Douglas Nelson - Cat On A Blue Monday

I would pale, if that were possible.

Chapter 30

Willy~nilly

Temple, Peggy Wilhelm and Sister Seraphina stood outside the Tyler house, eyeing its impressive bulk with an awe much resembling Dorothy and her friends regarding the Emerald City of Oz.

Temple was guilty of a lifelong identification with Dorothy, at least from the Judy Garland movie: she was a Midwestern girl with an inborn optimism in everything to be found over the rainbow; she really dug those ruby-red slippers;

and now she had--instead of Toto--a black cat named Midnight Louie as she ventured and adventured into evermore exotic terrains personal, professional and quasi-professional, if you count crime-meddling as a quasi-profession.

"You say that Lieutenant Molina okayed our going through the house?" Temple asked Sister Seraphina again.

"Cleaning the house," Sister Seraphina modified scrupulously. "It seems that there is no hard evidence of foul play.

The injuries that killed poor Blandina could have been received in a fall. The police have gathered what physical evidence there was, in case new information turns up, and the house with all these cats in it is a white elephant. If we don't deal with it, it will be declared a public health hazard, and Our Lady of Guadalupe is morally obligated to do something positive about the cats, having benefited from the will."

"And if we find anything . . . interesting in the house?" Temple prodded.

Sister Seraphina winked through her trifocals. "Then we give it to Lieutenant Molina and reopen the case."

"Forget it," Peggy said. "Sure, some flaky things happened at the fringes of Aunt Blandina's death, but there were no more incidents at the cat show. I bet a competitor just wanted to ruin poor Minuet's chances. She was a prime contender. And this phone and lights stuff--you know the way kids in this neighborhood act up."

"What about Peter?" Seraphina reminded her in a suddenly sober voice.

"How is he?" Temple asked, for she had delivered the cat, hot-pink bandages wrapping each front paw, to the convent the day before.

"Fine, but he won't be wandering for a while. Sister Rose is keeping him close to home." Sister Seraphina smiled at Peggy. "I know this is hard on you, dear. You've taken responsibility here from the first, with no hope of personal gain. I can't say I approve of your aunt leaving you out of her will, even if the church benefits. You will know you did your duty, as years go by, and that will be a comfort."

Peggy nodded sudden gratitude at the nun, and then glanced around through tear-glazed eyes. "There's a lot of history in this house."

"And cats," added Temple, pushing up the sleeves on her CATS! sweat shirt.

Peggy glanced at her sweat-shirt logo, as did Sister Seraphina.

They all three linked elbows and skipped up to the gates of this feline Emerald City.

Emerald eyes greeted them at the door, and meows and upturned bewhiskered faces pleading not just for food, but for attention. The cats were obviously missing the daily ministrations of Blandina Tyler.

Temple marveled at the dead woman's stamina. She was like the Old Woman in the Shoe with her flock of children. Temple was already wondering if she could handle two cats, and here Blandina had opened her door to dozens of hungry mouths and hearts.

The trio soon found that Blandina Tyler had been a collector of all sorts of things. String, for instance. Balls of it occupied the kitchen drawers. Temple threw them down for the cats, which schooled like piranha around the playthings.

"Look at this!" Peggy pulled a fistful of what looked like a limp tan octopus from the bottom vegetable drawer of the refrigerator.

Temple blinked, while Sister Seraphina came over with a puckered face, then grabbed the booty and laughed. "Support stockings! you know, those cast-iron things that require girdles and garter belts that old ladies wear. These things are as

stiff as rubber bands." She looked suddenly demure. "I think the best invention in the past thirty years was pantyhose."

"Amen," said Peggy Wilhelm. "I remember wearing this awful little garter belt that put welts into my skin, and in the early seventies, shorter skirts were always pulling up to show everything, until pantyhose came along."

"Early seventies," Temple repeated. "Gosh, I never got to wear long stockings in those days. My problem was socks that sagged around my ankles and those over big toes that made wrinkles in my tennies and hurt my feet."

"Now you wear high heels and hurt your feet," Sister Seraphina reproved, sounding rather motherly.

"They hurt less than those tennies jammed with oversized socks," Temple protested. "Besides, I'm wearing tennies now."

"Yeah, hot metallic-pink," Peggy jeered in good humor. "You wouldn't recognize low-profile shoes if they tripped you."

''Everybody has to have a hobby," Temple said in her own defense. "I also like to explore. Let's 'clean' some more."

By eleven-thirty they had rooted out six thirty-three-gallon garbage bags of support hose.

"Where do old ladies get these things?" Temple demanded as she opened a tempting, hard-sided suitcase from the forties in a back bedroom and spilled out another cornucopia of support hose.

Sister Seraphina laughed and shook her head. "It's the Depression mentality, which I'm depressed to admit I'm old enough to understand: save everything in case it might somehow be of use later. Save, save, save."

Temple shook her head and began exploring a 1930s' dressing table she would love to have: big round mirror, pillars of drawers bridged by a low shelf. Paint it white or silver and--wow! Maybe there'd be an estate sale. . . .

The shallow drawer in the bridge piece was filled with ancient tortoise plastic hair combs, hairnets, wads of thin, gray-brown hair, safety pins, and a plastic box filled with buttons, all of it resting on a yellowed piece of cockatoo wallpaper serving as a drawer liner. Temple removed everything, figuring the dressing table might bring some money in a sale--if she couldn't buy it beforehand.

Then she pulled up the lining paper.

Something lay beneath it. Something long and white and made of paper that would be folded four times. . . .

Oh, my seldom-sensible shoes! Temple peeled the elderly paper out from the drawer. A will, an old will.

She sank onto the tapestry-covered stool in front of the dressing table and read. I, Blandina Tyler, etc. To wit, etc. Sound mind, etc. She was quiet for so long that Sister Seraphina peeked in to see if Temple was still working.

Temple glanced at her with wide eyes, then went back to reading. Seraphina came and read over her shoulder.

"What is it?" Peggy Wilhelm asked from the doorway, her hands trailing more of the stockpiled support hose.

Temple jumped. "I found--"

"It's a will, Peggy," Seraphina said. Peggy moved into the room, her face flushed from hours of housework. "A will?"

"An old will," Temple said gently. "From the sixties." She held it out to Peggy

Peggy took and read it by the dim light of the single ceiling fixture. Temple and Sister Seraphina waited, having no right to say anything until Peggy knew what they already did.

"But . . . this names me as the sole heir. To everything. I don't understand. I was ... in my twenties then."

Temple rose to go to her, but Sister Seraphina's staying hand held her in place.

Peggy shook her head, then sat down on the edge of the nearby bed, onto which Sister Seraphina's steadying hand guided her.

"My parents had died," Peggy added with dawning insight. "I was alone by then. I--I didn't know Aunt Blandina ever cared that much."

"She did," Sister Seraphina assured Peggy. "And here's proof."

"She didn't have the cats then--" Peggy said slowly.

"She was a lot younger," Seraphina reminded her. "Perhaps more sensible. As we age, we get . . . peculiar. It's true.