Cat Raise the Dead

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  Mae Rose pawed through the contents of one of the hanging pockets attached to her wheelchair until she found a handkerchief. She blew her nose delicately. Joe watched the arch where Dillon had disappeared, listening for the front door to open and close, convinced the kid was going to leave. He'd like to beat it, too. Mae Rose blew her nose again and wiped her eyes, then wadded up the handkerchief. "Maybe they're dead."

  Eula Weems snorted. "How can they be dead? You know Darlene Brown was in the hospital with cataracts, and you saw her yourself when her cousin came. Right there in that corner room with the dark glasses. You're not making sense, Mae. And you know James Luther's trust officer was over there all one afternoon with him talking and signing papers."

  "That's what they told us." Mae Rose glanced across the room toward the open double doors, where a nurse had appeared.

  The white-uniformed woman propelled Dillon along before her, clutching the child's arm. Dillon balked and twisted, trying to pull away, her thin face splotched with anger.

  "I was only looking for the rest room," the child argued, "I don't see…"

  "The rest room is there, beside the dining room, not a block down the hall in the private wing. That area of the building is reserved for the very sickest patients, and they must not be disturbed."

  "But-"

  "You'll remain here in the social room as you were told, or you cannot come back to Casa Capri. You will not disturb the residents." The thin woman dropped Dillon's arm, stood staring down at her as if to make her point, then turned away. Dillon's face was red, her scowl fierce.

  Across the room a man in a wheelchair watched the little exchange with interest, and as Dillon sat down on the couch across from Eula, he headed in their direction.

  Though he was wheelchair-bound, he seemed too young to be living here among the elderly. Joe thought he couldn't be out of his late twenties-though Joe admitted he was no authority on human age. The man's smooth, white face was lean, his blue eyes friendly, but his body was puffy from inactivity. The roll of fat around his middle, beneath his white cotton shirt, looked like a soft white inner tube. Wheeling his chair toward them, he swerved around couches and chairs with a flashy disregard for the occupants. Coming to rest beside Mae Rose, he gave his" chair a final twist like a young man spinning his sports car, and parked beside her chair. He looked Dillon over with curiosity, winked conspiratorially at Eula, then leaned toward Mae, looking hard at the tabby cat in her lap. Dulcie looked back at him warily.

  "What's that, Ms. Rose, a fur neckpiece? Did someone drop a moth-eaten fur piece in your lap?"

  Eula Weems giggled.

  Mae Rose's painted cheeks flamed brighter, and she petted Dulcie with quick, nervous strokes. Dulcie didn't move; she lay stretched out across the pink afghan coolly regarding the young man, and definitely not looking moth-eaten-her dark stripes gleamed like silk. She was very still, and nothing about her seemed to change except that her green eyes had widened; only Joe saw her stiffen imperceptibly, as if to strike.

  Eula smiled coquettishly, stroking Joe. "Look, Teddy. I have an old fur piece, too."

  Teddy laughed. "Or is that one of those moldering gray union suits you tell about on the farm, that your mama sewed you into?"

  Eula favored him with a girlish guffaw.

  Teddy said, "Mae, you're hugging that cat like it was a baby. Or like one of your little dolls."

  "Leave me alone, Teddy. I shouldn't wonder if it was you that drove Jane Hubble away."

  The young man's eyes filled with amazement. His smile was sunny and very kind; he looked as if Mae Rose could not help her aberrations.

  But Dillon, watching them, was suddenly all attention. Gripped by some inner storm, Dillon raised her eyes in a quick, flickering glance at Mae Rose and the pale young man; then she looked down again.

  Eula said, "Everyone knows Jane Hubble's right over there in Nursing." She looked to Teddy expectantly.

  "Of course she is," Teddy said kindly. "They can't let us visit them, Mae. It's too hard on sick people to have us underfoot going in and out, getting in the way. Of course she's there. Where else would she be? Ask Adelina." He put his arm around Mae. "I know you miss her. Maybe when she's better, something can be arranged."

