Cat Under Fire (10 page)

But Mama did spend all day at her window, as Dulcie had guessed. And she did wake up well before dawn, often to draw on her robe and return to her window, to her unrewarding vigil over the neighborhood. It seemed to Dulcie a very good chance that the old woman had seen something that morning, the morning of the fire.
It's worth a try, worth a few more days of suffocation
.

Varnie talked very little on any subject, except to say
that he didn't want a cat in the kitchen when he was eating, and didn't want a cat in the living room while he was watching the news. And Varnie was inclined to throw things: cushions, his slippers, the hard, folded-up newspaper. She decided, if she was going to pull this off, she'd better leave Varnie alone and hang out with the old lady.

But she did follow Varnie out to the garage, on that first night, before he started throwing things. He had an old truck out there that he was working on, doing something to the engine. The truck and the garage smelled strongly of stale fish, and there were fishing poles slung across the rafters. She wanted to jump up on the fender and see what he was doing, and see if she could make friends. She approached him. He looked down at her. She rolled over on the garage floor, smiling up at him.

He reached down to pet her. For a moment she thought she'd made a conquest.

Then she saw the look in his eyes.

She flipped over and backed away.

Since that moment she had kept her distance. She investigated the unfamiliar parts of the house secretly, slipping behind tables and crouching in the dark corners and beneath the beds, ignoring the smell of mice. She was still convinced that it was Mama who would spill something of interest, but she was resolved to miss nothing from any source.

Though when she crept under Varnie's easy chair to listen, or into the conjugal bedroom, she remained tense and wary. She had the distinct impression that Varnie wouldn't hesitate to snuff a little cat—and that Frances would enjoy watching. She was in this house strictly under the sponsorship of Mama—and for whatever selfish reason Frances might entertain. She was there to find out what Mama knew, and she'd hang in there until she had an answer.

But in the end, it wasn't Mama who supplied the telling clue. As it turned out, Dulcie would have learned nothing if it hadn't been for Varnie and his love of beer and stud poker.

ART DEALER ON STAND

Defense attorney Deonne Baron today called three additional witnesses in the murder of artist Janet Jeannot. The first to take the stand was art dealer Sicily Aronson, owner of Molena Point's Aronson Gallery, and victim Janet Jeannot's agent…Aronson testified that there had been bitterness between Ms. Jeannot and the accused, Rob Lake. Under detailed questioning she told the court that Ms. Jeannot was not happy over Mr. Lake's gallery association with her ex-husband Kendrick Mahl. Ms. Aronson also told the court that since Janet Jeannot's death, and the destruction of most of the artist's work in the fire that burned her studio, the remaining canvases have doubled in price. The Aronson Gallery…

 

Wilma scanned the lead story with mild interest, standing in her front garden. The
Gazette
articles were getting tedious. Much of this story was a rehashing of Janet's personal life, which the reporters seemed to find fascinating; newspaper reporters were not conditioned to let the dead rest, not as long as there was any hint of story to be milked from a tragedy. She folded the evening paper again, tucked it under her arm, and bent to pluck some spent blooms from the daylilies. A cool little breeze played through the oak tree, rattling the leaves. Above her, above the neighbors' rooftops, the sky flamed red, so blazing a sunset that she considered hurrying the five blocks to the shore to enjoy its full
effect spreading like fire over the sea. But she had dinner cooking, and she'd pulled that trick before, turning the stove low, nipping down to the beach for a few moments—and returning home to find her supper burned.

She wished Dulcie was home. She grew upset when the little cat was gone for more than a night and a day. Even with Clyde's reassurrances that the cats were all right, Dulcie's absence was unsettling. Clyde would say little, only that they were perfectly safe. Turning from the daylilies she headed for the house, moved on through the kitchen, where she'd left the noodles boiling, and into the dining room to have another look at the drawings Charlie had left propped on the buffet.

She'd discovered them when she got home from work, had stood looking at the little exhibit, amazed. She'd had no idea that Charlie was drawing Dulcie, and she'd had no idea, no hint that Charlie could draw animals with such power. Until that moment she'd thought of Charlie's artistic efforts as mediocre, dull and unremarkable. The work which she had watched over the years consisted mostly of uninspired landscapes bland as porridge, studies so lacking in passion that she was convinced an art career was not the best use of Charlie's talents. She had felt a deep relief when Charlie gave up on making a living in the field of either fine or commercial art. Had felt that Charlie, in making a break from the art world, could at last throw herself into something which would fit her far better.

But these drawings were totally different, very skilled and sure, it was obvious that Charlie loved doing animals; strange that she'd never seen anything like this before. Always it was the landscapes or Charlie's hackneyed commercial assignments from class. But these showed real caring—the work was bold and commanding, revealing true delight in her feline subject.

