Cat in a Bag

by Angela M. Sanders

  “No boots, but more pumps and sandals than you can shake a stick at.”

  In the Rundholz dress with her hair styled right, Gilda could easily pass as a stylish society matron. Maybe they’d buy her attitude as “eccentricity.” Even better, Uncle Larry might liberate a few other outfits from her closet for her, too, and Adele wouldn’t have to wear the Villa’s cast-offs.

  “You could send Father Vincent,” Claudine said. “Tell him he can take my Mercedes.”

  “My clothes aren’t good enough?”

  “Times change,” Claudine said. Adele nodded.

  Gilda sighed. “Fine. I’ll do it.” She reached for the house phone.

  “Why don’t we wait a minute, and I’ll give you an update on Adele’s paintings?”

  Finally. Adele sat back on the vanity’s stool.

  Claudine opened her file folder. “Of the eight paintings, four have already been reclaimed or will be as soon as we can get an agent to pick them up. Another one mysteriously disappeared from the Oak Hills golf club.” Claudine raised an eyebrow at Gilda.

  “What about the other three?” Adele asked.

  “It’s a strange thing.”

  The playground outside fell silent. A breeze rattled the bedroom window.

  “Yeah?” Gilda said.

  “A museum—the Holgate—has two of the forgeries, and they won’t give them up.”

  Adele’s brain seemed to stop functioning for a moment. It took that long for her to speak. “They won’t give them up,” she repeated.

  “Yes. We told them that they’re fakes and reminded them of the insured value. At first they were grateful and said we could send someone for them any time. But this morning they called back and said they want to keep the paintings.”

  “Which ones are they?”

  Claudine looked at her paper. “A Boucher and a Jean-Louis David. The trustees bought the David and had the Boucher willed to them.”

  The David was pretty good, especially given her lack of interest in Greek themes, but she never did think the Boucher was her best work. She liked painting with precision, and Boucher’s stylized figures with their plump arms and rosy cheeks never grabbed her. “Did they say why? They’re such different works.”

  “The curator apparently refuses to let them go. He plans to make a big stink with the museum’s board if they give them up. He says they’re works of art on their own.”

  “The fakes?” Gilda said.

  “Something about ‘art and message.’ He was talking so fast that I didn’t catch it all, but he wanted to know if we could get him more of the forgeries.”

  “You didn’t tell him where to find them, did you?” Adele let go of the wig. She’d been twisting it in her hands and had crushed its wave. “Art and message.” He must have seen what she’d done to them. Somehow.

  Claudine looked away. “I’m not sure what will happen. If the insurance company can arrange sales between the owners and the museum, they might do it to avoid a payout. I’ll let you know.” Her voice softened. “I saw the photos, Adele. Good work, especially the David. Must have been quite a job for the break-in team, with a canvas that size.”

  It was true. The canvas had been nearly as tall as she. But painting it was wonderful. She’d played Mahler and rarely had felt so completely enveloped by her work. The swells of the orchestra, the tang of turpentine, those hours that vanished like seconds as she painted.

  “She knows her stuff,” Gilda told Adele. “She’s heisted some of the best.”

  “I can’t believe it.” She looked up, wide-eyed. “Not that Claudine doesn’t know art, but that they want my paintings. They’re forgeries.” The Boucher contained an especially pointed message, Adele remembered. She shivered. “I can’t let them have them.”

  “You may not have a choice,” Claudine said.

  “What about the other one? The one in Carsonville. You ever get a name?” Gilda asked.

  Claudine looked at the list again. “The George Stubbs? Belongs to an art professor, if I remember right. Let’s see.”

  Adele sat, her breath frozen.

  “Yes. Art professor named Oliver Degraff. We’ve left messages, but he hasn’t replied. You don’t happen to know him, do you?”

  27

  Gilda slipped the dress over her head and turned to the mirror for a three-quarter’s view assessment. Odd, but not bad. She plucked at an unusual seam curving in to give the hem a tulip shape.

