Cat Raise the Dead

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  She froze, staring.

  Eyeballs. The drawer contained human eyes.

  Pairs of eyes lay jumbled together, blue eyes, green, light brown, hazel. Each pair had been placed inside a tiny transparent box. Some were faded, their color drained away at the outer rim to a ring of foggy white. Her heart raced.

  These were not disembodied human eyeballs.

  She sat down and coolly regarded the little pairs of contact lenses.

  "What's with you?" Joe said from the floor below. Rearing up below the dressing table, he had pawed open its larger drawers. She looked down into a drawer full of neatly folded nighties, soft and beautifully made, with high, ruffled necklines. Tucked into the corner of the drawer were several pairs of neatly folded gloves, white cotton gloves.

  They could no longer hear the vacuum cleaner; for some time the upstairs rooms had been silent. Joe pushed the drawer closed and leaped up beside her, to the dresser. Tramping heavy-pawed among the delicate bottles, he posed before the mirror, twitching a whisker, giving her a toothy grin. Panning and turning, he glanced over his shoulder, studying his stub tail and his tomcat equipment. She hadn't known he was such a ham.

  She had known cats who were afraid of mirrors. And, of course, a kitten's first experience with its own reflection puzzled and frightened it. She knew a cat once who, when he was laughed at for growling at his mirror image, leaped to the lap of his tormentor and slapped her face.

  Leaving Joe leering and clowning, she left the dressing table and approached the adjoining room, which she could see through the open door. It was a huge space, and bare, nearly empty. Bare floor, bare walls, hardly any furniture. A room so hollow that her startled mewl bounced back at her in a sharp echo.

  At first glance, the vast space looked like the set for a low-budget science-fiction film. Five tall metal tripods stood about like spindly space aliens. The only other furniture was a hospital bed, with its nightstand, alone in the far corner.

  The bed was neatly made up with a white blanket, the corners tucked under with rigid precision. Over the metal headboard hung a gray electrical cord fixed with a squeeze button so a nurse could be summoned. There was a clip-on light, too, like the ones used at Casa Capri, and a stand for an IV bottle.

  Joe, having abandoned his multiple reflections, trotted in and pressed against her, his warmth and solidity suddenly very comforting. She did not like this room.

  He scowled at the bed, his ears back. "Does Renet keep some patient here? One of the missing women?"

  She shivered; they stood looking at the bed as if a patient might suddenly materialize beneath the smooth covers, a pale, thin figure softly moaning. Standing on their hind legs, they sniffed the bed warily. They could smell nothing but laundry soap.

  Each of Renet's three rooms-bedroom, the peculiar dressing room, and this hollow chamber-had its own detached balcony. Perhaps at one time these had all been separate bedrooms, had been joined together for Renet's convenience. Another solid door led from this room, the smells beneath it were of fresh air and newly cut grass. They sniffed deeply.

  "Must be an outside stairway," Joe said. "I think we're above the kitchen." He leaped for the knob and swung. It turned, but the door was locked with a dead bolt. They sniffed beneath it again, a good lungful of fresh air, then returned to the dressing room.

  Approaching the door that closed away the sharp chemicals, again Joe leaped, clamping his paws on the knob. Swinging and pushing, he managed to force the door open.

  The room was small and windowless, very dark. As their eyes adjusted, they could see another metal table; it occupied most of the space. Along the back wall stretched a counter with drawers below and shelves above. Four red lightbulbs hung over it, and Dulcie could just make out the switch, beside the door.

  Three leaps, and the red lights shone like canned fire. The blaze turned her paws pink, stained Joe's white face and white markings to the color of thin blood. The shelves held gallon jugs reeking of developer, their labels clearly visible. Leaping up to the stainless-steel sink, the cats balanced on the edge.

  "That's the printer, there on the table," Joe said. "And, I think, an enlarger."

  Clawing open cupboards, they found four big cameras, and when they pawed into a long, thin drawer, it contained slick photographic paper. A deeper drawer held hanging files filled with negatives in plastic envelopes, items nearly too slick for paws and claws. They managed to pull out several with their teeth. All were portraits of people, but the reversed images showed faces strange and unnatural. The strong smells in the warm enclosed space were beginning to dizzy the cats.

  "So this," Joe said, "is where Renet printed the pictures of Mary Nell Hook. If the pictures were taken here, in that hospital bed, if they're keeping that old woman here, we'd better look for her." He leaped to the cold metal table, stood licking his shoulder. "A darkroom, a hospital bed, that elaborate dressing table…"

  "The sod in the graveyard," Dulcie said. "The missing finger… Like parts of a puzzle that all seem to fit, but when you try to put them together, the key piece is missing."

