Dillon Thurwell, that was the kid's name. Who would name a female child Dillon? Her black hair hung stringy and straight beneath her baseball cap. Her dark eyes were huge. She began to scratch behind his ear, but kept staring ahead expectantly as if she, too, could hardly wait to get to Casa Capri, all set for a fun afternoon.
She was dressed in jeans and one of those T-shirts that made a statement, a shirt she had obviously selected as appropriate for the occasion. Across her chest four cats approached the viewer, and on the back of the shirt, which he'd seen as she came around the car to get in, was a rear view of the same four cats walking away, as if they were stepping invisibly through the wearer's chest, their tails high, and, of course, all their fascinating equipment in plain sight.
Abandoning his ear, she began to scratch his cheek just behind his whiskers. Couldn't the little brat leave him alone? He was doing his best to be civil. It was enough that he had condescended to sit on her lap-and that only after dour looks from Dulcie and Wilma. Under her insistent scratching, he shook his head and got up, pressing his hard paws into her legs, and resettled himself dourly on her bony knees. He hated when people touched his whiskers.
But then she found that nice itchy place by his mouth, and she scratched harder, and that did feel good. Slowly, unable to help himself, he leaned his head into her hand, purring.
Wilma glanced down at the child, gave her a long look. "What made you dye your hair, Dillon? What's that all about?"
Dillon shrugged.
"I always envied your red hair; I hardly knew you today. What did your folks say?"
"Mama said I might as well get it out of my system- I cried until she had to say something." Dillon grinned. "It'll grow back, it'll be red again. I just wanted to try it."
Wilma stopped at a red light, pushed back a strand of her long gray hair, and refastened the silver clip that held it. Then, moving on with the traffic, she turned up Ocean toward the hills, following the little line of vehicles, a cortege of five cars and a white Chevy van, headed for Casa Capri.
"Come on, Dillon, what's the rest of the story?"
"What story? I don't know what you mean." The kid was cheeky, for being only twelve.
Wilma sighed. "Why change your looks the day before you join Pet-a-Pet? What's the deal here?" Wilma Getz wasn't easily taken in; she hadn't spent her professional life listening to the lies of parolees without gaining some degree of healthy skepticism.
"I just wanted to try it," Dillon repeated. "I wanted to do it now during spring break, so I can go back to school looking different. So I can get used to my new look before the kids see it." The kid was, Joe felt, talking too much. "How could my hair have anything to do with Pet-a-Pet? My friend Karen has black hair, and she's so beautiful." Her little oval face was bland as cream, her brown eyes shone wide and honest.
Wilma shrugged and gave it up, said nothing more.
Joe figured that dyeing her hair was just a stupid kid tiling, but he did wonder why Dillon had joined Pet-a-Pet. What twelve-year-old would elect to spend spring break making nice to a room full of geriatric couch potatoes? She ought to be biking or swimming or playing ball.
He knew that Dillon Thurwell was a favorite of Wilma's. Dulcie said she'd been going to the library ever since she could toddle, and when she asked to join Pet-a-Pet, Wilma was delighted. Never mind that the kid didn't have a dog or cat; she could be in charge of Clyde Damen's gray tomcat. Don't ask him, just appoint the kid surrogate cat handler for yours truly, just plan his life for him.
The little entourage of cars trundled along up a steep, narrow side street like a third-rate funeral procession, and turned into a long, private drive. Ahead, on the crest of the hill, Casa Capri sprawled in Mediterranean splendor, a one-story villa as imposing as a Spanish monastery, pale walls and red-tile roofs all shadowed beneath the requisite oak trees, its deep-set windows guarded by handsome wrought-iron grilles, their intricate curlicues designed to prevent illicit entry. Or maybe illicit escape?
On beyond the buildings, up along the hills, ran a narrow street, but there were no houses near, just the round green hills dotted with old sprawling trees. To Joe's left rose an oak wood, a little private park. He could see a path winding through it among beds of ferns, and he imagined the frail residents taking little walks there, in the cool shade, accompanied by attending nurses.
