“How did she know about the mural?” Kit said, licking a smear of turkey from her whiskers.
“She worked there,” Joe said. “She worked as a housecleaner for the Patty Rose Home, early in the fall. She cleaned up the old studio after the Home bought it.”
“But the mural was hidden,” Kit said. “How…?”
“Some old book about Anna Stanhope that Betty read when she worked in a gallery in Oregon. It said Anna had completed a mural that had never been on exhibit or listed with any collector. Some collector had looked for it, years ago, on the Stanhope estate. Betty got curious, came down here, and got a job there so she could nose around. She said she pried off a part of the wall, and then patched it.”
“She told Harper all that,” Dulcie said, lying down in a patch of sun, “to protect that no-good brother?”
“She did,” Joe said. “Well, Dorothy Street will soon have the mural back where it belongs.”
“I wonder,” Dulcie said, “will they install it in the school, in the main hall? Or sell it to pay for work on the new classrooms? A valuable mural that the school never knew they had.”
“I thought you were the art lover. When did you get so money conscious?”
“When I saw how hard Dorothy works to support the school. You think this playhouse contest is just for fun? She’s hoping that enough of the builders will donate their houses to the school as tax write-offs so when they’re auctioned, the school can add to the trust fund. You know she has a long list of homeless children waiting.”
Joe did know. It was hard for the state to adopt out older children when, say, something had happened to their parents. Joe yawned. Full of turkey and warmed by the morning sun, he was thinking of a short nap when Dulcie nudged him. “They’ll be gathering for the award.”
Kit was already scrambling up the jasmine vine to the roof, and by the time Joe flipped over and raced up behind them, she and Dulcie were gone, flying across the peaks. This was Lori and Dillon’s big day, and no one wanted to miss it.
They arrived to see the grounds nearly as crowded as when the playhouses were being assembled, but totally different. No trucks or forklifts, now, lumbering among the gardens. No racket of tools and engines. Only Christmas carols from a sound system on the mansion’s balcony, the shouts and laughter of children, and, risen overnight like a Lilliputian city across the lawns and among the gardens, dozens and dozens of bright and amazing playhouses. The cats wanted to explore every one, running in and out as the children were doing, climbing and laughing.
“There’s Corlie,” Dulcie said, watching the child scramble into a castle tower six feet off the ground. This was the first time the cats had heard her laugh. Juana Davis and Cora Lee stood smiling up at her; but beside them, Lori and Dillon looked wilted. This castle playhouse was far larger and more elegant than their house, and it had not only two crenellated stone towers but a stone wall with arrow niches and a drawbridge that left the girls looking sour and defeated.
“It’s overdone,” Dulcie said. “Can’t they see that?”
“Come on,” Joe said. “It’s impressive. You have to be realistic.”
“I like theirs better,” Kit said loyally.
The crowd began to move toward the balcony of the mansion, where Dorothy Street stood with two men. “We’ll know soon enough,” Dulcie said nervously, watching the girls as they hurried toward the balcony and up the stairs where the contestants were gathering. Davis and Cora Lee followed, walking slowly with Corlie between them; and as the cats scrambled into a pear tree, they saw the girls appear at the back of the balcony clutching each other’s hands as Dorothy Street moved the microphone.
The thank-yous and introductions took a long time, and made Lori and Dillon, as well as the cats, fidget with impatience. When at last Dorothy announced the winner, the local contractor who had built the grand castle, and when she turned to beckon him forward, Lori and Dillon turned away from the crowd, long-faced. Cora Lee hurried up the stairs to be with them; but the cats slunk away into the bushes, their own hearts heavy, too.
“I was so sure,” Dulcie said.
“They were so sure,” Joe said sadly, but with a hint of feline disapproval. He might have said the girls had counted their catch too soon. Wisely, he kept his mouth shut.
“There’s still the auction,” Kit said hopefully, lashing her fluffy tail. “That castle’s all for show. The kids all liked Lori and Dillon’s bright house better, with all its decks and holes and ins and outs. I bet it sells for a bundle.” And she scowled out of the bushes, at the winner, her ears and whiskers plastered to her head, her yellow eyes glaring.
40
T HE STAGE OF Molena Point Little Theater was framed with evergreens, and five Christmas trees stood tall behind the white-robed choir; Cora Lee French, the evening’s soloist, was brightly robed in Christmas red.
Cora Lee had reserved, for her friends, a spacious box looking down over the audience to the stage. Only the three cats were seated higher than any human, up among the shadows near the ceiling, comfortably sprawled along a rafter, warm and snug in their exclusive aerie.
In the friends’ private box, little Corlie French sat at the front with Lori Reed, Detective Davis, Captain Harper, and Charlie. Charlie was dressed in emerald velvet, her red hair piled high and caught with a holly sprig. Ryan, seated behind her, wore white fleece and sported a white bandage wound rakishly around her head. Clyde sat on her left, Dallas to her right, his sport coat lumpy with his own hospital wrappings. Wilma, the senior ladies, and the Greenlaws filled the last rows, dressed in a rainbow of Christmas colors. The cats, looking down past their friends’ box, could see the top of Dillon Thurwell’s red head where she sat with her parents. None of the audience looked up among the rafters to discover three cats perched above them-or almost no one.
Wilma looked up once, and grinned; Charlie and Clyde looked, and then Ryan glanced up but immediately looked away again, as if shifting position to ease her aching head. The cats watched her warily.
“Do you think she knows?” Dulcie whispered. “Oh, she couldn’t.”
“Don’t go imagining things,” Joe told her. But, watching Ryan, Joe felt tense and uncertain, too. “She can’t know,” he said reassuringly. “Ryan isn’t…” But then, recalling his argument with Clyde, he shut up and said no more. Had Clyde told Ryan? Oh, hell, he wouldn’t do that.
But, thinking of this, Joe crouched there on the rafter in the darkened theater, silent and uncomfortable, wondering.
Dulcie looked at him, frowning, but then she turned away, giving herself to the music, to the Christmas hymns and carols that had been beloved by humans for so many centuries. Whatever Ryan might have guessed, she thought, there was nothing they could do about it, and her little niggling worry lost itself in the cascades of magnificent Christmas music, in the joyous paeans to a power greater than anyone on earth could really understand. She didn’t speak, and there was not a sound from the audience below her. And when at last the concert had ended and the stage lights went up, still everyone sat hushed, bathed in the afterglow.
And then applause rang through the rafters so violently that the cats spun around on their beam and raced away, back into the lighting booth, escaping the deafening thunder. Running through the dim and shadowed booth, leaping tangles of cable and wires that seemed as threatening as land mines, they fled out through the window they’d left unlatched, to the cold silence of the roof-to the almost silence.