  She felt, not enlightened by the varied bits of information, but as if they'd lost their way.

  "It takes time," Joe said. "Like playing with a mouse. Let it run free, then catch it again. Maybe you have to play with the facts. Let them run free, catch them from another angle."

  "There's a car pulling up the drive."

  He heard it and stiffened. They both came to attention as the car stopped beside the house, near the kitchen.

  The car door slammed. Footsteps came up the back stair, keys jingling. They leaped together at the light switch as they heard the dead bolt slide back, felt a suck of wind as the door opened.

  31

  The fog was breaking apart, blowing in tatters. Pulling Buck up, beside a stand of eucalyptus trees, Max Harper watched a black Toyota come up the Prior drive and around the house toward the kitchen. A gray-haired woman got out, probably one of the maids returning from an errand. He could hear no sound now from within the house-the radio and the vacuum cleaner were silent.

  He had ridden in a circle around the Prior land along its outer perimeter, crossing the long drive down the hill, then making a second pass closer to the house, looking for any sign where the ground might be disturbed, any sign of digging, just as he had searched every foot of these hills. Though very likely forensics would identify the finger as belonging to Dolores Fernandez.

  He wondered how a venerable member of the Spanish aristocracy would view the vandalism and dismemberment of her ancient, frail remains.

  Maybe Senora Fernandez wouldn't care, maybe what happened to her earthly self would mean nothing to her now-or maybe would even amuse her.

  He pressed Buck in the direction of the cemetery though Buck wanted to shy, began to fuss, didn't want to approach the shadowed grove. When Harper forced him on, the gelding tried to whirl away, snorting rollers. Buck was seldom spooky, and never without cause. He kept ducking and staring into the grove.

  Buck's nervous attention was fixed on a spot where three old thick trees stood close together, casting heavy shadows. Harper could see nothing moving there, but Buck was watching something. Max heard, behind him, the car door slam, then footsteps going up the outside stairway at the far end of the house, and in a minute he heard a door open and close. He forced Buck to the edge of the grove, where the gelding tried again to whirl away, snorting and staring like some green colt. Max squinted into the shadows between the heavy oaks, pressed Buck on, amused by their stubborn-willed contest. He seldom had a problem with Buck. But suddenly the breeze changed. Came sharper. And he knew what was wrong with the horse.

  He caught the smell himself, the smell of rotting flesh.

  Frowning, he let Buck spin around and move away, and at the far end of the grove, upwind from the stink, he swung out of the saddle. Undoing his rope, he made a halter of it and tied the gelding to an oak tree.

  He stayed with Buck, talking to him until the
gelding calmed, then left him. Walking slowly, he quartered the cemetery around the old graves, looking. Could not pinpoint the source of the putrid scent as it shifted on the wind, could see no sign of digging, but as he neared the three close-growing trees, the smell came so strong it gagged him.

  The only thing that looked out of place on that smooth turf was the heap of dry leaves piled against a tree.

  Poking around with a branch, he found a small portion of earth disturbed beneath the leaves and, scraping the leaves aside, digging into the dirt, his stick hit something unnaturally soft, something that wasn't earth.

  He knelt, gently brushed soil and leaves away with the tip the branch, uncovered a small lump of what looked like rotting flesh, a dark and stinking mess buried in a shallow hole. Covering his nose and mouth with his glove, he knelt to look closer.

  It appeared to be hamburger, chopped meat of some kind. And he could smell, besides the rotting meat, the distinctive scent of cyanide.

  He had found not a body as he'd expected, but a lump of poison bait.

  And as he knelt studying the meat and the disturbed earth, he saw not only scrape marks from digging, but faint pawprints-as if perhaps some animal had been after the meat, and had been frightened away.

  Except, the pawprints were under the leaves, not indentations on top. These animal tracks had been made before the leaves were scraped over.

  Had some animal buried the stinking mess and scraped leaves over it?

  Exploring further, he found where the bait had originally lain, some two feet from where it was buried.

  What kind of animal would move rotten meat and bury it? Would dig a hole, push the meat in, and scrape dirt and leaves over it?

  Cats buried offal, buried their own offensive mess.

  He stood looking into the gloom of the cemetery, then fished his handkerchief from his back pocket and, with the stick, scraped the cyanide-laced meat into it.

  Leaving Buck tied, carrying the rotten meat, he headed for the old adobe stable, where he could hear a hose swishing and could glimpse, through the open gates to the stable's inner courtyard, the caretaker at work, hosing off the wheels of the big riding mower. Moving quickly, Harper stepped inside the big double gates.

  32

  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.

  33

  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.