Cat Under Fire (11 page)

“Good color on you. Don't sit down. Go in the dining room.”

“What? Are we eating formal?”

“Just go.”

He gave her a puzzled look and swung away into the dining room, carrying his beer.

He was silent for a long time, she could hear the soft scuff of his loafers as he moved about the room, as if he were viewing the work from different angles and from a distance. When he returned to the kitchen he was grinning. “I thought, from the way you talked and from what Charlie said, that her work was really bad, that art school was a waste of time.”

“It was a bust,” Charlie said, coming in. She was dressed in a pale blue T-shirt with SAVE THE MALES stenciled across the front, and clean, faded jeans and sandals. She had blow-dried her sweaty hair and it blazed around her face as wild as the vanished sunset. “I should have gone to business school. Or maybe engineering, I've always been good at math. I'm sorry I didn't do that, maybe civil engineering. It was a big waste of time, that four years in art school. Big waste of my folks' money.”

Clyde shook his head. “Those drawings are strong. They're damned good.”

Charlie shrugged. “I enjoy doing animals, but it's nothing that will make me a living.”

Clyde raised an eyebrow. “Don't put yourself down. Who told you that?”

“The fine arts department. My drawings—any animal drawings—are way too commercial, they have no real meaning. Just a waste of time.”

“But you took commercial art, too,” Clyde said. “You got a BS in both. So what did the commercial people say?”

Charlie gave him a twisted, humorless smile. “That there is no market for animal sketches, that this is not commercial art. That you have to use the computer, have to understand how to sell, have sales knowledge and a strong sense of layout. Have to be a real professional, understand the real world of advertising, bring yourself up into the electronic age. That this—drawing animals—is hobby work.”

“Rubbish,” Clyde said.

“Trouble is, I don't give a damn about commercial work.” She got another beer from the refrigerator and picked up the silver flatware that Wilma had dropped in the center of the table. As she folded the paper napkins neatly in half, she gave Clyde a long look. “They know what they're talking about. I can draw for my own pleasure, but as for making a living, right now my best bet is CHARLIE'S FIX-IT, CLEAN-IT. And I like that just fine.” She tossed back her hair and grinned. “I'm my
own boss, no one telling me what to do.” Reaching across the table, she arranged the silver at their three places and set the napkins around. At Clyde's angry look, she laughed. “My illustration instructor said I can draw kitties as a hobby.”

“Who the hell do they think they are?”

“They,” Wilma said, “are our rarefied and venerable art critics, those specially anointed among us with the intelligence to understand true art.”

Clyde made a rude noise.

Wilma studied Charlie. “I'll admit I didn't like your landscapes. But these—these are strong. More than strong, they're knowledgeable, very sure. Do you have more?”

“Some horses,” Charlie said. “Lots of cats, all my friends in San Francisco had cats. A dog or two.”

“Did you bring them with you?”

“They're in the storage locker with my cleaning stuff and tools.”

“Will you bring them home?” Wilma said patiently. “I'd like to see them all.”

Charlie shrugged and nodded. “The sketches of Dulcie are yours, if you want them.”

“You bet I want them. Dulcie will be…is immortalized,” Wilma stumbled. She caught Clyde's eye, and felt her face heating. “I'll take them down right away, to be framed.” She rose and began to fuss at the sink, her back to Charlie, and hastily began final preparations for dinner, again checking the roast, making sure the noodles were still warm.

She was going to have to be more careful what she said to Charlie, and in front of Charlie.

And, she'd have to get those drawings out of the house before Dulcie saw them. The little cat could be as careless as she. If Dulcie came on those drawings unprepared, she would be so pleased she'd very likely forget herself, let out a cry of astonishment and delight that, if Charlie heard her, would be difficult to explain.

