Anyway what choice did he have? What else could he do when Dulcie flashed those big green eyes at him, and extended her soft little paw? Might as well relax and enjoy an evening of burglary. What harm-what could go wrong? What could happen?
17
High above the alley, as Dulcie crouched to leap, the oak branch shivered beneath her tensed paws. She gathered herself, staring across to the narrow brick sill of the courthouse window. She sprang suddenly, flying across-hit the sill, scattering pigeons, driving them up in an explosion of thundering wings.
But even as she clung, steadying herself by pressing against the glass, they circled back, dropping down again into the oak, the bravest ones returning to the ledge to strut and eye her sideways with simpleminded bravado. If she hadn't been otherwise engaged, she would have had one for a little snack.
Hunched on the narrow sill, she peered down into the courtroom, wondering why the windows were closed, why the room below was dark. No lights burned, the long rows of mahogany benches were empty, the jury box abandoned, the judge's big leather chair deserted, the shadowed courtroom as lifeless as a time capsule sealed away to be opened a thousand years hence. Surely they hadn't concluded the case. Visions of Rob Lake being pronounced guilty and sentenced filled her with panic.
But it was too soon for a verdict, there were still witnesses to be called. There had been no time for a summing up, not nearly enough time for the jury to deliberate. Puzzled, she turned away, leaped back into the oak tree, sending the mindless birds scattering.
She sat among the branches, licking pigeon soil from her paws. In her haste she'd forgotten the hand towel, had left it stuffed high in the tree among the smallest twigs. She had to know why court was closed.
Maybe the Gazette was out early. Maybe it would tell her. Sometimes, when there was an unusual event, the evening edition hit the streets around midday. She gave her paws a last disgusted lick, backed down the rough trunk, and headed for the post office, where the nearest paper rack stood chained to a lamppost.
At least she had delivered the list, had deposited her copy of Stamps's itinerary safely at police headquarters. She hoped it was safe. She'd thought of faxing it to Captain Harper, a safe and direct route, but she'd have to use the library fax when no one was watching, a feat nearly impossible. Besides, the fax still unnerved her.
The Molena Point Police Station occupied the southern wing of the courthouse just across the alley from the jail, from Rob Lake's cell. The station's main entrance opened onto Lincoln Street. A second door, inside the police squad room, opened directly into the courthouse. At the back of the building a third entrance, a locked metal door, led to the police parking lot.
She had arrived long after the change of shift. The fenced parking lot was full of officers' personal cars and a few squad cars, but there was no one about, no officer passing through the lot, no pedestrian in sight at that moment. The brick wall of the jail, across the alley, was blank except for very high windows. No prisoner could see out. Certain that no one was watching, she had tucked the list under the metal door, praying that some officer, coming out, wouldn't let it blow away.
Now, leaving the courthouse, she glanced down the alley to the back of the station, looking for the little white folded paper. She couldn't see it beneath the door. Maybe Harper already had it. She had started over to take a look when a squad car pulled in.
Hurrying on by, she left the court building heading for the post office news rack. Trotting around to Dolores Street, she sprinted north a block, galloping up the warm sidewalk. The day smelled of green gardens and the sea; the shop windows were bright with their expensive wares; the gallery windows brilliant with an assortment of painting styles. Next to the post office, the Swiss House smelled of sweet rolls and freshly brewed coffee. Pink petunias bloomed beside its door, in ceramic pots. She sniffed at the flowers as she passed, approaching the news rack.
But the rack was empty-no early paper. Strange that the court postponement hadn't generated enough excitement for the Gazette to make an extra effort. And even if, at home, she were to push the buttons on the TV, there'd be no news this time of day, only the soaps, every channel busy with degrading human melodramas written by disturbed mental patients.