  Dillon had turned away, seemed to have lost interest in the conversation. She was all fidgets, moving restlessly, and when she settled on the arm of Eula's chair and leaned down to pet Joe, her fingers were rigid, tense; she was filled with hidden excitement-or apprehension.

  "She could send word," Mae said. "The nurses could at least bring a message."

  "She's too sick," Eula said. "So sick she has tubes in her arms. They wanted to send me over there with the blood pressure, but I wouldn't have it. I won't have all those tubes stuck in me."

  Mae Rose's wrinkled face collapsed into a hurt mask. "I'd only stay a minute."

  "The doors are locked," Eula said. "That's all I know. That's all there is to know."

  Mae Rose said nothing more, sat quietly stroking Dulcie.

  "If she's sick…" Dillon began, "if this Jane Hubble is sick…"

  Teddy turned to look at her.

  Mae Rose burst into tears, covering her face with her hands. Dulcie sat up and touched a paw to the old lady's cheek as the little woman huddled, sobbing.

  "How long since you've seen her?" Dillon said to Mae, ignoring Mae's tears. "How long since you've seen your friend Jane?"

  "Mae doesn't remember," Eula said. "She gets mixed up-in this place all the days run together. She knows Jane's all right; she just likes to make a scene."

  But when Mae Rose finished crying and blew her nose, she fixed Eula with an accusing stare. "Your own husband went over to see her. He tried to see her. He was angry, too, when they wouldn't let him in."

  "I told Frederick, don't you go over there." Eula's fat fingers pressed irritably along Joe's back. "I told him, you're not to go over there alone to see that woman."

  Dillon looked at Eula uncertainly. "You didn't want your husband to see Jane? But…?" She looked blank, then looked shocked suddenly. Then fought to keep from laughing. "You didn't want your husband…" She swallowed, then began again. "Does your husband- does he live here, too?"

  "Lives over in Cottages," Eula said. "You can have your own car, very stuck-up. Then if you get sick you come over here. Frederick says he can't stand it over here, says it's depressing. If you get real bad sick, like Jane with a stroke, then you go into Nursing. I don't know what Frederick does over there in that cottage all day. He says he goes into the village on the bus, to the library. I don't know what he does. I don't know what goes on over there with those women."

  Dillon rose and turned away, smothering a laugh.

  But after a moment she turned back, gave Mae Rose a little smile. "You must miss your friend. I had a friend once who went away."

  "Her room was next to mine," Mae said. "The corner room, the one they use now for visiting. When Jane… When they moved her to Nursing," Mae said doubtfully, "they closed that room, and now they use it for visiting."

  "Which corner room?" Dillon asked.

  "The one behind the parlor right next to my room." Mae pointed vaguely out through the glass doors toward the far side of the patio.

  Dillon walked over and peered out. Turning back, she said thoughtfully, "I don't understand. You mean visitors stay overnight?"

  "They-" Mae began.

  "No," Eula said irritably. "No one comes overnight. But if you're in bed all the time-bedridden-and you have a dinky little room, you have your visitors there in the big room, it makes a better impression. Those corner rooms are the biggest, private bath and all. If you have a little poky room, or if you're in Nursing, they move you into the corner room to entertain company. Your relatives come, it looks grand. They figure you're getting a good deal for what they pay.

  "But when they're gone again, it's back to your own dinky room, and they shut the big room. It's all for looks. Everything for looks." Eula yawned and settled deeper in
to her chair, shaking Joe. He rose, turned around several times against her fat stomach. Teddy left them, spinning his chair around and wheeling away. From the kitchen Joe could hear a clatter of pots and then a nurse came out, rolling a squeaky metal cart with a cloth draped over.

  "Meals for the Nursing wing," Eula said. "Not many of 'em can eat solid food. They get fed early, then get their medicine and are put to sleep."

  Joe shivered.

  Dillon watched the white-uniformed nurse push the cart away toward the admitting desk. And, ducking her head, pretending to scratch her arm, she kept glancing out the patio doors.

  But not until Eula loosed her grip on Joe and began to snore, did Dillon pick Joe up in her arms and head for the patio. His last glimpse of Eula Weems, she had her mouth open, huffing softly.