It was poker night at the Blankenships'. Frances served an early supper of canned spaghetti and a limp salad, then hustled Mama off to bed. Returning to the kitchen, she made a stack of baloney and salami sandwiches, wiped the counters, and dutifully removed from the round kitchen table its collection of animal-shaped salt and pepper shakers, pig-shaped sugar bowl, the cream pitcher made in the image of a cow, and the potted fern. Varnie slapped a new unopened deck of cards and a rack of poker chips on the table, and checked the refrigerator to assess once again his stock of cold beer. Dulcie watched the preparations from a dark little space between the end of the stove and the kitchen wall.

But, crouching in the shadows, she was tempted to nip out the open laundry window or return to Mama's room before the kitchen filled up with boisterous jokes and cigarette smoke. She expected Frances would retire to her own secluded part of the house, to the pristine little lair at the back, which Dulcie had investigated just this morning.

When Frances had made a quick trip into the village for groceries, Dulcie had been able for the first time to inspect closely Frances's small office. Heretofore she had only looked in from the hall. Certainly the room was off-limits to both Mama and Varnie; neither seemed welcome there. This morning she had slipped in quickly,
padding across the bare wood floor, staring up at the unadorned white walls. The plain white desk was bare, except for Frances's computer. White desk chair, white worktable, low white file cabinets. No clutter anywhere. She could see nothing on any surface, certainly no china beastie or tatty fern plants. Leaping up onto the desk she paced its bare surface, brushing by the computer. And she could not resist the slick surface, it was perfect for tail chasing—she'd spun, snatching at her tail, whirling until she fell over the side, landing hard on the oak floor.

She tested the white leather typing chair, found it soft and inviting, and then atop the white filing cabinets she had investigated the copier. It was very like Wilma's copier at the library. Next to it stood a state-of-the art white telephone with answering machine and fax.

A fax still unnerved her. Though she had watched the library's fax, she couldn't get used to it spitting out pages suddenly without any apparent human input—as if the messages were generated by nothing living.

But she had felt that way about the telephone, at first, shivering with fear. As Joe pushed the headset off, punched in a number, and talked into the little perforated speaker, she had deeply distrusted the disembodied voice which answered him.

She felt easier with a copier. She had played with Wilma's copier, and that machine seemed to her more direct. You pressed a paw into the sand and created a pawprint. You put a page in the copier and got a copy. No invisible, offstage presences.

Even computers seemed more straightforward. You punch in CAT, you get CAT on the screen. She considered a computer to be a glorified typewriter—until you got into modems. Then the ghosts returned.

Frances had a modem; Dulcie had watched her from the doorway and knew that she received many pages via modem. These she edited, making changes, putting in appropriate punctuation, then sent the material away again to some mysterious, unnamed destination.

Mama, complaining that Frances neglected her for the computer, said Frances typed some kind of medical report. Mama had even less notion than Dulcie herself about the workings of a modem. And Dulcie had no idea whether Frances did this work to help support the household or to get away from the old woman. Maybe both. Whatever the reason, she spent a good part of the day in there. And who could blame her. Anything to get away from the oppressive clutter in the rest of the house—there was nowhere to go in this house that didn't make Dulcie herself feel trapped.

Last night, her second as a secret agent, in the old woman's lap she had waked in a panic of confinement, kicking and fighting, trying to free herself. In her dream, dark walls pressed in at her, threatening to crush her. She was with the white cat, pushing along beside him between damp, muddy walls that pressed in too close and dark, she was wild with fear; she woke with the old woman's hands pressing against her, trying to calm her. “Kitty? Oh, dear, what a dream you must have had. Were you chasing mice—or was a bad dog chasing you?”

She had leaped off the old woman's lap and raced away, totally frustrated.

She'd been with the Blankenships three days, waiting for some pearl of information about Janet's murder, and all she got was bad dreams and cuddled to death by Mama and yelled at by Varnie.

She'd made herself as accommodating to Mama as she could, obligingly eating string beans and mashed potatoes and even Jell-O, whatever the old woman saved from her own meals. She should feel flattered that Mrs. Blankenship put aside part of her supper despite Varnie's sarcastic comments.

