Cat Raise the Dead

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  He looked at her uneasily.

  "So she makes me feel sad. So all right?"

  He widened his eyes, but said no more. They watched the old woman fold the gold dress into a neat little square, lift her baggy sweater, and tuck the folded garment underneath into a bag she wore against her slip. They watched, fascinated, as she searched the dresser drawers, lifting out necklaces and bracelets, stuffing them into the same bag, watched her tuck away two soft-looking sweaters, a gold tie clip, a gold belt, a tiny gold evening clutch. When she moved suddenly toward the window, coming straight at them, the cats ducked away, clinging against the wall. She flew at the open window uttering a string of hisses so violent, so like the cries of a maddened tomcat that their fur stood up. In feline language this was a grade-one kamikaze attack. This woman knew cats. This old woman knew how to communicate the most horrifying threat of feline violence, knew something deep and basic that struck straight at the heart of cat terrors, knew the deep secrets of their own murderous language. They stared at her for only an instant, then fled down the roof tiles and onto the Mercedes. Racing its length, they hit the ground running, heading straight uphill, past the white house, into a wilderness with bushes so thick that nothing could reach them.

  Crouching in the dark beneath jabbing tangled branches, they watched the old woman leave the house smiling, watched her slip away up the street looking as smug as if she had swallowed the canary.

  Dulcie shivered. "She scared the hell out of me." She licked her whiskers nervously. "Where did she learn to do that?"

  "Wherever, she's out of business now. As soon as we call Harper with the make on that blue Honda, it's bye-bye, cat burglar."

  But Dulcie's eyes grew huge, almost frightened. "Maybe we… She's just an old lady." She paused, began to fidget.

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Will the court… Do you think the court would go easy with her? She's so old."

  "She's not that old. Just frowsy. And what difference does it make? Old or young, she's a thief."

  He fixed a piercing yellow gaze on Dulcie. "This morning you were plenty hot to nail the old girl. You're the one who always wants to bring in the law. 'Call Harper, Joe. Give the facts to Captain Harper. Let the cops in on it.'

  "So why the sudden change? You're really getting soft."

  "But she's so… They wouldn't put her in jail for the rest of her life? How could they? To be locked up when you're old, maybe sick…"

  He narrowed his eyes at her.

  "Maybe we shouldn't tell Captain Harper. Maybe not just yet."

  "Dulcie…"

  "They wouldn't keep her in jail until she's feeble? Maybe in a wheelchair, like the old folks at Casa Capri?"

  "I have no idea what the court would do. I don't see what difference." He looked at her a long time, then turned his back and crept out of the bushes. Of course they were going to tell Harper.

  He heard Dulcie crawl out behind him. They crouched together, not speaking, looking down the hill where the blue Honda had driven away. Just below them, the little family was still planting their trees and bushes. Neither the two adults nor the children seemed to have any notion that their house had been burglarized. That made him smile in spite of himself. The old girl was pretty slick.

  But slick or not, she was still a thief.

  Dulcie didn't speak for a long time, but at last she gave him a sideways look. "I guess, with the number of burglaries that old lady has pulled off, and all the valuable things she's stolen, I guess maybe jail will be the last home she ever has."

  "Can it, Dulcie. Let it rest. One look at the old lady mooning over that glittery little dress, and you sell out."

  He looked her over. "Sisters under the skin, is that it? You and that old lady, two of a kind, two avaricious, thieving females."

  Her look was icy. "It was a lovely gold dress." Her green eyes stared him down, her glare as righteous as if he were the criminal.

  8

  Dulcie wasn't much into cars, but she had a keen eye for luxury. The sleek red convertible that slipped by, moving like a whisper down the westbound lane of Ocean, left her gawking, her green eyes wide. The tip of her pink tongue came out, ears and whiskers thrust forward, and she took a little step along the sidewalk, twitching her tail, staring after the car's beautifully molded rear and sleek black convertible top.

  "It's a Bentley Azure," Joe whispered against her ear He twitched a whisker and pretended to lick his paw; there were people around them on the sidewalk, pedestrians, shoppers. "To quote the publicity, 'the newest, fastest model in the Rolls Royce line' "

  They watched it turn at the corner and head back up the eastbound lane of Ocean. Joe's yellow eyes widened. "That's Clyde driving. Clyde. Driving that silky beauty. Look at him tooling along-as if he owned the world." Passing them, Clyde turned into the covered drive of the automotive shop, beneath the wide tile roof of the Mediterranean building that housed Beckwhite's Foreign Car agency.

