"Because this stuff would cost her life savings; I'd bet several hundred, bucks a yard." He gave her an arch look. "Adelina lives pretty high, considering those old folks at Casa Capri make do with Salvation Army castoffs for their sitting room."
The white carpet stretched away to pure white walls unsullied by any ornament or artwork, and to a white marble fireplace so clean that surely no smallest stick of wood had ever burned there. That pristine edifice was flanked by tall French doors standing open to the balcony, where three large pots of bird-of-paradise stood guard. Adelina's view would be down over the front drive to the dropping hills and the village and the sea beyond.
The large, carved desk was the only piece of dark furniture. Dull and nearly black with age, it stood alone on one long white wall, its four drawers fitted with black, cast-iron handles. As they approached this impressive vault they heard, from the garden below, the mower rounding the corner, making its way toward the front lawn. Its vibrating rumble, louder than the vacuum cleaner, would mask any sound of a maid approaching, or of Adelina herself entering her chambers.
Together they fought open the bottom drawer and pawed through desk supplies: unused checkbooks, notepads, labels, pens, all neatly arranged, nothing that seemed of great interest. The next drawer up contained packets of canceled checks tied with red string, a stack of used check registers, bundles of paid bills. Dulcie wanted to take the checks, but the packets were too bulky. At the bottom of the drawer, beneath these neatly tied records, lay a small black notebook. Joe took it in his teeth, lifted it out, and on the carpet they pawed it open.
Each page was marked with a Spanish name accompanied by a short personal history that included arrest records; convictions, mostly for such offenses as failure to file income tax, failure to report as a noncitizen, failure to file social security papers, or, in some cases, passing NSF checks. All the names appeared to be female, but who could be sure, unless one knew Spanish.
Joe's yellow eyes gleamed, he pawed at the pages, smiling. "Personal dossiers."
"Blackmail material."
"I'd bet on it."
The next drawer held stationery and printed envelopes, but tucked beneath the thick creamy paper they found a list of numbers, each with a date entered beside it, and some with two dates. These extended over a fifteen-year period. The list made no sense-yet. They slipped it into the notebook and slid this beneath the desk, far to the back.
Before they left the sitting room, Dulcie licked away cat hairs from the white rug, where they clung prominent as a road sign.
Moving into Adelina's bedroom, they avoided the white velvet bedspread, which cascaded onto the carpet; probably it would pluck hairs from them like sticky paper. The bed and dresser were of black wood, light-scaled, and slender, maybe of Danish design. They rifled the dresser drawers but found no papers or photographs among the expensive silk lingerie; the silk and handmade lace were more than Dulcie could resist. She rubbed her face against the neatly folded garments, rolled on them, slid her nose beneath a satin teddy.
"Come on, Dulcie, leave the undies in the drawer. You go trotting out of here dragging that black lace, and we're dog meat."
She smiled sweetly.
"And don't curl up in there; you're leaving cat hairs."
Reluctantly she leaped out. "How often do I get to look at lingerie from Saks or Lord & Taylor? Don't be so grouchy." She cut him a green-eyed smile and licked up a few cat hairs that she had left on the lace.
In Adelina's mirrored dressing room they were surrounded by roaming cat reflections; the sudden feline entourage, the crowd of mimicking cats unnerved them both. Soon their paws felt bruised from fighting open drawers, and their efforts netted nothing more than a half hour survey of fashion that numbed Joe's brain and caused Dulcie to speak in little hushed mewls. Adelina's designer outfits offered a degree of luxury that left the little cat giddy and light-headed.
Outside the bedroom, below the open glass doors, the mower chugged back and forth, guttural and loud, the air perfumed with the clean scent of cut grass. Leaving the suite, they listened at the hall door, then slipped out, tensed to run.
The hall was empty; and the next door opened on a room so plain it must belong to Adelina's maid.
The tan bedspread was of the variety seen in the boy's rooms section of an old Sears catalog, and the desk and two chests could have come from the same page. The room was strewn with skirts and sweaters dropped and tossed across the floor and across every available surface. Maybe the occupant had made many costume changes, this morning, before settling on an outfit for the day. Or maybe she liked to have everything handy, within quick reach, not stuck away in the closet. The skirts were long and gathered, some in flowered patterns, some plain. The sweaters were baggy, and snagged.
Dulcie said "Renet. This is Renet's room."
"That figures. It looks like Renet. What it is about that woman, she's such a nothing."
Dulcie moved toward an inner door. The room smelled faintly of Renet, and of some sharp chemical, a scent pungent and sneeze-making. "It smells like those photographs. The ones Renet gave Adelina."
"Photographer's chemicals?" Joe said. "Maybe she has a darkroom."
"Why would she go to the trouble of a darkroom, when she can take her film to the drugstore?" Pressing her nose to the crack, she sneezed. "Yes, it comes from here." She switched her tail, and leaped, twisting the doorknob and kicking at the door.
"Maybe she's a professional photographer," Joe said. "They don't use the drugstore. To a professional, that's like taking your Rolls Royce to a Ford mechanic."
"How do you know so much?"
"Clyde used to date a photographer."
Dulcie crossed her eyes. "Is there any kind of woman he hasn't dated?" She leaped again, kicking harder, but the door didn't budge. And there was no little knob to turn the dead bolt Only a key would open it. She dropped down, ears flat, tail switching.
The dresser drawers were no more enlightening, yielding nothing more exciting than Renet's white cotton underwear and flannel nighties and more baggy sweaters. Besides the closet, which was nearly empty, Renet's clothes being kept handily on the floor, there was a built-in wall cupboard with drawers beneath.
The drawers were locked, but the cupboard itself, when they pawed the doors open, revealed shelves filled with assorted small cardboard boxes, a few children's toys, some cheap china knickknacks, and several cameras. Crammed among the clutter was a doll; they could see just a wisp of blond hair and a flick of white lace. Dulcie reared up, looking. "Is that the doll Mae Rose gave to Mary Nell Hook?"
"Why would Renet take the doll away from Mary Nell? The old woman seemed really happy to have it. Why would Renet want… Well hell, she is a mean-hearted broad."
Dulcie crouched to leap up onto the shelf, tail lashing for balance, but she dropped back again as, from the hall, the sound of the vacuum cleaner approached, sucking and roaring, its bellow suddenly louder as it slid from the hall runner onto the bare hardwood, heading for Renet's door. They froze, staring, then streaked away through the open French doors to Renet's balcony.
Crouching behind a clay pot planted with ferns, they watched the machine, guzzling and seeking, come roaring into the room; and they shivered.
They were not inexperienced kittens to cower at a vacuum cleaner, but that kind of machine stirred a deep, primal fear, a gut terror about which neither Joe nor Dulcie could be reasonable.
Besides, any machine that could suck up crew sox and sweater sleeves was to be respected.