They parked at the beginning of a circular drive, and Dillon disembarked, clutching him tightly against her kitty T-shirt, holding the nape of his neck in her fist in a maneuver designed to prevent him from running away, a technique she had undoubtedly learned from some book on cat care. The full instructions would direct the handler to grip the nape of the neck firmly in one hand, grip the base of the tail in the other hand, and carry kitty away from one's body to avoid being scratched. If Dillon went that far, she'd find herself dangling two bloody stumps.
Dulcie rode limply over Wilma's shoulder, all sweetness and smiles, looking ahead to Casa Capri, her green eyes glowing with anticipation. All ready for a fun afternoon frolicking with the cat-loving elderly. Their party was made up of fourteen humans and the same number of household pets, a remarkable assortment of dogs, mostly tiny, and cats-in-arms. One small woman toted a plastic cat carrier with air holes, through which two enraged blue eyes glowered.
In the center of the circular drive was a raised fish pond with a little cupped birdbath at one side, and burbling fountain in the center, a little oasis for our aquatic and avian friends. A flock of sparrows and finches rose lazily away, birds perhaps fed by the residents until they had lost all fear of other creatures. Joe looked after them hungrily. This would be a prime hunting preserve if he could ditch the Pet-a-Pet crowd.
Flanking the walk and drive, regiments of stiff bird-of-paradise plants grew, their dark leaves thrusting up like swords, their red and orange bird heads turned stiffly to observe new arrivals. The walk was mosaicked with tiny stones set in a curving pattern, rising in three steps to a wide landing. The double doors were dark and ornately carved. The resemblance of Casa Capri to the Prior estate in architectural style, even to the doors themselves and the window grilles, led one to conclude that Adelina had ordered the plans and the architectural accessories at a two-for-one sale.
To his left, through long French windows, Joe could see white-clothed tables set with glasses and flatware, as if the help liked to get an early start on the evening meal. To his right, within the nearest window, he glimpsed a window seat scattered with a tangle of bright pillows. Dillon let go of his neck but continued to hug him, pressing him to her like a cuddly toy until he growled at her.
She cut her eyes at him, but loosened her grip only enough to let him breathe.
The group's leader, Bonnie Dorriss, stood above them on the steps, smiling down as if she were a schoolteacher waiting for a gaggle of five-year-olds to gather. Her short sandy hair was the same color as the freckles which spattered her nose and cheeks. Her stocky figure was encased in tight, ragged jeans and a faded green sweatshirt. But she wore a good stout pair of Rockports.
Joe looked around him at their motley group of four-legged recruits, the little lapdogs fluffy and shivering and as useless as whiskers on a toad. But there were two big dogs as well; and the sappy-faced golden retriever looked so much like Barney, with that big silly smile, that Joe felt a lump in his belly the size of a basketball.
Clyde had brought Barney home that morning, had got him settled on his blanket on the bottom bunk of the two-tier dog and cat bed in the laundry room. Barney had seemed glad to be home, but the outlook wasn't good. The problem was his liver. He was on medication; Clyde had come home again at noon to give him his pills and try to get him to drink; all morning, Barney hadn't moved from the bunk.
Joe had hated to leave him all alone in there except for the other animals, because what could they do? Rube and the cats would be no help if he took a turn for the worse. Clyde said he'd run home a couple of times during the afternoon. He and Dr. Firreti were waiting to
see if the pills would snap Barney out of it. It was midafternoon now, and he wondered if Clyde was at home. Worrying, he said a little cat prayer for Barney.
And he turned on Dillon's shoulder so he wouldn't have to look at the golden retriever; the dog made him feel too sad.
The other big dog was the brown poodle that belonged to Bonnie Dorriss. The poodle appeared totally aloof, paid no attention to any of the animals. Either he was extremely dignified or bored out of his skull. He must have felt Joe staring, because he glanced up, gave him a completely innocent look-as if to say he never, never chased cats.
Oh sure. Turn your tail, and you'd have poodle teeth in your backside before you could bare a claw.
Their little group consisted of eight dogs and six cats, including a black-and-white cat who could use some advice on the principles of a slimming diet. The longhaired white cat had one yellow eye and one blue, but she was totally color-coordinated: blue collar and a natty yellow name tag. Cute enough to make you retch.
