Cat Raise the Dead

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  Her porcelain face looked dusty, her pale hair matted, her blue-and-white crinoline dress wrinkled and limp with neglect. Dillon lifted it out quickly and tucked it inside her shirt, where it made a large lump.

  She closed the box, looked undecided for a moment, then shoved it back into the cupboard. As she slipped out through the glass door, Dulcie had nipped out behind her, crowding against Dillon's heels. They were hardly out when two nurses entered. Just as Joe slipped down from the tree, the rain hit. By the time the three of them reached the social room, racing across the garden, they were soaked. The cats had sat behind the couch, dripping onto the carpet, washing themselves, as Dillon squinched across the carpet to Mae Rose and laid the doll in the old lady's lap. She had kept her back to the room, and her voice low.

  "Is this the doll you gave Jane Hubble? The one you told me about?"

  "Oh yes." Mae Rose's smile shone bright with surprise. "This is my little Becky. Where did you find her?" She cuddled the doll, staring up at Dillon, then immediately slipped the doll out of sight beneath the pink afghan, tucking the cover around her. "Where did you find her? Did you see Jane? I gave her to Jane before she was moved to Nursing. Where…?"

  "She had a little writing desk, a lap desk."

  "Of course. It's one of the few things Jane asked her trust officer to bring from home." She looked up at Dillon, her blue eyes alarmed. "Jane wouldn't give up her little desk and give up Becky. She wouldn't give her up if she… No matter how sick she was. How did you know about the desk?"

  "We were neighbors; she kept it on a table by the living-room window. She'd carry it to her easy chair before the fire to write letters. Fix herself a cup of coffee and sit by the fire to pay her bills, or write a letter to the editor of the Gazette-she loved doing that. She didn't have any close friends to write to."

  Dillon looked down at Mae Rose, touching the arm of Mae's wheelchair. "I found the doll in the desk, and the desk was in the cupboard of that room-the room where you went, where Mary Nell was. But why would they take Jane's desk away from her?"

  Mae Rose stroked the afghan where the doll was hidden. She didn't reply.

  Dulcie and Joe glanced at each other. Dulcie shivered. She told Joe later that it was Dillon's finding the doll and the desk that made Wilma decide to go to Max Harper.

  26

  She had a sudden change of mind about stealing from one of the oceanfront houses. After what happened Thursday afternoon, she decided to give it a shot; how could she resist. The conversation she overheard in the drugstore, the exchange between this Mrs. Bonniface and the pharmacist seemed destined specifically for her enlightenment. And Friday morning, when she woke and saw the fog thick outside her windows, fog heavy enough to give her total cover approaching and leaving the Bonniface house, there was no decision to make. She was on her way. Not only would the fog conceal her, but the beach would be virtually empty, the tourists all in bed, warm in their motel rooms, or bundled up drinking hot coffee in the little restaurants. And the cops, with minimal beach attendance, wouldn't put out a full patrol.

  In the drugstore, Mrs. Bonniface, whom she had seen around town, of course, had been standing at the pharmacy counter waiting for a prescription. Bonniface was a big name in Molena Point-he was the founding partner of Bonniface, Storker, and Kline. Dorothy Bonniface was thirtysomething, one of those beautifully groomed blondes, perfect haircut and professional makeup, one of those women who could walk into the Ritz Carleton wearing out-of-style jeans and a worn-out sweatshirt and still have the entire staff falling over themselves to serve her.

  Mrs. Bonniface, standing at the pharmacy counter, had told the druggist conversationally that Donald was in Japan wrapping up a sales contract with some Sony subsidiary, that he would be home a week from Friday. They talked about little Jamie's cough, which was not bad enough to keep her out of school. The prescription was for Jamie. She said the other two children were just fine, she was on her way to pick them up from school and drop them at a birthday party. Her shopping list, lying on the counter beside her, included a flat of pansies and a flat of petunias and six flats of ajuga ground cover, presumably from the local nursery. This meant, with any luck, that Dorothy Bonniface might be spending the next morning in her garden, putting in the tender plants, leaving her house unattended.

  She had left the pharmacy, walking out behind Mrs. Bonniface, feeling high, a delicious surge of excitement. She had stopped in at the Coffee Mill two doors away to look up the Bonniface address in the Molena Point phone book.

