"Angel cake," she said.
He waited for the automatic coffeemaker to stop dripping and poured himself a cup. From the kitchen he could see through the dining room into the living room, where Janet's landscape dominated the fireplace wall, a big, splashy oil of the village and treetops as seen from higher up the hills, lots of red rooftops and rich greens.
Wilma had paid for the painting in part by designing and planting Janet's hillside garden-she'd had some huge decorative boulders hauled in, and planted daylilies, poppies, ice plant, perennials she said were drought-resistant. She had done the garden the same week Janet moved in.
The house had suited Janet exactly. She had designed and had it built for the way she wanted to live. The big studio-garage space upstairs was connected to the upper, back street by a short drive. The studio was big enough for both a painting area and a welding shop, the east wall fitted with floor-to-ceiling storage racks for paintings and a few pieces of sculpture. And there was room to pull her van in, to load up work for exhibits. Wilma had admired Janet's planning and had loved the downstairs apartment. Both stories looked down over the village hills. The area Wilma had landscaped was below the house, between the apartment and the lower street.
He watched Wilma select an angel cake pan and pour in the batter. "Why don't you buy Janet's place? You've always liked it. It would be just right for you and Dulcie. You could build a great rental upstairs, where the studio was."
She looked at him, surprised. "I've thought about it." She set the cake in the oven. "But I'd feel too uncomfortable, living in the house where she died."
She poured coffee for herself, and sat down. "And it's too far from the village, I like being close to work." Wilma's cottage was only a few blocks from the library, where, since her retirement, she had served as a reference assistant. "I like being near the shops and galleries, I like walking down a few blocks for breakfast or dinner when I take the notion, and I like being near the shore.
"If I lived up there, it would be a mile climb home after work. Face it, the time will come when I couldn't even do that uphill mile."
"That'll never happen." He rose and refilled his coffee cup. He didn't like to think about Wilma getting old, she was all the family he had. His mother had died of cancer eight years ago, his father was killed a year later in a wreck on the Santa Ana Freeway. He and Wilma were as close as brother and sister, always there for each other.
"Even though I still work out, and walk a lot, that climb up to Janet's can be a real artery buster.
"Besides, I enjoy my garden. Janet's hillside doesn't suit me. That was a landscape challenge, a minimum-care project, not a garden to potter around in. No, this place fits me better." She grinned. "It took me too long to dig out all that lawn, put in the flower beds. Now I want to enjoy it-I can potter around when I feel like it, leave it alone when I choose. I about wore out my knees planting ground cover and laying the stone walks.
"And Dulcie loves the garden. You know how she rolls among the flowers." She set a plate of warm chocolate cookies on the table. "I miss her, when she's not here for our midmorning snack. Lately, she's taken to eating a small piece of cake and a bowl of milk at midmorning-when she's home at that time of day.
"But this morning, she was gone when I got up. I wish I didn't worry so about her."
He restrained himself from eating half a dozen cookies at one gulp. "She came poking at Joe's cat door around nine. Looked like they were headed for Janet's."
"I wish she'd just torment the neighborhood dogs the way she used to. Spend her time stealing, and enjoy life." She gave him that puzzled look he had seen too often lately.
"But who can talk to cats? No matter how bizarre those two are, they're still feline. Still just as stubborn, still have the same maddening feline attitude."
He belched delicately.
She sampled a cookie. "Beverly Jeannot is meeting Charlie up at Janet's. If she finds those two in the apartment…"
"They'll stay out of her way. Do them good to get booted out. Though I doubt they can get in-Harper boarded up the burned door with plywood."
"You don't think Beverly would hurt them?"
The idea surprised him and he thought about it. "I don't think she'd hurt an animal. And with Charlie there, she won't."
"Well, if the cats want to… "
They heard Charlie coming down the hall.
Wilma rose uneasily, turned her back, and busied herself at the stove. She had to be more careful. It was hard enough dealing with her own feelings about Dulcie's new talents. But having a houseguest, even if Charlie was her niece, didn't help. She'd barely recovered from the shock of Dulcie's eloquence when Charlie arrived. With Charlie in the house, she was terrified she'd say something to Dulcie and that Dulcie, in her boundless enthusiasm, would shoot back a sharp observation, come right out with it.
She'd talked to Dulcie ever since she'd brought her home as a small kitten. Cats were to talk to. She'd always talked to her cats. When Dulcie's replies had been a rub against her ankle, a purr, and a soft mewl, life was simple. But the first time Dulcie answered back in words, both their worlds had changed.
Now, of course, their conversations were hardly remarkable. Just relaxed remarks between friends.
Does the vacuum cleaner really bother you?…
Only when it jerks me out of a sound sleep; if you'll wake me up before you start it, that will help… I do love the scent of lavender in the sheets… Is there any more of that lovely canned albacore?…
Do you want to watch Lassie?…
No, Wilma. We both know Lassie is stupid…
You are a cat of impeccable taste. How about a Magnum rerun?… Oh, I would much rather watch Magnum. And could we have a little snack of sardines…?
Charlie swept into the kitchen, dressed in fresh jeans and a pale yellow sweatshirt. She had tied back her hair with a yellow scarf, the curly red tendrils already escaping around her face, the effect fresh and electric. Snatching up a handful of cookies, she hugged Wilma and punched Clyde's shoulder to move him along.
Wilma stood at the kitchen window watching as they drove away in the Packard.
She had to be more careful around Charlie. In spite of her wariness, she had caught Charlie several times studying Dulcie too intently.
She told herself that was only the gaze of the artist. Charlie did have an artist's disturbing way of staring at a person or an animal as she memorized line and shadow, as she absorbed the bone structure and muscle, committing to memory some rhythm of line.
She hoped that was all Charlie was seeing when she studied Dulcie. She hoped Charlie wasn't observing something about the little tabby cat that would best go unnoticed.
6
The cats careened uphill streaking through blowing grass, racing against time. Tangles of heavy stems whipped above their heads wild as a storming sea. Racing blindly up, the wind deafened them. Then, gaining the hill's crest, they paused to look back.
Far down the falling land, the houses were toy-sized, and along the winding streets they still saw no police unit heading up from the village. They could not, from this vantage, see up across the black, burned hills to the streets that flanked Janet's house, to see if a police unit was already parked there. The buffeting wind tore at their fur, and they hunched down, flattening their ears against its onslaught.
But suddenly, below, something moved in the grass, a huge dark shape slipping upward, a quick, heavy animal shouldering closer. The wind picked up its scent as it lunged into a run.
They spun around, exploded apart, leaped away in opposite directions-the dog couldn't chase them both.