  Pushing open the glass slider, Dillon slipped out into the walled garden, into patches of sun and ragged shade. Joe sniffed gratefully the good fresh air.

  Along the four sides of the building, the rows of glass doors reflected leafy patterns. Most stood open to the soft breeze. In some rooms a lamp was lit, or he could see the shifting colors of a TV. The corner room was dark, the glass sliders closed and covered by heavy draperies. Dillon, tightening her hold on him, pressing him against her shoulder, headed quickly for Jane Hubble's old room.

  13

  Up in the hills above Molena Point the Martinez family was gathered at the pool, Juan and Doris Martinez sitting at their umbrella table wrapped in thick terrycloth robes, their hair streaming from their swim, the two children still doing laps, skimming through wisps of chlorine-scented steam. The harsh light of afternoon had softened, and the shadows stretched long. Though the wind was chilly, the spring day was bright and the pool was comfortably heated-the water was kept all year at an even seventy-eight degrees. The couple sipped their coffee, which Doris had poured from a thermos, and watched ten-year-old Ramon and seven-year-old Juanita swim back and forth the length of the long pool as effortlessly as healthy young animals. The adults had already completed their comfortable limit for laps. Doris's limit most days was about twenty, Juan's twice that. The kids would swim until hunger drove them out.

  With careful attention to the changing times even here in Molena Point, to the increase in household burglaries even in the village, they had left only the patio door unlocked, and it was in plain view behind them. They were discussing an impending trucker's strike, which would delay deliveries of window and wall components for Juan's prefab sunroom company. This, in turn, would delay scheduled construction and throw the small firm behind in its work for the next year or more, depending on how long the strike lasted.

  While the adult Martinezes were thus engaged discussing alternate sources of income to tide them through the coming months, a woman entered the yard behind them, making no sound, and slid open the glass door, timing its soft sliding hush to the noisy rumble of a passing UPS truck.

  Slipping inside, she found herself in the large, comfortably appointed family room, all leather and soft-toned pecan woods. Crossing the thick, soft carpet, she headed for the front hall and moved quickly up the stairs; she liked to do the upstairs first. Usually, when people were in the pool or the yard, there would be a billfold left on the dresser, perhaps a handbag. Or she would find the handbag in the kitchen when she went down. Climbing the stairs, she thought about making a trip soon up to the city. She didn't like keeping such a large stash of stolen items. She liked to move the goods on, dump the take-all but those few pieces that were so charming she couldn't bear to part with them.

  She thought of these as keepsakes. She was not without her sentimental side. She enjoyed the houses she entered, liked looking at the furnishings and getting to know the families, if only superficially, by the way they lived. Each new house, while offering fine treasures, offered also a little story about the residents. And though she knew it was foolish to hang on to keepsakes, she did love the little reminders she had saved, the lovely Limoges teapot from the McKenzie house, the five porcelain bird figurines carefully packed, and the little Swiss clock with a white cloisonne face that she couldn't bear to part with. She had yet to determine the value of the clock, but she thought it would be considerable. She needed more specific information on these miniature clocks; she was finding quite a few. The cloisonne clocks, imported from Europe, were big in California just now. She'd take care of the research up in the city at the main branch of San Francisco Public, not here in Molena Point, where someone might recognize her; she felt particularly wary of that ex-parole officer in the library's reference department.

  She'd like to drive up to the city early, spend several hours with Solander; Solander's Antiques was the most reliable fence, and she didn't have to hobnob with little greasy shoplifters. No, Solander was strictly first-class. Then a stop at several banks to get rid of the cash, and a nice lunch, maybe at the St. Francis. Then the remainder of the day in the art reference room of San Francisco Public. The trips made a really nice change from her everyday routine. Maybe she'd stay over, catch a play, do a little shopping.

  Though before she left, she did want to get her map of Molena Point in better order. She'd nearly made a bad mistake yesterday, had really scared herself when she realized she was in the Dorriss house. And she had forgotten, if she'd ever known, that the upstairs was a separate apartment.