  “That’s supposed to be there,” Adele said. She’d changed out of her maid costume and now wore a pair of drapey capris and a loose-cut sweater Father Vincent had brought back with the dress for Gilda.

  “I don’t get it. What about my waist? And ta-tas? They’re my best features.”

  “This kind of dress hints at your figure. The wide neck is flattering. As you move, the seams give people an idea of your curves without being too obvious. German designers are genius at it.”

  All afternoon, Adele had seemed distracted. Even Warren had had trouble getting her attention. Gilda was glad to see the girl focused for a change.

  Humming, “Hey Good Lookin’,’” Gilda stepped forward, then back, to test Adele’s assertion. The dress flowed around her torso. Not bad. “I don’t have to hold in my stomach. I could get used to that.” Not getting a reply, she added, “Adele?”

  “Hmm?”

  The girl had seemed out of sorts since their earlier meeting with Claudine. She’d barely picked at dinner. “Honey, is it the operation that bothers you?”

  As if she’d been waiting for Gilda to ask, she said, “The paintings. The Holgate can’t keep them. I need to get them back.”

  “First things first.” Gilda had never had children, but she’d mastered the motherly tone of voice. “You get the surgery, recover, and you’ll have all the time in the world to get your paintings.” She brought down the volume. “Why is this so important? It’s that professor’s painting, isn’t it?”

  “I explained all this. Please. I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

  “Fine. Don’t worry. Let Claudine deal with it. Now for earrings. Try the box on the vanity,” Gilda said. “People really dress like this nowadays?”

  “The chic ones do.” Her voice started slowly, as if she were willing herself to leave old thoughts behind. “It’s more of an artist’s look, but it suits you.” Adele drew a pair of orange daisy earrings from the box. “What about these?”

  “Oh, honey, those are cheap things.”

  “I like them.”

  “Shouldn’t I be wearing diamonds? I have some, you know.” And emeralds and rubies. The rubies went surprisingly well with her hair, despite the old saw about red on redheads.

  “The daisy earrings give the dress an offhand look. More nonchalant, not too self-conscious. We should rough up your hair a bit, too, make it look more European.”

  At a double rap on the door, Gilda said, “Come in.”

  Grady entered, a sheet of paper in hand. “Why’s it so dark in here?”

  “We’re keeping Adele out of sight, remember?” Gilda posed, one leg slightly in front, hand on hip. “What do you think?”

  “About what?”

  Grady never did have much of an eye for fashion. “My dress. The look.”

  He squinted. “Kind of like the heiress in Practical Hospital. She was off the show for a while, then just came back this week from Europe with a new husband.”

  “Never mind.” Gilda sat on the bed’s edge. “What’s that you’ve got?”

  “Answer from the surgeon.” He glanced at Adele.

  “It’s about time,” Gilda said. “What does he say?”

  “He got the CT scans from the prison, and he’s cleared up a spot on his schedule for tomorrow at two.”

  “He’s going to do it, and right on schedule.” Despite their plans, despite her confidence, the relief loosened muscles in Gilda’s neck and shoulders that she didn’t even know were tense. “Good.”

  “Got a few things he
wants, though.”

  “Go on.”

  “The patient can’t eat past eight p.m.,” Grady read. “That’s tonight. You got a couple more hours to chow.”

  “Okay,” Adele said. Her voice, so sure and firm as they’d talked about fashion, now sounded faint.

  “And he wants proof that the dog bed is still in good shape.”

  “Take another photo with the newspaper. That should do it.”

  “He says he won’t operate unless the dog bed comes with the patient.”

  Gilda’s hands dropped to the mattress. “How are we going to do that? I mean, once he has the bed….”

  “I know. But he says it’s a no-go, otherwise.”

  She was already worried that Dr. Lancaster would involve the police. Without the dog bed, they didn’t have any leverage. What would stop him from refusing to operate and having Adele arrested? “Did he say anything about Adele escaping Carsonville Women’s?”

  “Nope,” Grady said.