  Near the cats, several pedestrians had paused, gawking, as the lovely red car slid by. Joe ducked his head, pretending to nibble another flea. "That color's called pearl red. That's Adelina Prior's new car. Three hundred and forty thousand bucks, paid for by the old folks up at Casa Capri."

  Dulcie's eyes blazed in disbelief.

  He gave her a narrow leer. "You hadn't thought of that, had you? You don't know anything about how rich Adelina Prior is. That car just arrived from the factory. White leather upholstery, CD changer, inlaid walnut dash, a bar in the back, the works. Clyde was supposed to install her phone; that's probably why he has it." He led her toward the shop, adroitly dodging pedestrians, then, crossing Ocean, dodging slow-moving cars.

  But as they trotted into the covered drive, a Molena Point police car turned in, parking just behind Clyde. The static of the police radio made their ears twitch.

  Max Harper stepped out of his patrol unit, leaned into the Bentley's open window. Neither man saw the cats. The engine of the red Bentley Azure idled as softly and luxuriously as the purr of a jungle cat.

  "Nice wheels," Max said. The police captain's scent drifted to them pleasantly on the little breeze that sucked in through the open drive. He smelled of horses and cigarettes, with a hint of gun oil. His thin hands, resting on the car door, were as gnarled and dark as Clyde's old hiking boots.

  "Adelina Prior's." Clyde leaned back into the soft upholstery and grinned, stroked the steering wheel. Harper looked the car over, took out a pack of cigarettes, then changed his mind and put them back in his pocket. As if he didn't want to smoke up that pristine beauty. His thin, lined face was drawn into a scowl. "Got another line on that green truck that hit Susan Dorriss. Not much. And not much chance it'll show up here, but thought I'd pass the word.

  "Man came in the station yesterday. Seems our last newspaper article jogged his memory; he recalled an old green truck cruising the hills about the time Susan was hit, says he saw it three times that week, up around his place." Harper nodded vaguely toward the hillside residences. "Green step-side. He thought it was a Chevy but wasn't sure, didn't know what year, didn't get a plate number.

  "Didn't know it was important until he read yesterday's paper. He was out of town when Susan's car was hit, and he didn't see the original newspaper story."

  Again he took out a cigarette, slipping it from the pack in his pocket in an automatic reflex. He started to tamp it on the door of the Bentley, then put it back again. "Why the hell does an accident like that happen to someone like Susan?"

  Clyde turned off the Bentley's engine. "I'll watch for the truck, though not likely we'll see it at Beckwhite's. Green. A step-side. Not much to go on."

  Harper nodded. "Likely it's down in L.A. by now with a new paint job, new plates, or it's been junked."

  "And no idea of the year?"

  "None. And Susan only got a glimpse before it hit her. She thought it was American-made, a full-sized pickup, not new. Faded green paint, and with fenders, she thought. Those models can fool you,
can look older than they are."

  Harper eased his weight, as if perhaps his regulation shoes were uncomfortable. "I hate a hit-and-run, that was too damn bad. Susan's a really nice woman; she used to walk that big poodle all over the village- before that guy put her in a wheelchair. You'd see her go by the station, Susan and the dog swinging along happy as a couple of kids.

  "Tell you one thing," Harper said. "That daughter of Susan's isn't going to give it up. One way or another, Bonnie Dorriss means to nail the guy that busted up her mother." He managed a lean, leathery smile. "Bonnie's really on my back, calls in every couple of days. Have we got anything new? Just what are we doing?"

  He glanced up, saw Joe and Dulcie sitting in the wide doorway to the automotive shop. "You're bringing your cat to work?" He raised an eyebrow. "I'd think you'd keep him out of here, after he nearly got himself blown into fish bait."

  Joe and Dulcie glanced at each other, and Joe watched Harper carefully. Max Harper never could figure out why his old beer-drinking buddy, his ex-rodeoing buddy, was so dotty about a cat. And he knew he made Harper nervous; twice this past year he and Dulcie had upset the police captain pretty badly.

