Shirley Murphy - Cat Raise the Dead

Each page was marked with a Spanish name accompanied by a short personal history that included arrest records; convictions, mostly for such offenses as failure to file income tax, failure to report as a noncitizen, failure to file social security papers, or, in some cases, passing NSF checks. All the names appeared to be female, but who could be sure, unless one knew Spanish.

Joe's yellow eyes gleamed, he pawed at the pages, smiling. "Personal dossiers."

"Blackmail material."

"I'd bet on it."

The next drawer held stationery and printed envelopes, but tucked beneath the thick creamy paper they found a list of numbers, each with a date entered beside it, and some with two dates. These extended over a fifteen-year period. The list made no sense-yet. They slipped it into the notebook and slid this beneath the desk, far to the back.

Before they left the sitting room, Dulcie licked away cat hairs from the white rug, where they clung prominent as a road sign.

Moving into Adelina's bedroom, they avoided the white velvet bedspread, which cascaded onto the carpet; probably it would pluck hairs from them like sticky paper. The bed and dresser were of black wood, light-scaled, and slender, maybe of Danish design. They rifled the dresser drawers but found no papers or photographs among the expensive silk lingerie; the silk and handmade lace were more than Dulcie could resist. She rubbed her face against the neatly folded garments, rolled on them, slid her nose beneath a satin teddy.

"Come on, Dulcie, leave the undies in the drawer. You go trotting out of here dragging that black lace, and we're dog meat."

She smiled sweetly.

"And don't curl up in there; you're leaving cat hairs."

Reluctantly she leaped out. "How often do I get to look at lingerie from Saks or Lord & Taylor? Don't be so grouchy." She cut him a green-eyed smile and licked up a few cat hairs that she had left on the lace.

In Adelina's mirrored dressing room they were surrounded by roaming cat reflections; the sudden feline entourage, the crowd of mimicking cats unnerved them both. Soon their paws felt bruised from fighting open drawers, and their efforts netted nothing more than a half hour survey of fashion that numbed Joe's brain and caused Dulcie to speak in little hushed mewls. Adelina's designer outfits offered a degree of luxury that left the little cat giddy and light-headed.

Outside the bedroom, below the open glass doors, the mower chugged back and forth, guttural and loud, the air perfumed with the clean scent of cut grass. Leaving the suite, they listened at the hall door, then slipped out, tensed to run.

The hall was empty; and the next door opened on a room so plain it must belong to Adelina's maid.

The tan bedspread was of the variety seen in the boy's rooms section of an old Sears catalog, and the desk and two chests could have come from the same page. The room was strewn with skirts and sweaters dropped and tossed across the floor and across every available surface. Maybe the occupant had made many costume changes, this morning, before settling on an outfit for the day. Or maybe she liked to have everything handy, within quick reach, not stuck away in the closet. The skirts were long and gathered, some in flowered patterns, some plain. The sweaters were baggy, and snagged.

Dulcie said "Renet. This is Renet's room."

"That figures. It looks like Renet. What it is about that woman, she's such a nothing."

Dulcie moved toward an inner door. The room smelled faintly of Renet, and of some sharp chemical, a scent pungent and sneeze-making. "It smells like those photographs. The ones Renet gave Adelina."

"Photographer's chemicals?" Joe said. "Maybe she has a darkroom."

"Why would she go to the trouble of a darkroom, when she can take her film to the drugstore?" Pressing her nose to the crack, she sneezed. "Yes, it comes from here." She switched her tail, and leaped, twisting the doorknob and kicking at the door.

"Maybe she's a professional photographer," Joe said. "They don't use the drugstore. To a professional, that's like taking your Rolls Royce to a Ford mechanic."

"How do you know so much?"

"Clyde used to date a photographer."

Dulcie crossed her eyes. "Is there any kind of woman he hasn't dated?" She leaped again, kicking harder, but the door didn't budge. And there was no little knob to turn the dead bolt Only a key would open it. She dropped down, ears flat, tail switching.

The dresser drawers were no more enlightening, yielding nothing more exciting than Renet's white cotton underwear and flannel nighties and more baggy sweaters. Besides the closet, which was nearly empty, Renet's clothes being kept handily on the floor, there was a built-in wall cupboard with drawers beneath.

The drawers were locked, but the cupboard itself, when they pawed the doors open, revealed shelves filled with assorted small cardboard boxes, a few children's toys, some cheap china knickknacks, and several cameras. Crammed among the clutter was a doll; they could see just a wisp of blond hair and a flick of white lace. Dulcie reared up, looking. "Is that the doll Mae Rose gave to Mary Nell Hook?"

"Why would Renet take the doll away from Mary Nell? The old woman seemed really happy to have it. Why would Renet want… Well hell, she is a mean-hearted broad."

Dulcie crouched to leap up onto the shelf, tail lashing for balance, but she dropped back again as, from the hall, the sound of the vacuum cleaner approached, sucking and roaring, its bellow suddenly louder as it slid from the hall runner onto the bare hardwood, heading for Renet's door. They froze, staring, then streaked away through the open French doors to Renet's balcony.

Crouching behind a clay pot planted with ferns, they watched the machine, guzzling and seeking, come roaring into the room; and they shivered.

They were not inexperienced kittens to cower at a vacuum cleaner, but that kind of machine stirred a deep, primal fear, a gut terror about which neither Joe nor Dulcie could be reasonable.

Besides, any machine that could suck up crew sox and sweater sleeves was to be respected.

The maid guided the blue upright around the discarded clothes, moving nothing, circling each cast-off item, scowling as if this business of a messy room might be some private vendetta between herself and Renet. She'd be damned if she'd move one item. She was a middle-sized, middle-aged, dumpy, and unremarkable woman, her black uniform and ruffled little cap reminiscent of an English comedy on TV. A few strands of gray hair protruded from beneath the edge of the frilly cap. Moving toward the cupboard, she paused as if to close its two doors, but instead she lifted out the doll, seemed very familiar with it, as if perhaps she had done this before.

Her back was to them, but they glimpsed the movement of the doll's pale hair and could see a flash of white and a long slim leg. The maid's arm moved as if she were stroking it or smoothing its hair. Clutching the doll, she seemed about to carry it away with her, but then she sighed and returned it to the cupboard, tucking it back among the boxes.

Shutting the cupboard doors, she moved on into the adjoining bath-they could hear the water running as she scrubbed the sink and tub-and began to sing. Her words were in Spanish, the melody sad and slow and enhanced by the heavy echoes of the tiled walls.

Even a cat's singing resounds better in the bathroom; the reverberations from the surrounding hard surfaces tending to make one's voice seem full-bodied and professional. They remained on the balcony listening, a captive audience, until she returned at last, drying her hands on a paper towel. Before she left Renet's room, she tried the inner, locked door.

She twisted the knob and pushed, and when the door wouldn't open, she pressed her ear against the panel. But at last she turned away, with a closed, dissatisfied expression.