  There were three Bonnifaces; she knew they were related. The Donald Bonnifaces lived at 892 Shore Drive. Leaving the Coffee Mill, she got her car and took a swing by the Bonniface house, cruising slowly.

  The nicely kept two-story blue frame featured a huge patio in front, with expensive wrought-iron furniture. The handsome outdoor sitting area, walled in by glass to cut the sharp sea wind, reached to within ten feet of the sidewalk, and was given privacy by a row of pyracanthas. The entry walk, the lawn, and the flower beds were to the right of this, with a wide expanse of bare earth where some kind of bedding plants had recently been removed.

  She had glimpsed behind the house another bricked terrace, sheltered by a series of freestanding walls, these supporting espaliered bushes, and offering privacy from the neighbors' windows. As there were openings between them, it was a perfect setup. She could park on the back street a block away and slip through the neighbors' yards and into the Bonniface yard calling for her lost kitty.

  Friday morning she did just that: parked on the back street and wandered on through, calling softly for Kitty. She was certain no one noticed her moving through the fog; she could hardly see the neighbors' flower beds and fences. Approaching the Bonniface house, she wandered innocently to the back steps.

  Wiping the damp from her feet, she surveyed what she could see of the neighbors' windows, which wasn't much. But no one was watching. She tapped lightly at the back door, though she didn't expect an answer. As she drove by the front, she had seen Dorothy Bonniface already on her knees in the dirt, hard at work setting out her petunias. The woman was an early riser. The pansies were already in place, perky and bright in the pale fog; and the flat of ajuga stood waiting. There was no car in the drive, as if a maid might be working within, and no car nearby on the street. Most Molena Point families, except for those with estates in the hills, hired help only for housecleaning and to assist at dinner parties.

  No one answered her knock. She tapped again, hoping she wouldn't be heard from the front yard, and after a safe interval she turned the knob. The door was unlocked. Smiling, she slipped inside.

  Dorothy Bonniface had left the coffeepot on, and the cooking brew smelled as strong as boiled shoe polish. The morning paper lay folded on the table as if Mrs. Bonniface had saved it, perhaps to read during a mid-morning coffee break. The kitchen was handsome, all creamy tile, deep blue walls, and whitewashed oak cabinets. Under one of the upper cabinets was installed a nice little miniature TV set. She wiggled it in its bracket. Yes, it would slip right out. And, in the fog, it wouldn't be too noticeable beneath her tan raincoat.

  She'd get it as she left. Moving on into the dining room, she spent a few minutes assessing the Spode and crystal in the china cabinet. These items weren't much good unless she took a whole set, and she had no way to carry so much. The china was lovely. Maybe she'd come back later, load up her car, do things a bit differently for a change.

  Down the hall, the master bedroom faced the front, opening with sliding doors onto the glassed terrace. Standing at the dresser, she broke the lock on Dorothy Bonniface's jewel chest and surveyed an impressive collection of gold and diamond earrings, amethyst and emerald chokers, a topaz pendant, a few gold bracelets. Dorothy Bonniface liked color, though all the pieces were delicate and in good taste. She was lifting them out, tucking them away in the various pockets beneath her coat, when the phone rang.

  There was only one ring. When the phone stilled without ringing again,
a stab of alarm touched her. Had Mrs. Bonniface come into the house? Had she been passing the phone when it rang?

  But when she stepped to the bedroom window, she saw Mrs. Bonniface still kneeling on the walk, talking on a remote, holding the phone gingerly so not to dirty it with her soiled gardening glove. Her trowel lay in the half-empty box of petunia plants. She was not speaking, now, but listening. She glanced once toward the house, glanced up the street, and made a short reply. When she hung up, she rose and headed for the front door, studying the living-room windows.

  At the porch she removed her shoes, stepping through the front door in her stocking feet. Someone had snitched, some nosy neighbor.

  Moving fast down the hall and through the kitchen as Dorothy Bonniface crossed the living room, she slipped quickly out the back door, moved quickly away through the fog-shrouded backyards. Softly calling the cat, she glanced around toward the neighbors' indistinct windows, wondering which busybody little housewife had made that phone call.