The big yellow tom glowered threateningly at him, as a tomcat is expected to do. But beneath the show of testosterone he looked both sleepy and bored.
Joe could see into the plastic cat carrier now, where a scruffy-looking tortoiseshell huddled, her blue eyes not angry now, but only painfully shy. This was the Pet-a-Pet group? These scruffy cats and puny little lapdogs were expected to play skilled therapist to a bunch of needful humans? And, of course, among the mixed participants, Joe and Dulcie were the only nonhuman members who could have carried on a conversation with the old people.
That would generate some excitement.
Led by Bonnie Dorriss, their group moved on through the wide doors into the entry, the golden retriever gawking and stumbling over its own feet. The big poodle stepped lightly beside Bonnie into the spacious reception area and sat down at her heel. Impressive, Joe had to admit.
The entry was even more elegant than the carved double doors had implied, the blue tile floor gleaming, the small potted trees in hand-painted containers fingering their delicate leaves against the white walls. The heavy ceiling beams looked hand-carved, and to his right hung an old, antique oil painting of the Molena Point hills as they must have looked before any house marred the wild sweeps of grass and young oaks.
Directly ahead through an archway shone a well-appointed sitting area. This faced, through wide French doors, a sunny, enclosed patio surrounded by the wings of the building and planted with flowers and miniature citrus trees. Charming, totally charming. He wondered if the staff would serve tea, maybe little sandwiches of smoked salmon or imported sardines and liver pate.
But then he caught a whiff of medicines and pine-scented cleaning solution; of boiled beef and onions; a mix of smells that implied actual living went on beyond the pristine entry, implied a condensed, crowded occupancy involving many more people forced together than a cat found acceptable.
Dillon, carrying him, wandered away from the others toward the parlor, but she did not enter that elegant, perfectly groomed space. She stood at the edge of the cream-and-blue Chinese rug, looking. The area was too formal to be inviting-the couch and upholstered chairs done in pale silk damask, the little mahogany tables teetering on spindly legs, the damask draperies perfectly pleated. He could imagine digging his claws into that thick fabric and swarming up, laying waste to thousands of dollars worth of thoughtful design. This must be where the residents of Casa Capri entertained their relatives and visitors, away from hospital beds and potty chairs. The room smelled faintly of lavender. Joe found himself observing the furnishings not from his own rough, tomcat frame of reference but from Dulcie's view. Dulcie loved this fancy stuff. He even knew from listening to Dulcie that the four stiff-looking chairs were of Hepplewhite design-chairs as rigid and ungiving as four disapproving spinsters.
The room, in short, might impress, but it did not welcome. There were no cushiony places to cuddle the body, no gentle pillows to ease tired old bones. Casa Capri's parlor looked, to Joe, as if a sign should be placed at the edge of the Chinese rug warning all comers not to touch.
But beyond the stiff parlor, the bright patio was inviting, sunny and lush, the walled garden filled with pastel-colored lilies and low beds of pansies, with intimate arrangements of wrought-iron patio chairs fitted with deep, soft-appearing cushions that just invited a nap.
Surely, out there in that warm and protected setting the frail elderly could take the sun and gossip and doze in peace, comfortably sheltered from the chill sea wind and from the outer world. Sheltered within those walls…
Or imprisoned. Joe felt his fur rise along his back.
But maybe his sense of entrapment was only a recurrence of his own kittenhood terrors, when he had been trapped by screaming kids in San Francisco's alleys. Thinking of those nasty small boys with bricks, and nowhere to escape, he found himself clinging hard to Dillon's bony shoulder.
He was still clinging to the child when the big front doors opened behind them and a mousy little woman stood looking in, a pale, thin creature dressed in something faded and too long, and little flat sandals on her thin feet. Behind her, through the open door, on the wide sweep of curved drive, parked just before the door, stood the pearl red Bentley Azure.
And now the driver's door opened and Adelina Prior herself stepped out. This could be no other: a sleek and creamy woman, slim, impeccably dressed in a little flared black suit and shiny black spike heels, her jet hair smoothed into an elegant knot-chignon, Dulcie would call it-which was fastened with a clasp that glittered like diamonds. She carried a black lizardskin briefcase with gold clasps, a small matching handbag.