But at least at home there would be something nice to eat while she waited for the paper. Wilma always left a plate for her in the refrigerator. She hadn't had a bite since breakfast with Mama, a disgusting mess of oatmeal, and then that nibble of peach turnover-more peach on her ear than in her stomach. Breaking into a run, swerving around pedestrians, she nearly collided with an old man and an elderly dog wandering along in the sunshine; then, turning the corner, she was almost creamed by a fast-moving bike. She jumped back just in time as its rider swerved, shouting at her. But soon she turned up her own stone walk between Wilma's flower beds. Slipping in through her cat door, she made a round of the house to be sure she was alone. Charlie could be unusually quiet sometimes, not a whisper of sound, not a vibe of her presence.
No one home, the rooms were still and empty. But trotting back through the dining room she caught the scent of Charlie's drawing materials. Maybe she'd left her sketch box on the table.
In the kitchen, crouched on the counter, the instant she forced the refrigerator open she smelled fresh crab. Leaping down before the door could shut, she snatched the plastic plate in her teeth, set it on the little rug.
Beneath the clear wrap, the soft plastic plate held a generous portion of fresh white crabmeat arranged beside a small cheese biscuit of her favorite brand, and an ounce of Jolly's special vegetable aspic, heavy on asparagus just the way she liked it. For desert Wilma had included a small plastic cup of Jolly's homemade egg custard. She ate slowly, enjoying each small bite, puzzling over why Judge Wesley would have recessed court.
Maybe Mama Blankenship had gone to the police, maybe the recess was until they could arrange for her testimony. Maybe what Mama told the police had been important enough to put a whole new face on the trial. Musing over that possibility, she finished her main course, licked her plate clean, and licked the last morsel of crab off her whiskers. As she started on her custard, she knew she had to call Captain Harper, that she wouldn't rest until she was sure he had the list. Why was she so shy of the phone? It couldn't be that hard. Just knock the phone off its cradle and punch in the number.
Finishing her custard, she headed for the living room, for the phone. But crossing the dining room she was aware once more of the scent that didn't belong in that room, the sketching smell-charcoal, eraser crumbs, fixative.
Wilma's guest room had taken on Charlie's personality, overflowing with Charlie's personal tastes and passions, her sketch pads, her easel, her hinged oak sketch box, and a larger oak painting box. Drawings stood propped against the furniture and the walls, stacks of art books crowded every surface and were stacked on the floor. This clutter was a product of Charlie's deep interests, very different from the dead, dormant clutter of the Blankenship house. Charlie Getz might have left the art world to make a living, but her heart hadn't left it.
Now in the dining room, smelling Charlie's drawings, Dulcie reared up to sniff at the buffet, then leaped up.
Landing on the polished surface she slammed hard into a large drawing, nearly knocked it off where it leaned against the wall. Backing away, she paused, balanced on the edge of the buffet.
There were three drawings. Her heart raced. They were of her. Life-size portraits so bold and real that she seemed ready to step right off the page.
The studies were done with charcoal on white paper, and neatly matted with pebbly white board. When had Charlie done these? She hadn't seen Charlie drawing her. She leaped away to the dining table to get a longer view. Looking across at the drawings, she could almost be looking into a mirror, except that these reflections were far more exciting than any mirror image. Charlie's flattery made her giddy. Her tail began to lash, her skin rippled with excitement.
She'd had no notion Charlie was drawing
her. And who had known Charlie could draw like this? What is Charlie doing cleaning houses and grubbing out roof gutters, with this kind of talent?
She did a little tail chase on the dining room table, spinning in circles, and for a moment she let ego swamp her, she imagined these images of herself hanging in galleries or museums, saw herself in those full-color glossy art magazines, the kind the library displayed on a special rack. She saw newspaper reviews of Charlie's work in which the beauty of Charlie's feline model was remarked upon. But then, amused at her own vanity, she jumped down and headed for the living room. Her mind was still filled with Charlie's powerful art work, but she had to take care of unfinished business.
Leaping to Wilma's desk, she attacked the phone. Joe did this stuff all the time. Lifting a paw, she knocked the headset off.
The little buzz unnerved her. She backed away, then approached again and punched in the police number. But as she waited for the dispatcher to answer she grew shaky, her paws began to sweat. She was about to press the disconnect when a crisp female voice answered, a voice obviously used to quick response.