  They’d already taken all the risks they could bear. Dr. Parisot said he’d watch the operation remotely, but they couldn’t risk having him in the room. With so many nurses and anesthesiologists and so on present, the police could easily sneak in. Dress an officer in scrubs, and he’d be incognito until it was too late. Losing Adele was a risk already factored into the equation, but losing Dr. Parisot, too, couldn’t happen. There would go the Villa’s medical care.

  But, if Doc saw something awry, he couldn’t reach through the laptop’s screen and stop it. He could say something, though, and Gilda could step in. Gilda needed to be there. With the dog bed.

  “That’s it, then. I’ll go with her.”

  “Oh, Gilda, you don’t have to do that,” Adele said.

  “I don’t have much of a stomach for blood, but I don’t see the alternative. Besides, if I’m arrested, they won’t give an old lady much time.”

  “He might have the police waiting in the operating room,” Grady said. “You two go in, and it’s finished.”

  “Father Vincent would give me a nice hammer, I’m sure,” Gilda said.

  “Hammer?” Adele raised an eyebrow.

  “I’ll sit next to the dog bed,” Gilda said. “If there’s any funny business, smash goes the dog bed. It’s the only way.” Lord, she hadn’t been so busy since the Nixon administration. This Booster Club business was keeping her on her toes.

  “Then you’re busted for aiding and abetting a fugitive plus ruining a priceless antique,” Grady pointed out.

  “I’m helping a poor girl get the brain operation she desperately needs. What would a jury say to that? Plus” —she put a hand on her hip— “we’ll do the cat in a bag.”

  Grady pursed his lips. “Cat in a bag. Could work. Does Mort know?”

  “He’ll be okay.”

  “What do you mean?” Adele said.

  “You’ll see,” Gilda said. “No cats involved.”

  “That’s how it’s going to be, then,” Grady said. “I’ll send along the photo of the bed, and we’ll get you ready for tomorrow afternoon. Father Vincent will drive getaway. We’ll get Doc Parisot to double-check that the sick bay is set up for post-op care.”

  “Honey, what’s wrong?” Gilda said.

  Adele was grasping her head between both hands. “It hurts.”

  Gilda took Adele’s chilled hands and folded them between hers. “You’re just nervous.” Poor girl. “Now you take it easy. In twenty-four hours, it will all be over. Cook will give you a nice dinner, then you’ll lie down for a while. Can you do that?”

  Adele closed her eyes and nodded.

  “You’ll be okay. Leave it to us. All right?”

  The girl didn’t respond, but she stood and, with tentative steps, made her way to the door. Yes, she was anxious about the operation, but something else was going on, too. What was it?

  Gilda leaned back and sighed. Everything would be fine, all right. As long as the aneurysm was operable and Adele didn’t die first. And as long as their spy didn’t have any plans for another police raid.

  But first, she had a party to go to.

  28

  Father Vincent dropped Gilda at the Women’s League’s front door. The League Lodge, as it was known, was in a Moorish-style mansion in the old-money part of town. A lantern that might have been lifted from the set of Morocco glowed coral over the arched doorway.

  Gilda pulled her purse up her arm and set forth. Tonight she’d traded her walker for a rhinestone-encrusted cane.

  “May I help you?” the young man at the door said.

  “I’m here for the membership meeting.”

  “Your name, please? I’ll check you off the list.”

  “I’m on the rolls.”

  The man took a step closer. “May I have your name?”

  “Gilda.” Damn, this boy was annoying. Beyond him, past the tawny-tiled floor and waxed woodwork, tinkled a piano.

  “Your last name, please.” When she didn’t reply, he said, “This is a members-only club.”

  “I am a member.” Enough of this kid. She pushed her way past him to the party.

  “Ma’am,” the boy called out. “Your last name, please. I need to check you in.”

  “Go check yourself in.” Gilda crossed the hall, descended a few steps, and got her bearings. It had been a while since she’d been here, and when she had, it hadn’t been for long.

  In the lodge’s main room, women milled around a central buffet with not too groaning a board, Gilda noted. A miasma of perfume mixed with the odor of Sterno and meatballs. A woman a bit into her cups was playing “Send In the Clowns” on the baby grand to the side. For a so-called membership meeting, this had the feel of a full-on bacchanal.