  Ambling around through a neighbor's garden to the street, she moved slowly down the sidewalk, still calling for Kitty, but wanting to get out of there fast. She was half-wired with nerves, and half-strung with amusement. Heading through the fog for her car, she glanced back several times.

  The houses behind her had nearly vanished.

  She had not brought the blue Honda, and she had put a Nevada plate on this car, along with half a dozen bumper stickers pointing up worthwhile wonders to be seen around Nevada. She had applied the stickers with rubber cement so she could tear them off in a hurry.

  She drove eight blocks up the beach to where the houses ended, where the dunes rambled away to the south. Getting out, she left the engine running as she removed the stickers and stuffed them in her purse. Then she headed for the village and across it to The Bakery, craving a cup of coffee and a chocolate donut.

  She left her coat and slouch hat in the car and changed her shoes. In the restaurant she chose a veranda table, where she could enjoy the fog-muffled sea. She ordered, then headed for the rest room.

  In the little cubicle she tore the bumper stickers into tiny pieces and flushed them away, then worked her loose hair into a knot.

  Returning to her table, to her steaming coffee and an incredibly sticky, nut-covered donut, she got her first look at the morning edition of the Molena Point Gazette.

  The paper lay on the next table; she nearly had palpitations before the occupant left, and she could snag the front page.

  The Molena Point Gazette paid little attention to world events. People could buy the San Francisco Chronicle or Examiner for that. Village news, the small local stories, that was what sold the Gazette. Yesterday evening's paper, putting Max Harper down about missing the open grave, had been sufficiently amusing. But this article in the morning edition, though it, too, put down Harper-and that pleased her-this article did not cheer her. She felt, in fact, a chill depression, an emotion which perhaps had taken some time to build, and which she did not care to examine closely.

  She might enjoy this newspaper column later, about the cat burglar, and she would certainly save it, but at the moment it presented only a personal warning. And though maybe it wasn't that warning alone that frightened her, whatever emotions caused this hollowness in her belly, she knew it was time to go, time to leave Molena Point.

  CAT BURGLAR ON THE PROWL

  The recent rash of Molena Point burglaries, police report, are very likely attributable to a shabbily dressed old lady that local police have dubbed "The Cat Burglar" but whom they have not been able to apprehend. Captain Max Harper was not able to explain to reporters the failure of his officers to arrest the lone woman who has entered and burglarized more than a dozen Molena Point homes.

  As the woman prowls Molena Point neighborhoods, she pretends to be looking for her lost cat. If questioned, she gives a plausible story about the escape of the cat from her car. The woman's operation is not unique to Molena Point. Within the past year, she has burglarized countless homes in cities up and down the coast, including San Diego, La Jolla, Ventura, Santa Barbara, Paso Robles, San Luis Obispo, and smaller towns between. She is in and out of a house so quickly she seems to move like a cat herself, as silently and with as furtive intentions.

  To date, in Molena Point, she has burglarized fifteen homes. None of the stolen items has been recovered. And while Captain Harper has been unable to apprehend her, he warns homeowners to keep their doors locked even when they are at home, either inside or working in their yards.

  "This is the time of year when everyone likes their doors open to enjoy the spring breeze," Harper said. "Leaving a door unlocked is an invitation. The old lady will wander the neighborhood where people are working in their gardens or enjoying their swimming pool. She slips into the house quickly, looking for jewelry, cash, and small collector's items. If she is discovered inside by a surprised homeowner, she claims to be looking for her lost cat."

  Besides cash and jewelry, she favors expensive cameras, the more expensive brands of small electronic equipment, and she has been known to take small pieces of artwork. Missing from the home of John Eastland on Mission Drive is a complete set of rare ivory chess pieces, and from an unnamed residence in the hills, five valuable, limited edition collector's dolls of unusual beauty. From the Elaine Carver residence the woman has stolen a small etching by Goya valued at a hundred thousand dollars, and for which there is a generous reward. The rash of burglaries is an unfortunate stain on the reputation of Molena Point. Anyone having information about the identity of the woman, or about the stolen items, should contact Captain Harper of the Molena Point Police.