Her own voice was so unsteady she could hardly ask for Harper. She waited, shivering, for him to come on the line. She waited a long time; he wasn't coming. She'd sounded too strange to the dispatcher; maybe the woman drought her call was some kind of hoax. She was easing away to leap off the desk, abandon the phone, when Harper answered.
When she explained to him about the list which she had tucked under the back door, Harper said he already had it. She told Harper the list had been made by James Stamps, under the direction of Varnie Blankenship, and she gave both men's addresses, not by street number, which she hadn't even thought to look at, but by the street names and by descriptions of the two houses, the ugly brown Blankenship house, and the old gray cottage with the addition at the back.
She told Harper that Stamps walked his dog every morning, watching when people left for work, when children left for school. She said she didn't know when the two men planned the burglaries, that she knew no more than was on the list. Except that Stamps was on parole. This interested Harper considerably. He asked whether it was state or federal parole, but she didn't know. He asked if she was a friend of Stamps, and how she had gotten her information. She panicked then, reached out her paw ready to press the disconnect button.
But after a moment, she said, "I can't tell you that. Only that they're planning seven burglaries, Captain Harper. I thought-I supposed you'd need witnesses, maybe a stakeout."
She'd watched enough TV to know that if Harper didn't have eyewitnesses, or serial numbers for the stolen items, his men couldn't search Stamps's room and Varnie's house. Even if the stolen items were there, she didn't think the police could get inside without probable cause.
She knew it was expecting a lot to imagine that Harper would set up a stakeout every morning until the burglaries were committed, that he would do that guided only by the word of an unfamiliar informant. Her heart was thudding, she was afraid she'd blown this. "Those are expensive homes, up there. It would be terrible, all of them broken into in one morning. I don't know what vehicle they'll use, but maybe the old truck in Varnie's garage. It would carry a lot." She was so shaky she didn't wait for him to respond. In a sudden panic she pressed the disconnect and sat staring at the headset as the dial tone resumed.
Then, embarrassed, she leaped to the couch and curled up tight on her blue afghan. I blew it. Absolutely blew it. Harper won't pay any attention. I didn't half convince him. She thought about what she could have said differently. Thought about calling him back She did nothing; she only huddled miserably, disappointed in herself.
How was she going to tell Joe that she had failed, that she hadn't convinced Harper, that she couldn't even use the phone without panicking?
She wasn't like this when she hunted; Joe said she was fearless. It was that disembodied voice coming through the wire that put her off. Feeling stupid and inept, she squeezed her eyes closed and tucked her nose under her paw.
She slept deeply, and soon the dream pulled her in, spun her away into that world where the white cat waited.
He stood high above her on the crest of the hills. He beckoned, flicking his tail. And this time he didn't vanish; he turned and trotted away, and she followed. High up the hills, where the grass blew wild, he turned again to face her, his blue eyes burning bright as summer sky. Above him rose three miniature hills. Two were rounded, the third was sliced off along one side, sharp as if a knife had cut down through it. The white cat stood imperiously before it, his eyes glowing with a fierce light.
But as she approached him, a damp chill crept beneath her paws. She was suddenly in darkness, felt cold mud oozing beneath her paws, sour-smelling. They were in a cave or tunnel-blackness closed around them, and a heavy weight pressed in.
A thud jerked her from sleep. She leaped up in terror that the walls had collapsed on her.
But the dark walls were gone, and she was in her own living room, standing on her own blue afghan.
Glancing up at the windows, at the change of light, she realized she had slept for hours. She yawned, made a halfhearted attempt to wash. She felt lost, groggy. It was hard to wake fully. She thought the noise she'd heard might have been the evening Gazette hitting the curb.
Trying to collect herself, she trotted into the kitchen.
Pushing under the plastic flap of her cat door, she saw the paper out on the curb. Trotting down the steps, fetching the Gazette from among the flowers, she dragged it back, bumping up the short stair, and pulled it endwise through her cat door. And why would any neighbor find her actions strange? She had always carried things home, had stolen clothes from everyone in the neighborhood at one time or another, had stolen not only from their houses but from their porches and their clotheslines and their open cars.