The three portraits of Dulcie were life-size, done in a combination of charcoal and rust red Conte crayon on rough white paper. They brought Dulcie fully alive; the
little cat shone out at her as insouciant and as filled with deviltry as Dulcie herself. In one drawing she lay stretched full-length, looking up and smiling, her dark, curving stripes gleaming, her expression bright and eager. In the second study she was leaping at a moth, her action so liquid and swift that Wilma could feel the weightless pull of Dulcie's long, powerful muscles. The third drawing had caught Dulcie poised on the edge of the bookshelf ready to leap down, her four feet together, her eyes wild with play.

This work was, in fact, stronger and far more knowledgeable than any animal drawings Wilma could remember. The cat's muscle and bone structure were well understood and clearly defined beneath her sleek fur, the little cat's liquid movement balanced and true. There was nothing cute about this cat, nothing sentimental. These studies created for the viewer a living and complicated animal.

Leonardo da Vinci said the smallest feline is a masterpiece. These drawings certainly reflected that reverence. She couldn't wait for Dulcie to see these.

To an ordinary cat, such drawings would read simply as paper with dark smudges smelling of charcoal and fixative. A drawing would communicate nothing alive to the ordinary feline, no smell of cat, no warmth or movement. A normal cat had no capacity to understand graphic images.

An ordinary cat could recognize animal life on TV primarily by sounds, such as barking, or birdsong, and by the uniqueness of movement: feline action sleek and lithe and deeply familiar, birds fluttering and hopping. Action was what most cats saw. She had no doubt about this, Dulcie had told her this was so.

But Dulcie would see every detail of these drawings of herself, and she would be thrilled.

Returning to the kitchen, dropping the evening
Gazette
on the table, she turned to finishing up her dinner preparations. Her cheerful blue-and-white kitchen
was warm from the oven, and smelled of the garlic and herbs and wine with which she'd basted the well-browned pot roast. Removing the noodles from the stove, she drained them in a colander then pulled the roaster from the oven, releasing a cloud of deliriously scented steam. She basted the roast, put the lid back, put the noodles in a bowl and buttered them, set them on the back of the stove to keep warm. It was nice having company; she was pleased to have Charlie staying with her. She deeply enjoyed her solitude, but a change was delightful, and Charlie was just about all the family she had since her younger brother, Charlie's father, had died. There were a couple of second cousins on the East Coast but they seldom were in touch. Her niece was the closest thing she had to a child of her own, and she valued Charlie.

She laid silverware and napkins on the table, meaning to set them around later. Beyond the window the sunset had deepened to a shade as vivid as the red bougainvillea which clung outside the diamond panes, the red so penetrating it stained the blue tile counter to a ruddy glow, sent a rosy sheen over the blue-and-white floral wallpaper. She set out the salt and pepper, then returned to the dining room for another look. She couldn't leave the drawings alone. Now, suddenly, it seemed to her a great waste for Charlie to be starting a cleaning and repair business. Why had she hidden such work?

Charlie had mentioned once there wasn't any money in drawing animals, and maybe she was right. Certainly animal drawings weren't big in juried shows; one would have to build a reputation in some other way than Janet had done. Charlie said Janet was truly talented, and that she herself was not. Wilma wondered how much of that came from the narrow view of the particular art school she had attended.

She returned to the kitchen, moving restlessly. She was tearing up endive and spinach leaves for a salad when Charlie's van pulled up at the curb, parking up toward the neighbors' to leave room behind. The red
sky was darkening, streaked with gray, the wild kind of sky Dulcie loved. She tried to put away her worries about Dulcie; it did no good to worry. Clyde had said, on the phone, that the cats were fine.

So where are they
?

At Janet's. Joe is at Janet's
.

Then where is Dulcie
?

She's nearby
—
gathering some information, Joe said
.

What does that mean? Snooping somewhere? She can't…Those cats can't
…

Joe says not to worry, and what good does it do to worry? He'd let me know if anything—if they
…

She had hung up, shaken, and no wiser.

She shook the salad dressing, fussed with the salad. Standing at the window, she watched Charlie come up the walk dragging, looking hot and irritable.

Charlie dropped her jacket in the entry and came on through the dining room into the kitchen, slumped into a chair. Her red hair was damp with sweat, curling around her face, her limp, sweaty shirt was streaked with white paint and rust.

“Not a good day,” Wilma said tentatively.

Charlie reached for a leaf of spinach to nibble. “Not too bad. Mavity got a lot done. She's a good worker, and a dear person.” Mavity Flowers was an old school friend of Wilma's. She had gone to work cleaning houses when the small pension left by her husband began to dwindle under rising prices. She'd be in fair financial shape if she'd sell her Molena Point cottage and move to a less expensive area, but Mavity loved Molena Point. She would rather stay in the village and scrub for a living.

Charlie rose and got two beers from the refrigerator.

