"Go get the steak, Frances."
Sighing, Frances went. Dulcie watched her retreat, wondering what power the old woman had over that cold piece of work?
She could hear Frances in the kitchen, heard the refrigerator open, then a thunk, thunk, as of a knife on a cutting board. In a few minutes Frances returned carrying a small portion of cold steak cut up on a paper napkin. Dulcie hoped she hadn't seen fit to lace it with oven cleaner or some equally caustic substance. Frances put the little paper with its offering down on the floor, stood studying Dulcie with a new degree of interest.
"Give me the napkin, Frances. I'll feed her. Couldn't you have managed a plate?"
Frances passed over the napkin. Dulcie, in the old woman's lap, sniffed at the meat but could smell only the rare steak and the scent of what was probably Frances's hand cream.
Mama held out a little piece of good red steak.
Here goes nothing. Dulcie snatched it from her fingers as if she were truly starving. And as she wolfed the meat, Frances watched her with what Dulcie now read as a definite increase of attention.
The steak was lovely, nice and red in the middle. Obviously the Blankenships had a good butcher; probably the same meat market Wilma frequented, the small butcher shop up on Ocean. The little repast could only have been improved by privacy. She didn't mind the old woman's presence as she ate, but Frances's intent stare made her nervous. When she had finished eating, Frances wadded the napkin, threw it in the wastebasket, and looked down benevolently at Dulcie. "I guess you can keep the cat, Mama. If it makes you happy."
Dulcie watched her warily.
But maybe Frances was only considering what a nice diversion a cat would afford. If Frances was Mama's only caregiver, maybe she was thinking that if Mama had a cat to entertain her, Frances herself could enjoy more freedom. Hoping that was the answer, Dulcie settled back again, against Mrs. Blankenship's stomach.
She remained in the Blankenship household for four days, missed four days of the trial, and endured increasing claustrophobia in the hot, crowded dwelling. Four days can go by in a blink or they can drag interminably. She soon learned that Frances was Mrs. Blankenship's daughter-in-law. The first thing she learned about the old woman's son, Varnie, when he came shouldering in from work the first night, was that he did not like cats.
Varnie Blankenship was a short, square man, sandy-haired, with peculiarly dry, pale skin reminiscent of old yellowed newsprint. He worked at the nearby harbor, at a pleasure boat rental, tending the small craft. He arrived home smelling of grease, sweat, and gasoline.
Varnie was fond of a large, heavy supper. Frances cooked his meals, but she ate little. During the time Dulcie was in residence, Varnie read no books. He read only the daily newspaper, then folded it up into a small packet and stuffed it in the magazine stand. His spare time was taken up with television, with some activity which he performed out in the garage, and with submissively dusting his mother's curio collection, his broad hands clumsy but patient.
The entire house was crammed full of bookcases and little shelves and tables, and every surface, shelf, and tabletop and cabinet top were crowded with china animals and other assorted knickknacks. The china shop atmosphere did not fit Frances, and certainly it didn't fit Varnie. Yet Varnie seemed resigned to caring for the clutter, moving among his mother's curios and dusting away like an uneasy and oversized servant. Maybe Frances and Varnie had moved in with his mother, not the other way around. Maybe the old woman had willed the house to them, provided they cared for her collection. Who knew? Maybe Varnie's subservience was generated by some propensity in the old woman to abrupt changes of mind.
Whatever the Blankenship family arrangement, the crowded house made Dulcie feel increasingly trapped. She didn't dare jump up onto any surface for fear of sending hundreds of little beasties shattering to the floor; she padded around the rooms as earthbound as any dog. She was unable even to rub her face against a table leg for fear of tipping it, of knocking down an armload of china and porcelain curios in a huge landslide. The rooms were a fireman's nightmare, and a mouse hunter's paradise. There were a thousand places for mice to hide, and their scent was heavy and fresh.
But she didn't dare. Who could chase a mouse in this maze without incurring major damage? Good thing Joe isn't here, he'd lose patience and send the entire clutter crashing.
In the evenings, moving warily among the crowded rooms, trying to eavesdrop but stay out of Varnie's way, listening to their every conversation and idle remark, she heard nothing about Janet, nothing about the murder or the fire. And so far, the old woman's monologues were confined to baby talk. It would be really too bad if she'd gone to all this trouble for nothing.
But Mama did spend all day at her window, as Dulcie had guessed. And she did wake up well before dawn, often to draw on her robe and return to her window, to her unrewarding vigil over the neighborhood. It seemed to Dulcie a very good chance that the old woman had seen something that morning, the morning of the fire. It's worth a try, worth a few more days of suffocation.
Varnie talked very little on any subject, except to say that he didn't want a cat in the kitchen when he was eating, and didn't want a cat in the living room while he was watching the news. And Varnie was inclined to throw things: cushions, his slippers, the hard, folded-up newspaper. She decided, if she was going to pull this off, she'd better leave Varnie alone and hang out with the old lady.
But she did follow Varnie out to the garage, on that first night, before he started throwing things. He had an old truck out there that he was working on, doing something to the engine. The truck and the garage smelled strongly of stale fish, and there were fishing poles slung across the rafters. She wanted to jump up on the fender and see what he was doing, and see if she could make friends. She approached him. He looked down at her. She rolled over on the garage floor, smiling up at him.
He reached down to pet her. For a moment she thought she'd made a conquest.
Then she saw the look in his eyes.
She flipped over and backed away.
Since that moment she had kept her distance. She investigated the unfamiliar parts of the house secretly, slipping behind tables and crouching in the dark corners and beneath the beds, ignoring the smell of mice. She was still convinced that it was Mama who would spill something of interest, but she was resolved to miss nothing from any source.
Though when she crept under Varnie's easy chair to listen, or into the conjugal bedroom, she remained tense and wary. She had the distinct impression that Varnie wouldn't hesitate to snuff a little cat-and that Frances would enjoy watching. She was in this house strictly under the sponsorship of Mama-and for whatever selfish reason Frances might entertain. She was there to find out what Mama knew, and she'd hang in there until she had an answer.
But in the end, it wasn't Mama who supplied the telling clue. As it turned out, Dulcie would have learned nothing if it hadn't been for Varnie and his love of beer and stud poker.
11
ART DEALER ON STAND
Defense attorney Deonne Baron today called three additional witnesses in the murder of artist Janet Jeannot. The first to take the stand was art dealer Sicily Aronson, owner of Molena Point's Aronson Gallery, and victim Janet Jeannot's agent… Aronson testified that there had been bitterness between Ms. Jeannot and the accused, Rob Lake. Under detailed questioning she told the court that Ms. Jeannot was not happy over Mr. Lake's gallery association with her ex-husband Kendrick Mahl. Ms. Aronson also told the court that since Janet Jeannot's death, and the destruction of most of the artist's work in the fire that burned her studio, the remaining canvases have doubled in price. The Aronson Gallery…