  A woman in a bob so perfect that it might have been a wig approached her. “Ma’am? I don’t believe we’ve met. You’re here for the membership meeting, am I right?”

  “Sure am,” Gilda said.

  “I’m Betsy Dobber.”

  “Gilda.” She scanned the crowd. No Ellie Whiteby here. If the nuthouse released her, she wasn’t up to being in public yet.

  “I don’t believe I heard your last name.” Betsy’s smile was insistent.

  “Gilda. I don’t know what last name I’m registered under. It’s been a while since I’ve been here.” When she was last here, drinking was limited to sherry—unless you knew the valet parker, who usually had a bottle for special members—and the women wore hats with peonies on them. Today, it was a bunch of bleached-teeth, too-skinny broads who were overly concerned about a gal’s last name. “Look, have a gander at the rolls. You’ll find me.”

  She didn’t have a lot of time to waste. Father Vincent was parked below the lodge, waiting for her signal to come around. His hot rod magazine wouldn’t get him through the night.

  “An Old Fashioned,” Gilda told a passing waiter. “And none of that fruit and soda nonsense, either.”

  “Classic Old Fashioned, coming up,” he said. Here was a sensible boy. Not haranguing her like the others.

  As she moved toward the buffet table, the crowds of women parted, tossing fake smiles her way, then looking away again as quickly as was decent. No one would talk to her here. She picked up a napkin with League Lodge printed on it in gold and surveyed the buffet’s offerings. One bowl, barely large enough to hold Warren’s breakfast cereal, held grayish meatballs. Slices of orange cheese were fanned over a platter. Some kind of chunky white dip filled another bowl next to a plate of crackers. And that was it. Cook would have been ashamed to put out a spread like that for the garbage man, let alone a pack of Carsonville’s finest. Not that it mattered. As long as the pinot grigio flowed, no one seemed to bother with food. Gilda set down her napkin in disgust.

  “Say.” She pulled aside one of the older members, a woman whose facelift had been ratcheted two twists too tight. “What’s the agenda tonight?”

  The woman first scowled, but it melted into a smile. She glanced to her right and left, and a few women materialized to
flank her. “Why, we’re voting on this year’s officers, of course.” Her smile sweetened. “I don’t recall seeing you around town.”

  Gilda wanted to tell her that she had a short memory. Not only had they met forty years ago or so, her husband had been responsible for Gilda’s ruby brooch.

  “Just back from Europe,” Gilda said. “With my lover. That’s why I need the cane. Before I left, I walked normally, if you get my drift.” She winked.

  The woman backed up. “I see.”

  “Now, about these elections, isn’t Eleanor” —she struggled for a moment before remembering her married name— “Millhouse on the ticket?”

  The women all looked at each other. “I believe she’s out of town,” one of them said.

  “So to speak,” another said and giggled.

  “Get to the point,” Gilda said. “She’s in the club, or not?”

  “I’m afraid we’ve had to revoke her membership,” the older woman said. “Legal matters.”

  “Although she was awfully organized,” a tall woman in a plain black dress, much less artful than Gilda’s, said.

  “But the lodge is warmer now,” another woman chimed in.

  “You’re saying she’s in the joint. Not on parole,” Gilda said. She moved her cane a few inches closer to the older woman.

  “That’s one way to put it, I suppose,” the older woman said.

  Gilda stepped forward, placing her cane and her weight on the woman’s foot. The older woman yelped and leapt back.

  “Sorry,” Gilda said mildly.

  “Are you a member here?” the older woman said.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “I’m going to have to insist you prove it,” the woman said.

  There was a time when Gilda could enter a room, and all heads turned. Certainly, the men’s did. When she took the stage at the nightclub, she’d looked out at tables of friends with smiles on their faces—as well as enough secrets to make Peyton Place look like Romper Room. Gilda calculated that she hadn’t bought herself a drink for a good thirty years.