Kate wasn't one to make small talk. When she spoke, it was in strange, rhyming words. Words that clung like honey in the cats' minds. At the rich sounds a tingling dizziness filled Joe. The shadows tilted. He thought he was falling, he clawed at the foliage to steady himself.
But soon his dizziness was gone. Nothing more happened. He crouched in alarm, his stub tail tucked down, his ears flat.
He hadn't liked the feeling of being out of control, of being pulled away from himself. For a minute he'd felt like some vaporized sci-fi hero zapped away into another dimension.
If that was part of the program, he'd pass, thank you. He glanced at Dulcie. She, too, had remained herself. She did not look happy.
Dulcie had felt nothing at all. She could have gotten a better buzz from a sprig of catnip.
The cream cat tried again, repeating the bright rhyme, but still nothing happened. Joe and Dulcie remained small and four-footed.
The cream cat's eyes narrow, puzzled, then widened. Standing within the thick shadows, she said the words a third time and this time she allowed herself to change. She was suddenly tall, her hair tangled in the vine, her blouse caught on the twigs.
The cats stared up at her. Dulcie's green eyes were huge with envy.
Kate said, "Did you feel nothing?"
Joe felt relief. He had no desire to do that stuff. One try was more than he wanted. He was a cat- he had everything he needed just as he was. His human thoughts, his human talents, his ability to read and speak, worked just fine in his own gray fur. He had the best of both worlds. He was Joe Grey, enjoying his human talents without human entanglements. Free and unencumbered.
But Dulcie was crushed. When she realized she couldn't change, she had crouched, desolate, her ears down, her tail tucked under.
Joe nuzzled her and licked her face, but she couldn't respond.
Ever since the day in the automotive yard when she saw, within Kate's eyes, a cat looking back at her, when she saw the astonishing truth of what was possible, she had allowed herself magnificent dreams.
Visions of becoming tall and dark-haired and beautiful, visions of her green-eyed human self, had driven and excited her. She had imagined going out to fancy restaurants, attending the symphony and plays, had dreamed of dancing, of slipping into silk cocktail dresses and spike heels, into little satin bras and lace panties. "Try again," she whispered.
Kate tried. Dulcie tried with her, repeating the words as Kate said them. But it was no use. Dulcie remained a cat. A tear slid down her fur, a human tear.
Kate knelt in the shadows beside her, touching Dulcie's face. "There could be other spells. Maybe another spell…"
"Maybe," Dulcie said, not believing it. "Maybe…"
But then she looked at Joe. Cocking her head, she saw for the first time how relieved he was. She'd been too busy with her own disappointment to see him brighten when Kate's words didn't work. She reached to lick his nose. "Why?" she said, pressing close to him. "Why don't you want to change?"
He nibbled an itch on his paw, and gave her a long, unblinking look. "We're like nothing else, Dulcie. You and I and Kate-and maybe a few others somewhere. We are unique."
"So?" She waited, puzzled.
"I want to enjoy what I have. Don't you see? I like the change just as it is. I've been having a ball." His eyes were bright, intense. "I liked being a special cat. I like being a cat. I like my new skills, but most of all I like what I am."
She tried to understand. He was aware, sentient, yet totally feline. And he was perfectly happy.
She was quiet for a long time.
At last she touched Kate's hand with her paw. "No more spells," she said softly. And she pressed against Joe, purring. If Joe was content, then maybe she would be, too. Maybe this was the better way. She would try his way, and see how she felt about it. Try enjoying this new life just as she was-while she went on stealing silk teddies.
28
Once a year Jolly's Deli held a party in the alley. George Jolly and his staff set up tables and chairs along the brick lane, and out along the sidewalk, and served an elegant cold buffet of their specialty salads, cold roast turkey and pastrami and roast beef, and assorted cheeses and breads and desserts. The annual affair was a big event in Molena Point, a time for neighbors to get together. Even the village cats could party if they cared to brave the noisy crowd. George Jolly himself arranged leftovers for the cats on a row of paper plates beside the back door.
This year, so soon after Samuel Beckwhite's murder, many villagers assumed that Jolly would postpone or cancel the event, but he did not. What better way to dispel the ugly memories of what had occurred in the alley than to fill the lane with good cheer and comradery.
Though the case was not yet closed, though portions of the investigation were still under way, the shock and overwrought publicity had subsided, and the Molena Point Gazette had relegated any new developments to the third page.
Lee Wark had been booked for murder, for grand theft auto, and for passing counterfeit bills. Jimmie Osborne's charges were similar, but he was booked as an accomplice to the murder of Samuel Beckwhite.
The murder weapon, a British-made torque wrench, had turned up on the seat of a patrol car which had been left unlocked for a moment in the station parking lot. The weapon was wrapped in a plastic bag. The plastic had been buried; it was stained with garden soil. The police lab identified the dirt as coming from a garden that grew marigolds. That could be half the gardens in Molena Point. The lab was trying to pinpoint the exact location of the garden, but that would take some time. They did find on the wrench traces of Beckwhite's blood. And they found Lee Wark's prints superimposed over Clyde Damen's prints. Damen had identified the wrench as among the tools stolen shortly before the murder, from his automotive repair shop.
A pair of thin rubber gloves was found in Wark's car, and sent to the lab. Captain Harper said that it wasn't uncommon for fingerprints to go right through the thin, surgical rubber. Wark's prints, plus testimony by the woman who had been in the alley the night of the murder, would be enough to indict the Welshman for Beckwhite's death. The witness saw Wark hit Beckwhite and she saw Beckwhite fall.
"And it wasn't a man, after all," Joe said.
Dulcie widened her eyes. "How could I tell it was a woman, in the pitch-dark? I couldn't smell her, my nose was so full of the scent of jasmine I couldn't have smelled a rotting fish."
But even with the weapon and the killer's prints accounted for, the investigation was not complete. Evidence led police to believe that Beckwhite had been a knowing accomplice in the sale of stolen cars, and that matter was still under scrutiny. Sheril Beckwhite swore to police that her husband didn't know about the counterfeit money, nor did she. Sheril had been indicted as an accomplice to the theft of the cars, but not as an accomplice in her husband's murder. That, too, was still under investigation. The common assumption around the village was that, even if she was convicted for car theft, Sheril would get probation.
Beckwhite's funeral had been an impressive occasion. He had been put to rest with mountains of flowers and an endless parade of mourners. The funeral entourage, which ran heavily to gleaming foreign cars, was so long that for two hours the entire village had to be cordoned off by the police, effectively preventing entry into Molena Point even from Highway One.