  Though whatever suspicions might needle Harper, they could be no more than suspicions.

  Highly amused, laughing inside, he gave Harper a blank and stupid gaze. He loved goading Max Harper. On poker nights he always tried to have some new little routine, some subtle new irritant to taunt the captain- not because he disliked him, only because he enjoyed Harper's stern discomfiture.

  And what difference, if Harper was suspicious? No matter what he might suspect, if Max Harper breathed a word about intelligent cats, about crime-solving cats, to his fellow officers, he'd be off the force quicker than he could spit.

  Dulcie nudged Joe, and he came alert, saw Clyde's meaningful look, realized he must have been staring too hard at Harper, maybe smirking. Clyde's look said, watch yourself, buddy. And to distract Joe, Clyde leaned over and opened the passenger door of the Bentley.

  "Come on, cats. Come on, kitty kitty," Clyde said sarcastically.

  Glancing at each other, they lowered their eyes demurely and trotted around the front of the Bentley. Stood staring up through the open door as Clyde carefully arranged his clean white lab coat across the front seat. When he had suitably covered the creamy leather, he shouted, "Come on, dammit." And they jumped up onto the coat, the three of them playing the master-and-cat game perfectly for Harper's benefit.

  "You two make one claw dent, you leave one cat hair anywhere near this upholstery, and you're dog meat. Two little portions of Ken-L Ration."

  Harper observed this little tableau with only the faintest change of expression on his long, cheerless face. Whatever he was thinking didn't show.

  Clyde patted Joe roughly, and grinned at Max. "I volunteered the cat to Bonnie Dorriss for that Pet-a-Pet group she's organized, to visit up at Casa Capri."

  Harper raised an eyebrow, but nodded. "She started the project for her mother, only way she could think of, to take the poodle up there. Thinks the dog'll cheer Susan, help her recover. Susan loves that big poodle."

  "Bonnie told me the plan; she's sure the dog can help Susan get through the pain of the therapy, keep her spirits up while she heals." Clyde ruffled Joe's fur in an irritating manner. "Bonnie wanted some cats in the group, so why not? Let the little beggar work for a living."

  Beneath Clyde's stroking hand, Joe held very still, trying to control his rage. Clyde could be a real pain. Let the little beggar work for a living. Just wait until they were alone.

  Pulling away from Clyde's stroking hand, turning his back, he pictured several interesting moves he might pursue to put Clyde Damen in his place.

  Harper said, "I can't believe she'd take cats up there. A dog, sure. You can train a dog, make him mind. But a cat? Those cats will be all over; you can't control a cat.

  "But hey, maybe a few cats careening around will give those old folks a little excitement, anything to break the boredom." Harper frowned. "When old people get bored, they can turn strange. We've had some real nut calls from up there."

  "Oh?" Clyde said with interest. "What kind of nut calls?"

  Harper shifted his lean body. "Imagining things. One old doll calls every few months to tell us that some of the patients are missing, that her friends have disappeared."

  Clyde settled back, listening.

  "When someone gets sick, Casa Capri moves them from the regular Care Unit over to Nursing. More staff over there, nurses who can keep them on IVs or whatever's needed. They don't encourage people from Care to visit the patients in Nursing, don't want folks whipping in and out. I can understand that.

  "So this old woman keeps calling to say they won't let her see her friends, that her friends have disappeared. She got on my case so bad that finally I sent Brennan up to have a look around, ease her mind."

  Harper grinned. "The missing people were all there, their names on the doors, the patients in their beds. Brennan knew a couple of them from years ago. Said they were pretty shriveled up with age."

  He shook his head. "I guess that place takes as good care of them as you'd find. But poor Mrs. Rose, she can't understand. Every time she calls, she's bawling."

  "Damned hard to get old," Clyde said.

  Harper nodded. "Hope I go quick when the time comes." He ducked a little, for a better look at the interior of the Bentley, at the soft white leather, at the tasteful and gleaming accessories and the sleekly inlaid dash. "How much did this baby set Adelina back?"

  "Three and a half big ones," Clyde said. "Poker this week?"

