"Just practicing what you taught me," he said modestly. "Front paws in the handle, hind feet against the counter. Quick push, and voila! Sorry, the Brie is gone. It was a bit old, it made me belch."
He had found half a brick of Cheddar cheese and a tub of sour cream, rather ripe but still edible. Toothmarks dented the plastic where he'd pulled the lid off. He had unearthed a pack of stale crackers, too. Beside it lay a warm, freshly killed chipmunk.
They dined.
Chewing off a hunk of Cheddar, Dulcie dipped it in the sour cream. "Has Beverly been back? Or the police?"
"No one. The night you left I brought Janet's diary in, read it again, then put it back. I thought maybe we'd missed something, some clue, but I guess not. Slept on her bed, that comforter's nice and warm."
"No sign of the white cat?"
"None. And what did you find out? What's with the old woman? I've been watching Varnie come and go; he's a real piece of work. I looked in their garage window. That old truck smells like a warehouse full of stale fish. What's he doing to it?"
She shrugged. "Some kind of repairs. Varnie and this James Stamps-I'm wondering if they killed Janet."
He stared at her.
"They're into something. Somehow it has to do with the murder." She licked sour cream from her whiskers. "They mean to make money from it, whatever it is. Varnie said, 'If we get greedy now, we end up with mud on our faces.' And Stamps said they should get all they can before Varnie's mother spills to the cops. I told you she knows something."
She pushed a morsel of chipmunk onto a cracker. "And they're into something else, too. Stamps is keeping a list, I think of when people are home and when they leave for work"
"Planning burglaries?"
"Sounds like it. Early-morning burglaries. Varnie said, 'Hit and clear out.'"
"You think the burglaries, if that's what they're doing, are connected to Janet's murder?"
"I don't know. Those two seem to me like a couple of small-time hoods, just snatching at opportunities. I'm not sure they're the kind to have killed Janet."
They shared out the last of the chipmunk, Dulcie eating delicately. "I want to see Stamps's list." But she could see he was not receptive to the idea.
"If they're planning burglaries, the police need to know."
"But we don't know when, or where. What good is it to tell the police and not give them any facts? If we could get Stamps's list…" But she could see he was not receptive to the idea.
"Anyway," she said, "now I know Mama did see something, and that she's afraid to testify. Frances is trying to get her to testify. And Varnie's afraid she will."
"If Varnie did kill Janet, why would Frances want his mother to testify against him?"
"Who knows what Frances wants? There's more to Frances Blankenship than is apparent."
She licked her paws and whiskers. "Frances and the old lady have midmorning coffee in the kitchen. They talk more then, when Varnie's away at work." She licked blood and cracker crumbs from the counter. "Most of their talk is about relatives, they have more cousins than the pound has dogs. But maybe I'll get lucky-hear something." She gave him a long look. "I'm getting stir-crazy over there."
"Maybe I can help."
"How?" Her eyes widened at his sly leer. "What are you thinking?"
"I'll have to work it out. Just be ready." He twitched an ear.
"How can I be ready, if I don't know what you're up to?"
"Don't miss morning coffee," he said softly.
She gave him a puzzled look. "I'd better go, before they untie the monster."
Joe trotted across the tile counter and looked out the kitchen window. "He's still on the front porch, sitting under the light. I can see the rope. Stupid thing has himself wrapped up again."
She trotted over to look. The dog was a black lump, huddled miserably against the porch rail. "Let him rot." She gave Joe a long, loving look. "Thanks for the supper. It sure was better than Mama's leftover carrots."
"Take care." He licked her ear. "I'll be watching. Don't forget, morning coffee."
She gave him a whisker kiss, jumped down, and slid out beneath the door. She was back at the Blankenships' and through the laundry window before the dog knew she had passed. When belatedly he scented her, he fought his shortened rope, roaring. Inside, she dropped to the laundry room floor. Padding toward the kitchen, she paused in the shadows of the hall.
In her absence two more poker players had arrived, the room stank of cigarettes and beer and reverberated with loud voices. Hurrying on past, she headed for the old woman's room. She'd hear no more secrets now.
Another night in this house didn't thrill her, but maybe, if Joe did have a plan, tomorrow she'd hit pay dirt.
13
As Frances opened the back door, airing the kitchen of stale beer and cigarette smoke, Dulcie trotted out to crouch on the threshold. Sniffing the fresh morning air, she was just getting comfortable when Frances nudged her with her an impatient toe. "Go on out, cat. You're in the way." She hunkered down, gluing herself to the floor, then leaped over Frances's offending foot, back into the kitchen. She had no intention of going out; she wasn't going to miss a lick this morning. Whatever plot Joe had hatched for Mama and Frances's coffee hour, she meant to be right there, cat on the spot.
Impatiently Frances returned to the table, fussing around, restoring the salt and pepper shakers and potted fern, the pig sugar bowl and cow-shaped cream pitcher to their rightful places, her movements abrupt, sharply agitated. Maybe her anger was the result of Varnie's loud poker party. Dulcie watched her with interest.
Last night, as Dulcie crouched behind the stove listening to Varnie and Stamps, Frances had been listening, too. Dulcie had been so intent on the conversation, she'd hardly paid attention, thinking that Frances was just passing.
But she hadn't been passing, she'd been standing in the hall, very still. Then, in a moment, she had turned away again, back to her office.
Now, as Mama came wandering into the kitchen, shuffling along in her soft slippers, Frances poured the coffee and set the pot on the table beside a plate of day-old cookies. Mama sighed and settled into her chair. The room had begun to smell of baking, the hot, peachy scent of turnovers from the oven soon overpowering the barroom stench. Dulcie sniffed appreciatively and leaped up to Mama's lap, prepared for a little snack. Whoever said cats didn't like sweets didn't know much.
Curled up against Mama's fat tummy, watching Mama nibble a cookie, she shuttered her eyes against the likely event of spilled crumbs. Interesting that Frances seemed to have no compunction about loading the old lady up on sugar and fat-but maybe Frances had her reasons.
She curled into a little ball, hoping Mama wouldn't spill hot coffee. Mama herself seemed irritable this morning. She nibbled her cookie, sipped her coffee, but said little. Dulcie was drifting into sleep when Frances said, "Mama, you're going to have to make up your mind."
"About what?"
"You know about what; about what I told you at breakfast."
Dulcie was wide-awake. She had missed something when she went out earlier.
"I have made up my mind. Made it up long ago."
"Mama, all you've done is avoid the issue. You know the right thing to do."
"Not going to the police."
"You have to go, Mama. You know the police think someone is withholding evidence. They'll search until they find out who."
"Nonsense. Where would they get such an idea?"
"It was on the local news, I told you. The seven o'clock news."
Mama sat up straighter, jamming Dulcie against the edge of the table, forcing her to change position. "You're making that up."
"They think one of the neighbors saw something that weekend-didn't report it."
"What would make them think such a thing?"