Shirley Murphy: Cat Raise the Dead

As the door opened, the cats streaked from the darkroom, through Renet's dressing room, and out onto the balcony, and crouched against the wall beneath a spindly iron chair. There were no potted ferns here to conceal them. They heard the outer door close, and as footsteps crossed the room, Dulcie peered around through the glass-and went rigid.

"That's not Renet. That's-oh my God. She hasn't come here. What colossal nerve."

"Who hasn't?" He pressed against her, to look.

"Your cat burglar. That's your cat burglar."

The frowsy old woman was dressed, today, not in her tentlike black raincoat, but in a tan model, equally voluminous. A floppy, matching rain hat was pulled down over her straggling gray hair-perhaps she found the fog just as distasteful as a pouring rain. She crossed the room as brazenly as if she owned the place. Joe watched her with blazing eyes, enraged by her nerve-yet, highly amused. He felt a sudden, wild admiration for the old woman. Talk about chutzpah.

She had walked right into the Prior household, and in the middle of the day. Walked in, with who knew how many maids and other household help on the premises, walked in here bold as brass balls on a monkey.

"And where did she get a key?" Dulcie whispered. "From one of the maids? Did she bribe one of the maids? And didn't the yardman or anyone see her, didn't anyone wonder?"

Entering Renet's dressing room, the woman pulled off her raincoat and laid it carefully on the metal worktable. It was lumpy, its inner pockets loaded. Her baggy black skirt and black sweater made her look even more ancient. She stood looking around the room, then approached the dressing table.

Staring into the three-way mirror at her wrinkled old face and shaggy gray hair, she winked. Winked at herself and grinned. Seemed as pleased with her reflection as if she were young and beautiful.

Sitting down at the dressing table, making herself right at home, she removed the floppy hat, shook out her long gray hair, and eased off her shoes. She seemed unafraid that someone would burst in and find her. She undid the waistband of her skirt, rose, and pulled it off.

"What's she doing?" Dulcie breathed.

"Maybe she's planning to wear some of Renet's clothes when she leaves." As he reared up for a better look, he glanced down over the balcony and saw the horse and rider crossing the drive, headed up toward the cemetery. "There's Harper." And he grinned, his yellow eyes gleaming. His voice in her ear was barely audible. "Perfect timing. We'll get Harper up here. She's a sitting duck; Harper will nail her."

The woman tossed her skirt onto the table, atop her coat. She removed her black sweater, and her blouse and slip, then turned back to the dressing table. Stood in her pants and bra, looking in the mirror. The cats were so amazed they couldn't have spoken, if their lives depended on speech.

But the cat burglar did not seem distressed. The shocking contrast between her young, firm, smooth body and her ancient wrinkled face seemed not to phase her.

She looked like a young woman wearing the mask- the living mask-of a Halloween witch.

She sat down at the dressing table, lifted up her gray hair, and removed it with one smooth motion as casually as she had removed the floppy hat. Beneath the vanished wig, her own pale hair was wispy and matted. She brushed it and tried to fluff it, and sighed.

Putting the wig in one of the hatboxes, she arranged it as if the box might contain a little stand, perhaps one of those white Styrofoam heads with no face. The cats crept closer to see, moved in through the balcony door, into the room, staying behind the metal table.

Lifting a large bottle, she uncapped it, releasing a smell like nail polish remover. Pouring the clear liquid into a little dish, she soaked a cotton ball and began to scrub at her eyebrows, then rubbed the sharp-smelling liquid into her wrinkled face.

She did this several times, and then, working quickly, she peeled away her thick gray eyebrows and began to peel off her wrinkles, wadding them in handfuls, dropping the refuse in the wastebasket. Revealing young, smooth skin beneath.

Slowly Renet's face emerged, smooth and plain. A face totally unremarkable, as quickly forgotten as bland generic cat food.

Halfway through this task she stopped her work and turned, looking nervously around the room. Behind the table, the cats froze. Did she sense someone watching?

But she did not look in their direction, her glances across the room were higher up-looking for a human spy. And as she rose and turned, the cats slipped away to the balcony again, sliding beneath the questionable shelter of the lacy iron chair, into its thin, openwork shadow.

She tried the door leading to her bedroom and seemed relieved that it was securely locked. She stepped to the darkroom and stood in the doorway, looking in, then returned to the dressing table. The cats hunched close together, watching her cup her hands over her face and lean down, removing her contact lenses.

She cleaned the contacts carefully, put them in their little plastic box, and slipped that into the small drawer of the tiny chest. Her face was red and blotched from the harsh chemical.

Now, still in her cotton pants and bra, standing at the worktable, she removed from the coat's inner pockets a handful of glitter, flicked on the gooseneck lamp, and held to the light several gold bracelets, three gleaming chokers, four pairs of glittering earrings. She studied each, then turned away, leaving the jewelry scattered across the table.

Unlocking the door to her bedroom, she moved inside. They heard her open the cupboard, but from this vantage they couldn't tell what she was doing. Not until they slipped in again, to the bedroom door, did they see that she was holding the doll, cuddling it.

For the first time, Dulcie could see the doll clearly. She crept close, halfway into the room, took a good look. As they slipped away again to the balcony, she whispered so close to Joe's ear that her breath tickled.

"That's not the doll Mae Rose gave to Renet; that was a regular child's doll. This is something else. It's so real, like a real person. That's one of the stolen dolls, those valuable collector's dolls."

They watched Renet return to the dressing room, carrying the doll, touching its cheek with one finger. Sitting down again before the mirror, she propped the doll at the end of the dresser against the hatboxes, then began to work cream into her own chapped, red skin, using little round strokes as one might learn from a beauty magazine article on correct skin care. They were watching her with interest when, in the mirror, Renet's eyes caught theirs.

From the glass, she stared straight at them. Her eyes locked on their eyes.

They backed away, crouching to leap to the next balcony. She ran, dived for them. Before they could jump she was between them, cutting them off from each other and from the rail. Joe streaked between her legs into the bedroom. Dulcie fled toward the darkroom, swerved, slid behind the dressing table. Renet slammed the balcony door shut and turned, began to stalk them.

Carrying the rotten meat in his handkerchief, Harper approached the old adobe stables that Adelina had converted to a maintenance building and garages. The structure was designed for maximum cooling, its rows of stalls set well back beneath deep overhangs, and its four sides facing an inner courtyard fashioned to trap the cool night air and hold it during the heat of the day. Entry to the stable yard was through an archway wide enough for a horse and wagon, so would easily accommodate any car. One row of stalls now served as garages-their inner walls extended out to the edge of the overhang, and individual garage doors had been added-providing a roomy eight-car area to house the Prior vehicles. All of the garage doors stood open, and a push broom leaned against the wall halfway down.