  "Sure, if we don't have a triple murder." Harper glanced at the cats lying sedately on Clyde's lab coat, shook his head, and swung away to his police unit. Stepping in, he raised a hand and backed out. Within thirty minutes of Max Harper's departure, Joe and Dulcie were taking their first, and probably only, ride in Adelina Prior's pearl red, $340,000 Bentley Azure convertible. Heading up into the hills, sitting in the front seat like celebrities, Dulcie sniffed delicately at the inlaid wood dashboard, but she didn't let her pink nose touch that maple-and-walnut work of art. Carried along in that soft, humming, powerful palace of luxury, she felt as smug as if she were dining at the finest hotel, on a silver bowl of canaries prepared in cream.

  Heading high up the hills toward the Prior estate, Clyde slowed as he passed Casa Capri. Following him at some distance was his own antique Packard, driven by his head mechanic. That quiet man had made no comment about Clyde giving two cats a joyride. Clyde was, his employees knew too well, touchy about the tomcat.

  As they passed Casa Capri, Joe asked, "Did Harper mention anything more about the cat burglar?"

  "Matter of fact, he did. He thinks she's moving on up the coast. She's started working Half Moon Bay."

  "Really," Joe said, and shrugged. "Well she ripped off another Molena Point house just this morning."

  Clyde turned to stare at him, swerving the Bentley. But at his touch the car responded like a thoroughbred, righting herself with superb balance. "How do you know she ripped off another house? What did you do, follow her?"

  Joe looked innocent.

  "Can't you two stay out of anything?"

  Joe said, "She lifted a gold lame dress and some jewelry from that new two-story Mediterranean house up above Cypress."

  "Harper'll be thrilled that his favorite snitch is on the case again. I suppose you got a make on her car."

  "Not a thing," Dulcie said quickly. "Didn't see the car. But the gold lame dress was lovely."

  Joe gave her a narrow look. He didn't like this; Dulcie had turned completely sentimental about the old woman. He didn't like this soft, sentimental side of his lady. What had happened to his ruthless hunting partner?

  Clyde turned into a wide, oak-shaded drive. No house was visible; the curving lane led up over the crest of the hill. They drove for some time through the deep, cool shade beneath the overhanging branches of a double line of ancient oaks, then the drive mad
e a last turn, and the house appeared suddenly, just on the crest of the hill. The two-story Mediterranean mansion was sheltered by oaks so huge they must have been here long before the house was built. The cats could see, far back behind the house, what appeared to be a much older structure.

  The Prior house was two-storied, its thick white walls shadowed beneath deep eaves and beneath a roof of heavy, red clay tiles laid in curved rows. The front door was deeply carved, the main floor windows had beautifully wrought burglar bars, and each upstairs bedroom had French doors standing open to a private balcony.

  "Five acres," Clyde said. "All that land back behind belongs to Adelina, and this is just the tiny remainder of the old land grant. Worth several million per acre now, plus the house and the original farmhouse and stables.

  "This house was built in the thirties, but the estate goes back to the early eighteen hundreds. It belonged to the Trocano family, was a Spanish land grant. All the hills, every bit of land you can see, was Trocano land, thousands of acres. The buildings behind the house date from then."

  Dulcie tried to imagine the distance in years, back to the early part of the last century. Tried to imagine Molena Point without houses, just miles of rolling hills and a few scattered ranches, imagine longhorns roaming, wolves and grizzly bears, where now she and Joe hunted the tiniest game. The terrible distance in time and the incredible changes made her head reel.

  The grounds of the Prior estate were well tended, the lawn thick and very green. To the left of the old original house lay a wood, and they could see dark old tombstones between the trees.

  "Family burial plot," Clyde said, "from when families were laid to rest on their own land." He parked the Bentley just opposite the front door. The cats could smell jasmine flowers, and the rich aroma of meat and chilies from somewhere deep within the house. Clyde picked up the two of them unceremoniously, carried them to the Packard, and deposited them in the backseat.

  But on that brief journey as she was carried, Dulcie took in every possible detail she could see through the broad front windows of the house, a glimpse of library with walls of leather-bound books; pale, heavy draperies; the gleam of antique furniture; oriental rugs on polished floors. Dulcie's green eyes shone with interest, her pink tongue tipped out, her dark, striped tail twitched.