His eyes gleamed with the challenge. But his better judgment-some latent natural wariness-made his belly twitch. "If we do that and get caught, I hope it's the cops and not Sicily."
"Why ever not? She wouldn't know what we're doing. And Sicily likes cats."
He couldn't, in his wildest imagination, picture Sicily Aronson liking cats. The woman put him off totally. With her dangling bracelets and jiggling earrings and tangles of clanking chains and necklaces and her blowing, layered clothes, she was like a walking boutique. Dulcie practically drooled over the expensive fabrics Sicily wore, the imported hand-dyed prints, the layers of hand-painted cottons drooping over her long, handwoven skirts. Her handmade sandals or tall slim boots smelled of the animals they came from; and her dark hair, bound up in intricate twists secured with strands of silver or jewels, was just too much. She did not look like Molena Point; she looked like San Francisco's bordello district, like some leftover from Sally Stanford days, when that madam was the toast of the city.
And the fact that Sicily could amortize interest in her head, so Clyde had told him, and could accurately compute every possible tax write-off while making light banter or a sales pitch, made her all the more formidable.
"She only dresses like that for PR. It's part of the gallery image." She reached a soft paw to him. "She's really nice. If she catches us in the gallery, she'll probably treat us to a late supper."
"Sure she will. Braised rat poison."
She looked at him, amused. "I've been in the gallery a lot lately, and she's been nice to me." And suddenly she looked stricken. "Oh dear. I guess… I hope we don't find the paintings there, I hope she didn't do it. I was thinking only of proving Rob innocent. But she has been kind to me."
"I didn't know you went in there."
"I've done it for weeks, sometimes at noon when court breaks for lunch, just to listen."
"You suspected her?"
"No, I just wanted to find out what I could. After all, she is Janet's agent."
"So what did you learn?"
"Nothing." She licked her paw. "Except she's a sucker for cats. But I guess most people in the art world like cats. Last week she fed me little sandwiches left over from an opening, and twice she's shared her lunch with me; and she folded a handwoven wool scarf on her desk for me to nap on."
"With that kind of treatment, Wilma may lose her housemate."
Dulcie smiled. "Not a chance. Anyway, if Sicily catches us in the gallery, just roll over, curl your paws sweetly, and smile."
"Sure I will. And nail her with twenty sharp ones when she reaches down to grab me."
She turned away, snorting with disgust.
But in a moment, she said, "I wish we knew what to do about Janet's journal."
"It's evidence, Dulcie. We have to tell the police where to find it. We've been over this."
She sighed.
He moved close against her, licking her ear. "The diary is Captain Harper's business."
"But her diary is so private, it's all that's left to speak for her-except her paintings." She looked at him bleakly. "Why did that terrible thing have to happen? Why did she have to die?"
"At least Janet left her work. That's more than most people leave behind them-something to bring pleasure to others."
"I guess," she said, touching her paw to his, half-amused. Joe did have his tender side, when it suited him. "I guess that's better than poor Mrs. Blankenship. She won't leave the world anything but a house full of china beasties."
Earlier, when she and Joe departed Janet's house, slipping away in the shadows so Mama wouldn't see them, she had looked back across the street and seen Mama sitting at her window eagerly waiting for her.
"It was cruel to make her think I loved her, then to leave. Now she'll be more lonely than ever."
Joe brushed his whiskers against hers. "You could get her a cat. An ordinary little cat who would love her. A kitten maybe."
"Yes," she said, brightening. "A little cat that will stay with her." Her mouth curved with pleasure. "A sweet little cat. Yes, maybe a kitten. Or maybe the white cat. He'll need a home when we find him."
He did not reply. In his opinion, the white cat was long dead-except, if he was dead, then what were these strange dreams? Did the dreams arise, as he hoped, only from Dulcie's active imagination?
They headed down again watching the hills for Stamps's dog. The wild rye and oats on the open slopes was so tall and thick that the animal could easily crouch unseen. They did not see it on the streets below, among the gardens and cottages, did not see it near the gray house, or around the old black pickup. Dulcie studied the ragged house with narrowed eyes, and a little smile curved her pink mouth.
"What?" he said.
"Looks to me like Stamps's window is open."
He said nothing. As they drew near where the pickup was parked, they saw the dog, a shadow among shadows, asleep in the truck bed.
But even as they looked, the beast came awake and sat up and shook himself. Staring up the hill, he either saw them or smelled them, and he suddenly exploded, leaping from the truck straight up the hill…
… and was jerked to a stop by a chain attached to the bumper.
The cats relaxed, their hearts pounding. The dog fought the chain, rattling and jerking the truck, lunging so violently they thought he'd tear off the bumper and come clanging after them.
But the chain held. The bumper didn't give; it seemed to be solidly bolted. "Come on," Dulcie said, "he can't get loose. If we can get in, get the list, we can be out again before the beast stops bellowing."
"What makes you think he isn't home? His truck's there. And why would he leave the list?"
"He left it the other night. And he'll be at work. Charlie told him if he took any more time off, he was through."
"Why would he leave the truck and dog?"
"She told him to lose the dog. She hates that dog. Maybe he had nowhere else to leave it but tied to the truck. He can walk to the job, it's only a few blocks. Look at the window, Joe. It's cracked open. What more do you want? It's a first-class invitation."
Joe grinned. "Sometimes, Dulcie…"
"It won't take a minute. Snatch up the list and out again, home in time for breakfast."
He stood, studying the house, then took off running, a gray streak. They fled past the truck and the dog, straight for Stamps's open window.
15
The back lawn of the decrepit old house was brown and moth-eaten. Two dented garbage cans leaned against the step beside the sunken, unpainted picket fence. The cats, slipping along through the weeds beside the added-on wing, crouched below Stamps's window, then reared up to look.
They could see no movement beyond the black screen and dirty glass, only the warped reflection of hills and trees. Leaping to the sill, they pressed their faces against the wire mesh, looking in.
"No one," Joe said.
"He can't be known for his housekeeping. What a mess."
The bed was unmade, sheets drooping off a stained mattress. Stamps had left most of his clothes discarded in little piles across the floor. One could imagine him undressing at night dropping garments where he stood, stepping away from them. The open closet revealed only two hanging shirts and a lone shoe. A bath towel hung over the doorknob. The stink beneath the double-hung window was of stale cigarette smoke, dog, and Stamps's laundry. Probably Stamps had sneaked the dog inside when the landlord wasn't looking. The dog himself, behind them on the street, rattled and clanged and bellowed, his pea-sized brain fixated on dreams of cat flesh. The window screen was securely latched.
Tensing her claws into little knives, Dulcie ripped down the screen, efficiently opening a twelve-inch gash. Joe pushed through the hole and shouldered the window higher, and they slipped through, leaping from the sill to the back of an upholstered chair. Its ragged, greasy cover smelled of hair oil. One could imagine him sitting there all evening, smoking and drinking beer among the heaps of clothes. Dulcie made a rude face, ears down, eyes crossed. "Can't he even drive to the laundromat?"