  She set down her coffee cup, staring at the newspaper. Mrs. Garver's claim of a missing Goya so amazed her she had almost choked. There had never been a Goya. She'd seen no etching by Goya in that house, nor had she seen any valuable artwork there. The woman was flat lying. Planning to rip off her insurance company for a cool hundred thousand, and using her as the patsy.

  The fact that someone would piggyback a scam of that magnitude on her own modest operation was both annoying and, in a way, flattering. But then she started to get mad-mad that this Garver woman would set up a poor little old bag lady to take the rap for a hundred-thousand-dollar painting.

  The idea so angered her that by the time she finished her coffee and paid her bill, she was seething. The woman wasn't going to get away with this.

  Returning to the ladies' room, she dropped a quarter in the pay phone and called the Molena Point PD.

  She was able to reach Max Harper himself, and told him there was never any Goya etching. "I expect the Garvers' insurance agent will be pleased to have that information." And because she was feeling so mad, and because she had to prove to Harper that she spoke the truth, she gave him a complete list of the items she had taken from the Garver house, gave him a far more detailed accounting than was in the paper.

  Hanging up the phone, she stood a moment, letting her pounding heart slow. Then she got out of there fast.

  In the car she pulled on her coat again, against the chill of the fog, and headed on through the village. That insurance company would nip Mrs. Garver's scam, jerk her up short. And as far as Harper tracing her phone call, he hadn't had time. She knew how long such a thing took; she'd researched phone tracing carefully. Anyway, she'd be out of here in a day or two, and on up the coast. With cat burglar smeared all over the front page, the whole village was alerted, she didn't dare hang around. Just a few loose ends to take care of, and she'd be gone. In Molena Point she'd be history.

  27

  Max Harper left the police station at mid-morning, heading up the hills to have another look around the Prior estate. He didn't intend to pull into the Prior drive in his police unit. He thought he'd stop by his place, saddle Buck, and take a ride. He'd been using Buck all week to quarter the hills above the residential areas, looking for human bones or a shallow grave. And he could do with a break this morning, get out of the station for a few hours. The m
orning had not started out well, everything he'd touched seeming as murky and vague as the fog itself. Driving slowly uphill through the thick mist, he went over this morning's and last night's phone calls, looking for some detail he might have missed.

  He had come in just before eight, parking in his reserved slot in the lot behind the station. He was pouring his first cup of coffee when his phone buzzed. The caller was a woman; she wouldn't give her name. She told him that Elaine Garver had lied about the Goya etching, said there was no etching. He couldn't dismiss the call; the woman gave him a detailed list of stolen items, information that only the Garvers or the burglar herself could know-or one of his own people, and that wasn't likely. If he prided himself on anything, it was on the quality and honesty of his officers, in a world where that wasn't always the case. Nothing made him as deeply angry as hearing some report about a bad cop, about someone's inner departmental decay.

  When the anonymous caller hung up, too quickly to trace, Wilma Getz was on another line. She wanted to come in with the little Thurwell girl, see him for a few minutes. She said just enough to make him uneasy, make him think the problem might be tied in with Susan Dorriss's phone call late last night.

  He would never peg Susan Dorriss as one to pass on wild stories, any more than he would think of Wilma that way. Yet the story Susan gave him was the same wild tale he'd heard weeks ago from that Casa Capri patient, little Mrs. Mae Rose.

  Last night, Susan had called from her daughter's car phone, sitting in the parking lot of Casa Capri. Said she didn't want to use a phone inside Casa Capri. She had called her daughter at about ten, and Bonnie came on down and wheeled her out to the car.

  Susan had called Bonnie just after Mae Rose came to her with the note she had supposedly found inside an old doll, a note from the woman Mae thought was missing, from Jane Hubble. Susan said the note and the doll smelled musty from being closed up in a locked closet. His immediate reaction was, what was he supposed to do about a note some old lady found inside a doll? And maybe he'd been short with Susan. When she read the note to him, his temper flared. He'd wanted to say, maybe it was something in the water up at Casa Capri that made everyone nuts, that he'd rather deal with any kind of straightforward crime than some groundless mystery that had just enough truth to turn him edgy. And when Susan told him about seeing Teddy Prior get out of his wheelchair and walk, that set him back. Everyone knew Teddy was incurably crippled-everyone thought they knew that.