Bernine had put aside the financial page. "Can't you board it somewhere?" she asked coldly. "Surely there are kennels for cats."
"First thing I told Greeley, but he wouldn't hear of it."
Bernine shrugged and returned to the newspaper. Dulcie, fascinated, sniffed at Mavity's uniform searching for the cat's scent.
But she could smell only the nose-itching jolt of Mavity's gardenia-scented bath powder. Leaping to the floor, she sniffed of Mavity's shoes.
No hint of cat there. Mavity's white leather oxfords smelled of shoe polish and of a marigold Mavity must have stepped on coming up the walk; the flower's golden color was streaked up the white leather. Frustrated with her inability to scent the strange tomcat, she curled up again on the couch, quietly regarding Mavity.
"I told Greeley that cat could do its business outdoors. Why ever not, when I live right there on the edge of a whole marsh full of sand? But no, even if the cat goes outside, it still has to have a fresh sandbox, right there in the kitchen. Talk about spoiled-talk about stink.
"I told Greeley it's his job to change the sand, go down to the marsh and get fresh sand, but I have to keep telling and telling him. And to top it off, the cat has sprayed all over my furniture- the whole house reeks of it. Oh, my, what a mess. I'll never get it clean. Why do tomcats do that?"
Dulcie almost choked with suppressed laughter. She daren't look at Joe for fear she'd lose control.
"Well, in spite of that beast, it's good to have Greeley. It's been four years since he was here. After all, Greeley and Dora and Ralph-they're all the family I have."
Mavity grinned. "I guess my little car will hold the two of them and the luggage; it always has before." She glanced at Bernine and reached to stroke Dulcie. "It's not every day your only family comes for a visit."
Swallowing back her amusement, Dulcie rolled over, her paws waving in the air. Mavity was so dear-she could complain one minute, then turn around and do something thoughtful. She had cooked all week, making cakes and casseroles for Greeley and his daughter and son-in-law so they would enjoy their stay.
Dulcie didn't realize she was smiling until Wilma scowled a sharp warning and rose hastily, pulling Mavity up.
"The frittata's done," Wilma said. "It will burn. Let's take up breakfast." She headed for the kitchen, urging Mavity along, shooting Dulcie such a stern look of warning that Dulcie flipped over, flew off the couch, bolted through the house to the bedroom and under Wilma's bed.
Crouched in the dark she swallowed back a mewing laugh-at Mavity, and at Wilma's look of anger because she'd been smiling- trying not to laugh out loud. It was terrible to have to stifle her amusement. Didn't Wilma understand how hard that was? Sometimes, Dulcie thought, she might as well plaster a Band-Aid over her whiskers.
Lying on her back on the thick bedroom rug, staring up at the underside of the box springs, she considered Greeley and his tomcat.
Were these two the burglars?
But that was not possible. It would never happen, the solution to a crime fall into their furry laps as easy as mice dumped from a cage.
Last night she and Joe had followed the old man and Azrael clear across the village before they lost them. Keeping to the darkest shadows, they had tailed them to the busy edge of Highway One, had drawn back warily from the cars whizzing by-had watched the cat leap to the old man's shoulder and the man run across between the fast vehicles where no sensible animal would venture.
Pausing on the curb, their noses practically in the line of fast cars and breathing enough carbon monoxide to put down an ox, they had argued hotly about whether to follow the two across that death trap-argued while Azrael and the old man hurried away down the block.
"You can go out there and get squashed if you want," she'd told him, "but I'm not. It's dark as pitch, those drivers can't see you, and no stupid burglar is worth being squashed into sandwich meat."
And for once she had been able to bully Joe-or for once he had shown some common sense.
But then, watching the pair hurry two blocks south and double back and cross the highway again, toward the village, their tempers blazed.
"They duped us!" Joe hissed. "Led us like two stupid kittens following a string-hoping we'd be smashed on the highway." And he crouched to race after them.
But she wasn't having any more. "We could tail them all night. As long as they know we're following, they're not about to go home."
"They have to go home sometime-have to sleep sometime."
"They'll sleep on a bench. Just see if they don't."
But Joe had shadowed them for over an hour, and she tagged along-until Joe realized that Azrael knew they were still following, knew exactly where they were on the black street, that the cat had senses like a laser.
But now-what if Mavity's brother and his cat were the burglars?
Certainly everything fit. Greeley had been here for two weeks. Both burglaries had occurred within that time. The old man looked the right age to be Mavity's brother, and, more to the point, he was small like Mavity, with the same wiry frame.
There was, Dulcie thought, a family resemblance, the deeply cleft upper lip, the same kind of dry wrinkles, the same coloring. Though Mavity's hair was gray, and the burglar's was ordinary brown, with gray coming in around his ears.
If the burglar was Greeley, then, as sure as mice had tails, he had stashed the money somewhere in Mavity's cottage. Where else would he hide it? He didn't live in Molena Point; it wasn't as if he had access to unlimited hiding places. Greeley was practically a stranger in the village.
As she flipped over, clawing with excitement into the carpet, wondering when would be the best time to slip into Mavity's cottage and search for the stolen cash, beside her the bedspread moved and Joe peered under, his yellow eyes dark and his expression smug.
"So," he whispered. "This one dropped right into our paws. Did you smell Azrael on her?"
"No, I didn't. We can't be sure…"
"Of course we're sure. There's no such thing as coincidence." He looked at her intently. "New man in town, brings his cat all the way from Panama. Why would he bring a cat all that way, unless he had some use for it? And that old burglar," Joe said, "even looks like Mavity."
Twitching a whisker, he rolled over, grinning, as pleased as any human cop who'd run the prints and come up with a positive ID.
7
CHARLIE HAULED the last duffle from her van and dumped it in Wilma's garage, enjoying the chill fog that pressed around the open garage and lay dense across the garden-but not enjoying, so much, shifting all her gear once again.
As a child she had loved to play "movers," filling cardboardbox "moving vans" with toys and sliding them along a route carefully planned to bring all her family and friends together into a tight little compound. At six years old, moving had satisfied a yearning need in her. At twenty-eight, hauling her worldly goods around in pasteboard boxes was right up there with having a double bypass.
Stacking her cartons of jumbled kitchen utensils and clothes against the wall beside Wilma's car, she sniffed the aroma from the kitchen, the delicious scent of ham and onions and cheese. But, hungry as she was, she didn't relish having to sit at the table with Bernine.
She considered making an excuse and skipping breakfast, but that would hurt Wilma. It wasn't Wilma's fault that Bernine had moved in uninvited; she could hardly have let the woman sleep on the street-though the image did appeal. And not only had Bernine taken over the guest room, she was sitting in there with Clyde right now, all cozy beside the fire, and Clyde hadn't made the slightest effort to come out and keep her company.
Coming home last night from the opening, she'd been on such a high, had returned Clyde's kisses with more than her usual ardor; they'd had such a good time. And now, this morning, he seemed totally distant.