Now, even the dark little space between the stove and wall was beginning to get to her, to give her the jitters. It was cramped, too warm, and smelled of grease. Peering out, she watched Varnie open a beer, stand
looking out the window, then prowl the kitchen, opening cupboards, maybe looking for additional snacks. She longed to be with Joe out on the cool hills, running free. The brightest moments in her day were when she leaped to Mama's window and looked across the street. If Joe was sitting in Janet's window watching for her, immediately she felt free again and loved, didn't feel like a prisoner anymore.

This morning when he saw her, he had stood up against the glass, his mouth open in a toothy laugh, then disappeared. In a moment he came slipping out beneath the burned door, grinned at her, and, assured that she was safe, trotted away up the hill to hunt, cocky and self-possessed. She had looked after him feeling painfully lonely. She didn't remind herself that this little visit with the Blankenships had been her own idea. And she'd been tempted to go hunt with him; there was nothing to prevent her. The first night, Frances had propped open a window in the laundry and slid back the screen, leaving a six-inch opening through which she could come and go. Frances hadn't done it out of thoughtfulness but was saving herself the trouble of letting the cat in and out, or of cleaning up a sand box.

But if she went to hunt with Joe, began nipping back and forth between the two houses, the old lady was going to get curious. And she would find it harder, each time, to return. No, she had come for information. She'd stay until she got it. When she went outdoors she remained close to the house, returning quickly. But by the third night she was ready to pitch a fit of boredom, wanted to claw the furniture and climb the drapes.

Yesterday, when she looked out Mama's window, she'd seen Charlie's van parked below Janet's, and seen Charlie kneeling beside the porch checking the cat bowls. Strangely, that made her lonely, too.

The crackle of cellophane and cardboard echoed in the kitchen as Varnie opened chips and pretzels. He snatched up a handful and began to munch. She stiffened
at the sound of footsteps on the back porch, then loud knocking. As Varnie headed for the door, she heard a dog bark.

She knew that bellowing. She slipped out from behind the stove and leaped to the counter, pressing against the window to look. Behind her, the two men's voices thundered in jocular greeting. Staring into the night, she couldn't see the dog, but she could smell him. It was the beast that had chased her and Joe, the dog with a mouth like a bear trap.

Looking across the street to Janet's, she couldn't see Joe at the window—the black glass was unbroken by the tomcat's white markings. She prayed he hadn't been outside when the dog came, prayed that he was safe.

“Get the hell down from there.” Varnie shoved her, knocked her off the counter, and she hit the linoleum with a thud, jarring all four paws. “Frances, get this cat out of here.”

She ran, fled into the hall. But when he turned his back she eased into the kitchen again and hid behind the stove. She didn't want to miss anything. Varnie might talk more to his friends than he did to Mama or Frances.

The two men popped open beers and sat at the table spraddle-legged, eating pretzels, obviously waiting for the rest of the group. She studied the newcomer with interest. Varnie called him Stamps. There was a James Stamps who worked for Charlie, and this guy fit Charlie's description, thin face, thin, round shoulders. Long sleazy brown hair and little, scraggly brown beard. Long, limp hands. And the same whiny voice that Charlie had mimicked.

The same sullen attitude, too. When he began to talk about his boss, he was not complimentary. Belching, stretching out his long skinny legs, he chomped a handful of pretzels. “Don't know how long I can keep that job.”

“What's so hard about it? It's a dumb-head job. You didn't blow it already?”

“Didn't blow it. Don't know how long I can stand that woman. Pick, pick, pick at a man. Redheaded women are so damn pushy, and who wants to work for a woman. This one is hard-nosed like you wouldn't believe—worse than my parole officer, and that guy is a real hard-ass.”

Stamps aimed a belch into his beer can; it echoed hollowly. “Never saw a woman didn't have a thing about getting to work right on the damn minute. And you don't dare think about leaving early. You come back from lunch two minutes late, they want you to work overtime—for straight pay. Make up every friggin' minute.”

