Putting down her hairbrush, she turned off the video and tied a soft red scarf around her throat, tucking it beneath her white blouse. Maneuvering her wheelchair so she could pull open her door, she fastened the door in place with the little hook provided, and headed down the hall. It was time for Bonnie and Lamb, time to get out of this prison for a little while, time for a few hours of freedom.
10
The car was too hot-Joe felt steam-cooked clear to his whiskers. And the little girl's lap, on which he had been encouraged to sit, was incredibly bony and uncomfortable. Setting out in Wilma's car for Casa Capri, he hadn't expected to ride in some kid's lap; this was not part of the deal. And why would Wilma invite a twelve-year-old kid on this excursion? Was the child some new kind of pet to be added in with the dogs and cats? And did the kid have to keep petting him? Her hands were hot and damp and made him itch. Irritated out of his skull, suppressing a snarl, he crouched lower and squeezed his eyes closed.
The kid hadn't messed with Dulcie for long. One green-eyed venomous glance from the little tabby, and the girl had jerked her hand away fast.
Dulcie stood, with her paws on the dash, staring out the window totally enthralled, as she always was in a car, watching the hills, watching eagerly for the first glimpse of Casa Capri, as if the retirement villa was some really big deal, as though she'd been invited to high tea at the St. Francis or the Hyatt Regency.
Dillon Thurwell, that was the kid's name. Who would name a female child Dillon? Her black hair hung stringy and straight beneath her baseball cap. Her dark eyes were huge. She began to scratch behind his ear, but kept staring ahead expectantly as if she, too, could hardly wait to get to Casa Capri, all set for a fun afternoon.
She was dressed in jeans and one of those T-shirts that made a statement, a shirt she had obviously selected as appropriate for the occasion. Across her chest four cats approached the viewer, and on the back of the shirt, which he'd seen as she came around the car to get in, was a rear view of the same four cats walking away, as if they were stepping invisibly through the wearer's chest, their tails high, and, of course, all their fascinating equipment in plain sight.
Abandoning his ear, she began to scratch his cheek just behind his whiskers. Couldn't the little brat leave him alone? He was doing his best to be civil. It was enough that he had condescended to sit on her lap-and that only after dour looks from Dulcie and Wilma. Under her insistent scratching, he shook his head and got up, pressing his hard paws into her legs, and resettled himself dourly on her bony knees. He hated when people touched his whiskers.
But then she found that nice itchy place by his mouth, and she scratched harder, and that did feel good. Slowly, unable to help himself, he leaned his head into her hand, purring.
Wilma glanced down at the child, gave her a long look. "What made you dye your hair, Dillon? What's that all about?"
Dillon shrugged.
"I always envied your red hair; I hardly knew you today. What did your folks say?"
"Mama said I might as well get it out of my system- I cried until she had to say something." Dillon grinned. "It'll grow back, it'll be red again. I just wanted to try it."
Wilma stopped at a red light, pushed back a strand of her long gray hair, and refastened the silver clip that held it. Then, moving on with the traffic, she turned up Ocean toward the hills, following the little line of vehicles, a cortege of five cars and a white Chevy van, headed for Casa Capri.
"Come on, Dillon, what's the rest of the story?"
"What story? I don't know what you mean." The kid was cheeky, for being only twelve.
Wilma sighed. "Why change your looks the day before you join Pet-a-Pet? What's the deal here?" Wilma Getz wasn't easily taken in; she hadn't spent her professional life listening to the lies of parolees without gaining some degree of healthy skepticism.
"I just wanted to try it," Dillon repeated. "I wanted to do it now during spring break, so I can go back to school looking different. So I can get used to my new look before the kids see it." The kid was, Joe felt, talking too much. "How could my hair have anything to do with Pet-a-Pet? My friend Karen has black hair, and she's so beautiful." Her little oval face was bland as cream, her brown eyes shone wide and honest.
Wilma shrugged and gave it up, said nothing more.
Joe figured that dyeing her hair was just a stupid kid tiling, but he did wonder why Dillon had joined Pet-a-Pet. What twelve-year-old would elect to spend spring break making nice to a room full of geriatric couch potatoes? She ought to be biking or swimming or playing ball.
He knew that Dillon Thurwell was a favorite of Wilma's. Dulcie said she'd been going to the library ever since she could toddle, and when she asked to join Pet-a-Pet, Wilma was delighted. Never mind that the kid didn't have a dog or cat; she could be in charge of Clyde Damen's gray tomcat. Don't ask him, just appoint the kid surrogate cat handler for yours truly, just plan his life for him.
The little entourage of cars trundled along up a steep, narrow side street like a third-rate funeral procession, and turned into a long, private drive. Ahead, on the crest of the hill, Casa Capri sprawled in Mediterranean splendor, a one-story villa as imposing as a Spanish monastery, pale walls and red-tile roofs all shadowed beneath the requisite oak trees, its deep-set windows guarded by handsome wrought-iron grilles, their intricate curlicues designed to prevent illicit entry. Or maybe illicit escape?
On beyond the buildings, up along the hills, ran a narrow street, but there were no houses near, just the round green hills dotted with old sprawling trees. To Joe's left rose an oak wood, a little private park. He could see a path winding through it among beds of ferns, and he imagined the frail residents taking little walks there, in the cool shade, accompanied by attending nurses.
They parked at the beginning of a circular drive, and Dillon disembarked, clutching him tightly against her kitty T-shirt, holding the nape of his neck in her fist in a maneuver designed to prevent him from running away, a technique she had undoubtedly learned from some book on cat care. The full instructions would direct the handler to grip the nape of the neck firmly in one hand, grip the base of the tail in the other hand, and carry kitty away from one's body to avoid being scratched. If Dillon went that far, she'd find herself dangling two bloody stumps.
Dulcie rode limply over Wilma's shoulder, all sweetness and smiles, looking ahead to Casa Capri, her green eyes glowing with anticipation. All ready for a fun afternoon frolicking with the cat-loving elderly. Their party was made up of fourteen humans and the same number of household pets, a remarkable assortment of dogs, mostly tiny, and cats-in-arms. One small woman toted a plastic cat carrier with air holes, through which two enraged blue eyes glowered.
In the center of the circular drive was a raised fish pond with a little cupped birdbath at one side, and burbling fountain in the center, a little oasis for our aquatic and avian friends. A flock of sparrows and finches rose lazily away, birds perhaps fed by the residents until they had lost all fear of other creatures. Joe looked after them hungrily. This would be a prime hunting preserve if he could ditch the Pet-a-Pet crowd.
Flanking the walk and drive, regiments of stiff bird-of-paradise plants grew, their dark leaves thrusting up like swords, their red and orange bird heads turned stiffly to observe new arrivals. The walk was mosaicked with tiny stones set in a curving pattern, rising in three steps to a wide landing. The double doors were dark and ornately carved. The resemblance of Casa Capri to the Prior estate in architectural style, even to the doors themselves and the window grilles, led one to conclude that Adelina had ordered the plans and the architectural accessories at a two-for-one sale.