilma Getz, who had hatched this plan.

Irritably he flicked an ear toward the off-key cacophony of the house finch. Didn't those birds know the difference between sharp and flat? He didn't like to think about Dulcie's perfidy. Angry, hurt by her betrayal, he kept his gaze on Clyde.

Clyde shook a tangle of dark hair out of his eyes. “Just tell me what's wrong with the idea. The venture would be charitable. It would be fun, and it would do you good. Help you practice a little kindness, increase your community awareness.”

“What do I need with community awareness?” Joe sighed, enunciating slowly and clearly, his yellow eyes wide with innocent amazement. “Let me get this straight. You want me to join a pat-the-kitty group. You want me to visit an old people's home. You are asking me to become part of show-and-tell for the doddering elderly.” He regarded Clyde closely. “Are you out of your feeble human mind?”

“Dulcie thinks it's a good idea.”

“Dulcie thinks it's a good idea because it was her idea.” Joe dug his claws into the chaise cushion. Sometimes Dulcie lost all sense of proportion. “Do you really think that I'm going to allow a battalion of bedridden old people to prod and poke me, to call me ‘ootsy wootsy kitty,' and drool all over me?”

“Come on, Joe. You're making a big deal. If you'd just give it—”

Joe's look blazed so wild that Clyde stopped speaking and retreated behind a swill of coffee. The cat treated him to an icy smile. “Would you
submit
yourself to such amazing indignities? Turn yourself into an object of live-animal therapy?”

Clyde settled back against the steps. “You really are a snob. What makes you think those old folks are so disgusting? You'll be old someday. A flea-bitten, broken-down bag of cat bones with a dragging belly, and who's going to be kind to you?”

“You will. Same as you're kind to those two disreputable old dogs.”

“Of course I'm kind to them, they're sweet old dogs. But you—when you get old I'll probably dump you at the animal pound.”

“Or gas me under the exhaust of that junk-heap Packard you insist on driving.”

“That Packard is a collector's model: it's worth a bundle of cash, and it's in prime condition.” Clyde regarded Joe quietly. “Those old people get lonely, Joe. I'm not asking you to dedicate the rest of your life. Just a little kindness, a few hours a week. Some of those old people don't have any family, no one to visit them, no one to talk to or to care what happens to them.”

Joe washed his left front paw.

“Don't you read the papers? Animal therapy is the latest thing. If those old people can visit with a warm, healthy animal, hold a cuddly dog or cat on their lap, that kind of relationship can really ease their depression, bring a lot of happiness into their dull lives. There've been cases where—”

“
Cuddly
? You think I'm
cuddly
?”

Clyde shrugged. “I don't. But their eyesight isn't too good. You're about as cuddly as a dead cactus. But hey, those old folks aren't choosy. If you could make a few of them happy—”

“What do I care if they're happy? What possible good can their happiness do me?”

“Just a little charity, Joe. A little love.” Clyde scratched his dark, stubbled chin.

“
Love
? You want me to
love
them?”

“Can't you even imagine doing something nice for others? If you'd stop thinking about yourself all the time—and stop playing detective, following that damned cat burglar. That's another thing. This whole cat burglar bit. I don't like it that you were eavesdropping on Captain Harper, listening to classified police information.”

“Classified? What's classified? The burglaries were in the paper. And I wasn't eavesdropping. You and Harper were playing poker. You're afraid I'll get a line on that woman before the cops do. And who knows, maybe I will. Make Harper's secret undercover surveillance look like a parade down Main Street.”

He washed his right paw. “Who knows, maybe I can pass along a little information to Harper. Would he object to that? He hasn't objected in the past; I don't remember any complaints when Dulcie and I solved the Beckwhite murder, or turned up the evidence on Janet Jeannot's killer.”

Clyde's dark, sleepy eyes stared into Joe's slitted yellow ones. “I'm not going to discuss that. You go off on these big ego trips. Like you were the only one who ever solved a murder. And if I tell you that stuff's dangerous, that you and Dulcie could get yourselves killed or maimed, you go ballistic, pitch a first-class tantrum.”

Clyde stared into his empty coffee cup. “Couldn't you at least volunteer a couple afternoons a week? If your best friend likes the idea, couldn't you try? Try giving something back to the community?”

Joe's eyes widened to full moons. “Give something back to the community? Talk about limp-wristed do-goodism. Why should I give anything to some community? I'm a cat, not a human. What did this village ever—”

“May I point out that Molena Point is an unusually nice place for a cat to live? That you're lucky to have landed here?” Clyde sucked at his empty cup and moved his position on the step, following the shifting path of the sun. “How many California towns can offer you a veritable cat Eden? Where else are there endless woods and hills and gardens to hunt in, and even the street traffic is in your favor. Molena Point drivers are unbelievably slow and careful. Everyone takes great pains, Joe, not to run over wandering cats. Even the tourists are thoughtful. You want to move back into San Francisco's alleys, dodging trucks, avoiding hopheads and drunks? You try living in Sacramento or downtown L.A., see how long before you end up as pressed cat meat.”

Joe glared.

“You fell into paradise when you landed in Molena Point. It would seem to me you'd be anxious to pay your dues.”

No comment. The gray tomcat washed his shoulder.

“To say nothing of the free gourmet food you village cats indulge in behind Jolly's Deli. Where else are you going to be served free caviar, smoked Puget Sound salmon, imported Brie? You may not have noticed, Joe, but between Jolly's gourmetic freebies and the rabbits and mice you gorge on, you're getting a sizable paunch.”

“I wouldn't talk about paunch, the shape you're in.” Joe looked him over coldly. His stub tail beat so hard against the cushions that Clyde imagined an invisible tail lashing: the tail that was no longer a part of the tomcat's anatomy.

“Why not give it one visit, just to see what those old people are like?”

“I don't see
you
visiting the feeble elderly. And since when are you so concerned about Molena Point's old folks?”

“If you'll try just one pet visiting day, I'll treat you to
the best filet in Molena Point, delivered to the house sizzling hot.”

“Not for all the filets in the village will I be crammed into a bus beside a bunch of yapping stink-a-poos scratching and lifting their legs, hauled away to an institution, locked inside rooms that smell like a hospital, rammed by wheelchairs, shoved into the laps of strangers to be poked and prodded, people I never saw before and don't want to see, people smelling of Vick's VapoRub and wet panties.” Joe's eyes burned huge and angry. “Get them a teddy bear. Get them a stuffed cat—one of those cute furry life-size kitties you see on the shelf in the drugstore, but leave yours truly alone.” He turned his back, curled up in the warm sunshine, and closed his eyes.

But Joe's reluctance would come to nothing, his stubborn negativism would soon register zero. When soft little Dulcie set her mind to it and turned that sweet green gaze on him, his blustering tomcat resolve would begin to melt. Before another two days had passed, the gray tomcat would find himself enduring with amazing patience the palsied stroking of the old folks' frail, wrinkled hands—and soon would find himself studying the Casa Capri Retirement Villa with intense interest, trying to understand what was not right within that seemingly gentle, cosseting home for aged villagers.