  But no matter, she hadn't gotten that far. Though not until she saw Bonnie Dorriss's car pull into the drive, saw her getting out with that big brown dog, that poodle, did she realize where she was. Luckily the young woman had taken the dog around to the backyard, and she had slipped out the front. She hadn't time to lift anything, and the experience had left her unsettled.

  Upstairs, in the Martinez master bedroom, she found a billfold containing something over two hundred in small bills. She didn't find a purse, but she did find a jewelry box and picked up a nice pearl choker and a lovely antique emerald necklace. This last could be a real find-it must be well over a hundred years old and was probably Austrian by the looks of it. If those tiny emeralds were real, she had a fortune in her hands. But even if the emeralds were only chips, or even paste, the finely made antique piece would still be worth a nice sum.

  She found a few gold and silver coins in a cuff-link box, none of them in protective envelopes, but found nothing else of value. She was checking the other bedrooms when, in what appeared to be the guest room, she came on a glass case containing five big dolls.

  These were not children's toys, but replicas of adult women, works of art so lifelike that at first sight they shocked her. As if, peering into the case, she was looking into a tiny alternate world, spying on live miniature people. The doors of the case were locked.

  Each female figure was a very individual little being, her skin so real one wanted to feel its warmth, her tiny fingers perfect. And each lady was totally different from the others, each face different, registering very different human emotions. She could not resist the Victorian woman's aloof smile. Each tiny woman was so alive that even their individual ways of standing and looking at her were unique. In their lovely period lace and satins, these lively ladies were surely handmade. She wondered if they were one of a kind; certainly they were collector's dolls.

  Thinking back, she could remember glancing at magazine articles about doll shows, and at ads for dolls, but obviously she hadn't paid sufficient attention. She had missed a whole movement here.

  Well she would pay attention from now on, close attention. Her fingers shook as she fished out her lockpicks.

  The operation took forever, and she was growing nervous that some member of the family would come slipping in from the pool and up the stairs before she had the glass case open. Her hands were trembling so badly that when she did get the lock open she almost dropped the first doll. The little lady's full silk skirts rustled, and her direct, imperious gaze was disconcerting.

  Each doll was over twelve inches tall. They were going to make a huge bulge under her coat. But at last she got the
m tucked away in the deep pockets that lined the garment, and, still in the guest room, she checked herself before the full-length mirror.

  Not too bad, if she stood with her shoulders hunched forward to make the coat fall away from her. She could hardly wait to research these beauties and get them up to the city.

  She would take these to Harden Mark; he was the best with the real art objects. And, of course, before she saw him she needed to educate herself. There wasn't a fence in the world who wouldn't rip you off if he could.

  She had finished upstairs, was downstairs in the kitchen going through Mrs. Martinez's purse, when she heard the sliding door open. She stuffed the bills in her coat and closed the purse. On her way out the back door she snatched up a handful of chocolate chip cookies.

  Silently closing the door, she let her body sag as if with fatigue and discouragement, shrugging deeper down into the lumpy coat, and slowly made her way along the side of the house ambling heavy and stiff, peering into the bushes, calling softly, "Kitty? Here, kitty. Here, Snowy. Puss? Puss? Come on, Snowy. Come to Mama, Snowy." Her old voice trembled with concern, her expression was drawn with worry. She did not let down her guard until she had left the Martinez residence unchallenged-really, this was a great waste of talent-and had ambled the three blocks to her car.

  Driving home along Cypress, up along the crest of the hills heading for Valley Road, passing high above the sprawling wings of Casa Capri Retirement Villa, she slowed her car, pulled onto the shoulder of the narrow road for a moment. Sat looking down with interest at the red-tile rooftops softened by the limbs of the huge old oaks and at the tangle of cottages climbing up the hill; even those small individual houses gave one a sense of confinement.

  From this vantage she could look almost directly down into the patio. Though the garden was charming, shadowed now, and the lemons and the yellow lilies shining almost like gold, the high walls made her shiver. Casa Capri was beautiful, but it was still an institution, sucking dry your freedom. As the poem said, she could wear red rubber boots to dance in, she could drink wine on street corners if she chose and laugh with the bums, and who was to stop her?