Behind the stove, Dulcie smiled. Too bad she couldn't repeat Stamps's remarks to Charlie. Soon Stamps began talking about the trial.

“That art agent, the one that testified this morning. That's another hard-assed woman. She had a set of keys to that place, did you know that? Had keys to the woman's van, too.” Stamps settled back, tilting his chair, crossing his legs. “Made herself look bad, talking about those keys. But she don't know nothing. And the dead woman's sister, that Beverly Jeannot, they had her on the stand.”

“So?”

“So there's a lot of action there, all these people testifying. We better get on with it.”

“I told you, James. Cool it. We get greedy now, we end up with mud on our faces.”

“But that just don't make sense. Why would…?”

The dog began to bark. Roaring deep and wildly agitated, it sounded like something had disturbed it. She felt her fur stand up, her heart quicken. Where was Joe?

Stamps rose, swearing, and went outside. She wanted to bolt out behind him, but then she heard him scolding the beast. It sounded like it was still there on the porch. Stamps muttered something angry, then a low growl cut the night, followed by a surprised yelp. She was bunched to bolt through the open door when Stamps returned.

“Tied him to the porch rail. Don't know what he saw. Nothing out there now. He don't like that rope; he snapped at me.” Stamps laughed.

Dulcie settled back against the faintly warm stove.

Varnie said, “Should've tied him up the other time. Damn dog barking was what woke the old woman. Frances is still trying to make her go to the cops, and who can shut Frances up?”

“That's one more reason to get what we can, before those two women spill to the cops. Get it and get out. If we wait…”

“I said, no. You keep pushing, James, and you'll blow it.”

Stamps ducked his head, cleared his throat, and took a swig of beer. “What about the other?”

“That's all right. You still casing?”

“I don't see why I have to make notes. I can remember that stuff.”

“Make the notes. You can't remember your own name. Only way to get our timing right so we can hit all seven places the same morning. No one pays attention to the street in the morning, they're too busy getting to work, getting their kids on the bus, but we got to have the timing right or we blow it. Piece of cake, if you keep good notes. Let me see the list.”

“It's back in the room.”

“Very smart. So someone goes in there—the landlord.”

“They got no business in my room, I pay my rent. And those jerks wouldn't know what that paper is—but I got it all down, times people leave for work, everything. It's a damn bore, walking the dog there every morning.”

“Just keep doing it, James. And make sure you keep your mouth shut when Ed and Melvin get here.”

“What the hell. You think I…”

The dog barked again, then screamed a high yip—as if he had been scratched. This time when Stamps
pushed open the door Dulcie streaked out past him. Pausing in the shadows, she couldn't see Joe. But the dog was on the porch, it had got its rope wrapped around the post and around its ear—must pinch like hell. Stamps stood in the doorway, looking disgusted and yelling. And before she could slip back inside he turned away, slamming the door nearly in her face. She leaped back. The dog wasn't four feet from her, and, without warning, it lunged at her. She flew off the porch, running, terrified he'd break the rope.

She hit the street—and the dog hit the end of the rope. But he was jerked back—the rope held. He fought and roared as she bolted across, straight for Janet's door.

She met Joe coming out. He grinned and licked her ear. “I thought he had you. That's the dog that chased us, I can smell him clear over here.”

“It's James Stamps's dog, the Stamps who works for Charlie. He's the one who rented that room down the hill, the room behind the gray house.”

He glanced down the hill. “Interesting. What are they doing in there?”

“Big poker night.”

“What did you find out from the old lady? Come on in, supper's on.” He slid in under the door, and she followed. This was lovely, just the two of them. She'd missed him.

Inside, he grinned down at her from atop the kitchen counter. Leaping up beside him, she regarded his supper layout with amazement. He had a regular feast prepared. “Is this all for you?”

“It was until you got here. You don't think I'm entertaining other ladies?”

She didn't smell another cat in the house, only Joe. “You got the refrigerator open.”