Dragging the paper into the living room, onto the thick rag rug, she nosed it open to the front page. She read quickly; her tail began to lash.
SURPRISE WITNESS IN LAKE TRIAL
Observers predict that new evidence which has come to light in the trial of Rob Lake may be so important that Judge Wesley will call a new trial. A new and unidentified witness is scheduled to testify this week. Neither defense attorney Deonne Baron nor the county attorney would release the witness's name. Neither would speculate as to the nature of the impending testimony. Ms. Baron was not available for comment…
Dulcie rolled over, laughing. Mama did it, that old lady did it. Mama really came through-even if she was scared into testifying by the sudden interference of attorney Joe Grey.
She wondered if Joe had seen the paper.
The article speculated endlessly about the identity of the new witness, and recapped old facts just to make copy. A blurred photo of Rob Lake and a larger picture of Janet took up half the page.
Maybe I blew it with Harper, but we pulled this off. And maybe-maybe Mama's testimony can free Rob.
And maybe after tonight there would be more evidence, maybe there would be forty-six of Janet's paintings for evidence.
Carefully she folded the paper, carried it back through the kitchen, and pushed it out her cat door. She didn't want Charlie to come home before Wilma and wonder how the evening paper got in the house. Quickly dragging it across the garden, she left it at the curb, then slipped back inside, and cuddled up again on her afghan. She'd just have another little nap, then go to meet Joe. Mama did it. Hope she doesn't change her mind, get cold feet at the last minute. And she closed her eyes, smiling.
18
Moonlight touched Jolly's alley; a little breeze fingered between the small shops, stirring leafy shadows; the potted trees shivered; the glow from a wrought-iron lamp mingled with moonlight washing across the many-paned shop windows, brightening the rainbow colors of a stained-glass door. The brick paving was warm beneath the cats' hurrying paws.
Intent on their destination, neither cat spoke. Dulcie was all nerves. Joe was edgy with a need to run-to climb-to fight. They found
it hard to stay focused, their spirits, their cat souls, wanted to be elsewhere. This was not a good night for measured discipline. The windy moonlight pulled at them, sought mightily to draw them away. They were filled with ancient hungers, with the moon's wild power, with mysteries surfacing from a vanished past.
Just as the hills above them, so ordinary in daylight, changed under the moon to dangerous veldts and tangled black jungles, so the cats' souls were changed. Ancient yearnings rode with them, drawing them like addicts toward lost times where medieval shadows fled.
Dulcie glanced at Joe and shuttered her eyes, trying to keep her thoughts on their mission. Slowing her pace, she padded demurely beside him. Leaving the alley, turning up the sidewalk, they put on civilized faces. Bland, kitty faces. With effort they returned to the domestic, became simple wandering pets, idle, dawdling.
Curving gently around planters and benches, duly sniffing at the shop walls, they stopped to investigate a bit of paper dropped at the curb. They scented mindlessly along a row of flowerpots. They meandered, working their way aimlessly in the direction of the Aronson Gallery, pretending vague inattention-but watching intently the gallery's broad bay windows and glass door. The Aronson, occupying a quarter square block, was the most prestigious of Molena Point's fifty galleries.
At the curb opposite the wide, low windows, Joe nosed at one of four huge ceramic pots planted with pink flowering oleander trees. Leaping up, he stretched out on the warm, potted earth; below him, Dulcie rolled on the sidewalk, both cats feigning empty-minded boredom as they studied the brightly lit interior, a montage of angled white walls and jagged, multicolored reflections more familiar to Dulcie than to Joe. A medley of colliding surfaces as intricate as the interior of a kaleidoscope, its maze of short, angled walls provided dozens of pristine white recesses flowing from one to another. Each niche accommodated a single painting, much as a jeweler displays one perfect emerald or ruby on a bed of velvet. The viewer could see each canvas or watercolor in isolation, yet had only to turn, perhaps take a step, to be immersed in the next offering. The snowy spaces blended so smoothly that gallery patrons seemed to wander in an open and airy world, surprised at each turn by a new and bright vista.
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