This was the grand dame of Casa Capri, and she was everything that Clyde had described, her arch look at the gathered Pet-a-Pet group, as she entered, was cold with superiority and distaste.
Allowing her pale companion to hold the door for her, she swept past them, lifting one perfectly groomed eyebrow, her perfume engulfing dogs and cats in a subtle and expensive miasma of heady scent that overrode all the others. Joe supposed that her faded companion, who trailed away after her, was Adelina's sister, Renet. Nor had Renet appeared impressed by their little Pet-a-Pet gathering; she had remained as far from them as she could manage, quickly fading to invisibility beside Adelina's blade-perfect presence.
As the two women moved on down the hall to his right, toward what seemed to be offices, Adelina paused, turned briefly to survey them-as if hoping they had somehow vanished.
From Wilma's shoulder, Dulcie stared back at her, green eyes blazing as if she were reading Adelina's thoughts, and taking in the woman's sleek hair and slim expensive attire, her shapely legs and sheer black stockings, her spike heels sharp enough to puncture a cat's throat.
It was Dulcie who glanced away.
This was the woman who could afford a three-hundred-thousand-dollar Bentley Azure but who presumably spent her days among bedpans counting soiled sheets and inspecting medication charts. A woman who had to be driven totally by love for humanity; why else would she do this? The woman who, Clyde had told him, supervised every detail of the retirement villa like an army general. As she disappeared into an office, Joe shivered, and he, too, looked away.
11
To Joe's right, where Adelina Prior had disappeared, the admitting desk dominated a portion of the villa that was less fancy and smelled strongly of various medicines, of human bodily functions, and of a harsh disinfectant that made his nose burn. A nurse stood before the admitting counter writing on a clipboard, stopping frequently to push back a lock of bleached hair. A wheeled cart loaded with medicine bottles and various pieces of equipment that he didn't recognize and with which he didn't care to become familiar was parked beside the high desk.
The walls were plain and unadorned, the carpet of a dark commercial tweed that looked as durable as concrete. He supposed that on around the corner the hall would lead away between rows of residents' rooms, rather like a hospital on TV. He imagined open doors revealing stark hospital beds and variou
s uncomfortable-looking contrivances constructed of plastic and chrome, and perhaps an occasional closed door behind which a patient was indisposed or sleeping in the middle of the day. From that direction came a tangle of excited television voices, a mix of daytime soaps.
Their group did not approach the admitting desk but headed in the opposite direction, down the hall to the left, where a pair of double doors stood open revealing a shabby sitting room very different from the elegant reception parlor.
In the open double doors, Bonnie Dorriss paused, waiting for them to assemble, the big poodle sitting sedately at her heel in what was beginning to be, in Joe's opinion, an excessive display of overtraining. Did the animal have no mind of his own? But then what could you expect from a dog?
He heard a phone ring behind them, probably at the admitting desk, and in a moment it went silent. He wriggled around on Dillon's shoulder to get a better view of the social room. The decor was early Salvation Army. Mismatched couches and chairs in faded, divergent patterns, a pastiche of varied colors and styles stood about in vague little groups. The multicolored carpeting was of a variety guaranteed to hide any possible stain. Probably only a cat's or a dog's keen nose would detect the spills of cough syrup, oatmeal, and worse embedded in that short, tight weave. Surveying the room, Joe got the impression that when prospective clients were welcomed to Casa Capri to discuss the placement of an elderly relative, these sliding doors were kept closed.
An arrangement of several couches faced an oversize television set, and next to it a weekly TV schedule done up in large print had been taped to the wall. The other seating groups circled scarred coffee tables piled with wrinkled magazines and folded newspapers. There were no fancy potted trees or elegant little touches such as graced the entry and parlor. And the pictures on these walls were dull reproductions of dull photographs of dull landscapes from some incredibly tedious part of the world-the kind of cheap reproductions the local drugstore published for its giveaway Christmas calendar. A pair of lost eyeglasses lay under a coffee table, and a lone slipper peeked out from beneath a couch, implying that the room had not been recently vacuumed.
Cat Raise the Dead Page 8