“Cold glasses in the freezer,” Wilma said. “I guess Mavity can be a bit vague at times.”

“Aren't we all?” Charlie fetched two iced glasses, opened the bottles, and poured the dark brew down the frosted sides with care. “Mavity works right along, she
doesn't grouse, and she doesn't stop every five minutes for a smoke the way Stamps does. I don't think James Stamps will be with me long.”

Charlie had hired Stamps from an ad she'd put in the Paper. He hadn't been in Molena Point for more than a week or two. He told Charlie he'd moved to the coast because Salinas was too dry. He was renting a room somewhere up in the hills, near to the house Charlie was cleaning, the Hansen house; she was getting it ready for new owners.

I got all the little repairs done. Replaced the cabinet door hinges in the kitchen, fixed the leak in the garage roof. Fixed the gate latches.” She sighed and settled back, taking a long swallow of beer. “Mavity and I painted the bedroom, and Stamps picked up the shelving units for the closets.”

“Sounds like more than a full day.”

“I had to tell Stamps twice, no smoking in the house. He said, ‘What difference? They won't be moving in for a week.' I told him that stink stays in a house forever. But how can he smell anything when he reeks of smoke himself.”

“Did he do any work besides picking up the shelving?”

“Under my prodding. Got the front yard cleaned up, the lawn trimmed, and the new flowers planted. But my God, I have to tell him everything. Mix the manure and conditioner in before you plant, James. Treat the flowers tenderly, don't jam them in the ground.

“It's not that Stamps is dumb,” Charlie continued. He's bright enough, but he doesn't keep his mind on the job. Who knows where his thoughts are. The cleaning and repair business is definitely not James Stamps's line of work.”

Charlie glanced idly at the paper. “One day I'll find the right people. Meantime I keep on baby-sitting him. I had to tell him twice to tie up his dog. It sleeps in his truck; I guess the people he rents from don't want it in his room. I don't blame them, the beast is a monster. I
didn't want it tramping around in the clean house, getting dog hairs stuck in the fresh paint.”

“I thought you loved dogs.”

“I can hardly wait to get a dog. A big dog. But not a beast like Stamps's mutt. I want a nice, clean, well-mannered animal. That creature won't mind, and it's mean.” She grinned. “At least Stamps didn't eat lunch with Mavity and me, that was a pleasure. It was real nice to be rid of him.

“But then he was twenty minutes late getting back, and when I made him work the extra twenty, he got mad.” She finished her beer and got up. “I'm heading for the shower; I smell like a locker room.”

Wilma hadn't mentioned the drawings. She wanted to wait for Clyde—and wait until Charlie had cleaned up and didn't feel so hot and irritable. Charlie could be testy—if she was in a bad mood, anything you said could be taken wrong. Patiently, sipping her beer, she sat reading the rest of the lead article and a second, longer story.

 

Ms. Aronson was unable to produce witnesses to her whereabouts the early morning of Ms. Jeannot's death. She claimed that she was alone in her Molena Point condominium. Neighbors testified that lights were on that morning in her living room and bedroom, but no witness saw her white Dodge van parked on the street. Ms. Aronson told the court she had parked on a side street, that there had been no empty parking places in front of her building
.

She testified that she did not leave her apartment until nearly 7
A.M
., when police phoned to notify her that Janet's studio had burned and that Janet had died in the fire. She said she dressed and drove directly to Ms. Jeannot's studio. Under questioning, Ms. Aronson admitted that she had a set of keys for Jeannot's studio and apartment. She claimed that Jeannot had given them to her so she could pick up and deliver work for exhibitions
.

The second witness was Jeannot's sister, Beverly Jeannot, who also admitted to having a set of keys. Police said that on
the day Janet was murdered they were not able to reach Ms. Jeannot at her home in Seattle until noon, though they made several attempts by phone to notify her of her sister's death. Ms. Jeannot claimed she had not been feeling well, and that she had unplugged her phone the night before. She said she slept until 11:45 the morning of the fire, that once she was notified she booked the next flight to San Francisco, with a commuter connection to Molena Point. She arrived in the village at three that afternoon
.

Scheduled to testify later in the week is San Francisco art agent and former critic Kendrick Mahl, a name of national stature. Mahl is Janet Jeannot's ex-husband and is also the representing art agent for the accused. A partial transcript of today's court proceedings follows.

 

Wilma was scanning the transcript when Clyde knocked at the back door and pushed on in. He was well scrubbed, his dark hair neatly combed. He smelled faintly of Royal Lime, a nonsweet scent from Bermuda that Wilma liked, though she detested the heavy and too-sweet scents that most men applied. He was wearing a new shirt. The store creases spoiled only slightly the fresh look of the red madras plaid. He got a beer from the refrigerator and pulled out a chair, scowling at the headlines. “Don't they have anything else to write about?”