But Bonnie would be waiting. She spoke to the poodle, urging him on, and headed fast for the social room. Wanting Bonnie, wanting company, wanting to be around other people.
25
The cats read the newspaper article while standing on the front page, on the Damen kitchen table. They were not amused at the evening Gazette's treatment of Max Harper. Behind them at the stove, Clyde and Wilma were cooking lasagna, boiling pasta and making sauce, Wilma's silver hair tied back under a cloth, Clyde wearing an ancient, stained barbecue apron. The steamy kitchen smelled deliciously of herbs and tomato sauce and sauteed meat; and the room reverberated with banging from the roof above, where Charlie was at work replacing shingles. Working for her supper. There was, Joe thought, nothing very cheap about Clyde.
Dulcie sat down on the paper and read the article again, her tail lashing with annoyance. "This is really a cheap shot," she said softly.
Joe agreed. He might make fun of Harper, but when the Gazette put Harper down, that made him mad.
"Not only bad for law enforcement," Clyde said, chopping cilantro, "but bad politics."
"And poor taste," Wilma said, glancing up toward the roof. Further banging told them Charlie was still out of hearing. "Max Harper is a fine man. He keeps this town clean, and that's more than I can say for some city officials."
There was a big difference, Joe thought, rolling over on the newspaper, between his own good-natured and secret harassment of Max Harper, and the Gazette's caustic misinformation.
POLICE FAIL TO NOTICE OPEN GRAVE
Molena Point Police, searching earlier this week for the body from which a finger bone was stolen supposedly by a neighborhood dog, failed to find during their investigation of the Prior estate, the wide-open grave of Dolores Fernandez. The excavation, in plain sight in the historic Spanish cemetery, had been dug into so deeply that the dirt was scattered across the grass and the body uncovered. Police gave reporters no explanation for their failure to find the body until their second visit to the estate, just this morning.
On Tuesday of this week, the human finger was brought to Captain Harper's attention by Mrs. Marion Hales, who had taken the bone away from her dog. Harper claims his men searched the cemetery at that time but says they failed to find any ground disturbed. Yet this morning, inexplicably, the Prior caretaker reported the grave open, the body revealed, and the finger missing.
The grave of Dolores Fernandez is an historic landmark. Fernandez, who died in 1882, was first cousin of Estafier Trocano, one of the original settlers of Molena Point and founder of the Trocano Ranch. The Prior estate is part of the original Spanish land grant given to the Trocano family by Mexico. Police have sent the finger, and samples from the body, to the State Forensics Lab in Sacramento for analysis.
Sacramento forensic expert Dr. Lynnell Jergins told reporters that several weeks may be required to make positive identification.
Dr. Jergins said the county forensic laboratory is facing a large backlog of work because of a shortage of scientific personnel. The grave is not open to public observation, and is under police surveillance until their investigation is completed. The Prior Ranch is private property and is patrolled.
Joe rolled over and began to wash. Above their heads, Charlie's pounding came steady and loud as she fitted in new shingles. Last night's rain had flooded Clyde's hall closet, drenching half a dozen jackets, Clyde's suitcase, and an old forgotten cat bed. It was about time Clyde got around to some repairs. Typical, of course, to get the work for free, if he could manage it.
But better free than not at all. In this household, it was a big deal if he remembered to buy lightbulbs before the old ones burned out.
Joe felt eternally thankful that cats didn't have to replace lightbulbs, repair shingles, and paint walls. And, of course, no cat would write such a misleading newspaper article. This display of bad taste was beneath even the scroungiest feline. The Gazette had no reason for their caustic slant; it was obvious to any idiot that the grave had been dug up after Harper's men searched the Prior estate. Probably someone at the paper had a grudge against Harper, not uncommon in the politics of a small town.
He could see that regardless of the slant, the story of the open grave fascinated Dulcie. You could bet your whiskers they'd be up there digging before you could shake a paw. And he had to admit, whatever scoffing he'd done about missing patients, the fact that a skeleton had turned up, and that maybe the finger bone belonged to that body and maybe it didn't, shed a new light. His interest had suddenly shifted into high gear. His feline curiosity sat up and took note.
Glancing at Dulcie, he knew they were of one mind: investigate the grave. Maybe, as well, they could get into the Prior house. Who knew what they'd find, maybe more photographs like the ones of Mary Nell Hook that Renet had put on Adelina's desk yesterday morning.
There was no doubt the pictures were of Mary Nell- Dulcie had seen them clearly, and she had seen Mary Nell clearly. They had no idea what use Adelina had for such pictures. She hadn't given them to the two black-robed cousins; they had left empty-handed except for Roberta's flowered handbag. He supposed Adelina could have given them the pictures as they stepped out the front door, but when Adelina appeared in the hall earlier, she hadn't been carrying them.
Dulcie hadn't dared follow the cousins; there had been nurses all over. Besides, she'd been too busy watching young Dillon. The minute the room was empty, Dillon had slipped in through the glass doors, making directly for the closet. And as Joe and Dulcie watched, Joe from the orange tree and Dulcie from under the bed, Dillon had removed from the crowded shelves one item. She had known exactly what she wanted.
Dillon had only an instant alone, before two nurses returned and began straightening the room, opening drawers, and putting Mary Nell's clothes into cardboard boxes. In that instant she had removed a wide, flat oak box with metal corners. Carefully lifting it out, watching the door to the hall, she had opened the lid-and caught her breath.
From the tree, Joe could see into the box clearly. It was like a little portable desk, with a slanted top for writing, and with small compartments inside. He could see that some of the spaces still held stamps, a pen, some white envelopes. But in the largest compartment, which was probably meant for writing paper, lay a doll.
Her porcelain face looked dusty, her pale hair matted, her blue-and-white crinoline dress wrinkled and limp with neglect. Dillon lifted it out quickly and tucked it inside her shirt, where it made a large lump.
She closed the box, looked undecided for a moment, then shoved it back into the cupboard. As she slipped out through the glass door, Dulcie had nipped out behind her, crowding against Dillon's heels. They were hardly out when two nurses entered. Just as Joe slipped down from the tree, the rain hit. By the time the three of them reached the social room, racing across the garden, they were soaked. The cats had sat behind the couch, dripping onto the carpet, washing themselves, as Dillon squinched across the carpet to Mae Rose and laid the doll in the old lady's lap. She had kept her back to the room, and her voice low.
"Is this the doll you gave Jane Hubble? The one you told me about?"
"Oh yes." Mae Rose's smile shone bright with surprise. "This is my little Becky. Where did you find her?" She cuddled the doll, staring up at Dillon, then immediately slipped the doll out of sight beneath the pink afghan, tucking the cover around her. "Where did you find her? Did you see Jane? I gave her to Jane before she was moved to Nursing. Where…?"
"She had a little writing desk, a lap desk."