Lowering the lid, she pressed the copy button and prayed a beseeching cat prayer.
The machine hummed louder. The copy light ran along under the lid. In a moment the fresh copy eased out into the bin, and she slid it out with a careful paw. Joe was still singing, his cries muffled by the house walls. She thought she heard Frances shout.
Stamps's handwriting looked better on the copy than in the original. The oily stains and the wrinkles had not reproduced. She retrieved his own list from inside the machine and managed to fold the clean sheet of paper with it, using teeth and claws.
Joe's cries rose higher, bold and reassuring. She patted the little packet flat, gripped it firmly between her teeth, and switched off the machine.
Trotting back down the hall, she was almost to the laundry when she heard footsteps hit the back porch and the door open. She started to swerve into the bathroom, but there would be no way out. That window was seldom opened. She bolted down the hall for the laundry as Frances's footsteps crossed the kitchen.
Frances loomed in the doorway, saw her. "The cat… What's it got?" She ran, tried to grab Dulcie. "Something in its mouth…" The look on her face was incredulous.
Dulcie sailed to the sill and out.
"Damn cat's taken something…"
She dropped to the side yard, crunching dry leaves as Frances shouted and banged down the window. Scorching away from the house, Dulcie prayed Joe would see her and follow, but as she hit the curb and dived beneath a neighbor's parked car, he was still yowling.
16
Late-afternoon sun slanted into the Damen backyard, warming the chaise lounge, and warming Joe where he slept sprawled across its soft cushions. He did not feel the gentle breeze that caressed his fur. He was so deep under that the term catnap could not apply-he slept like the dead, limp as a child's stuffed toy. He didn't hear the leaves blowing in the oak trees, didn't hear the occasional car passing along the street out in front. Didn't hear the raucous screaming above him where, atop the fence, six cow birds danced, trying to taunt him. Had he been lightly napping, he would have jerked awake at the first arrogant squawk and leaped up in pointless attack simply for the fun of seeing the stupid birds scatter. But his adventures of the morning, breaking into Stamps's room and his creative concert in the Blankenship fig tree, had left him wrung out. Only if one were to lean close and hear his soft snores, would one detect any sign of life.
He had parted from Dulcie at Ocean Avenue, had stood in the shade of the grassy median watching her trot brightly away toward the courthouse, carrying the photocopy of Stamps's list, the white paper clutched in her teeth as if she were some dotty mother cat carrying a prize kitten; and she'd headed straight for the Molena Point Police Station.
He had to trust she'd get the list to Harper without being seen. When he questioned her, she hadn't been specific.
"There are cops all over, Dulcie. How are you going to do that?"
"Play it by ear," she'd mumbled, smiling around the paper, and trotted away.
And Stamps would never know the list had left his room. What were a few little dents in the paper? Who would imagine toothmarks? Certainly by the time Stamps got home from work the list would be dry, Dulcie's spit evaporated.
And once Dulcie had delivered Stamps's game plan to the authorities, she'd be off for a delightful day of court proceedings.
For himself, a nap had seemed far more inviting. Arriving home famished, he had pushed into the kitchen, waking the assorted pets, had knocked the box of cat kibble from the cupboard, and wolfed the contents. He'd gone out again through the front-there was no cat door from the kitchen; Clyde controlled the other cats' access to the outdoors. Two of the cats were ancient and ought to be kept inside. And the young white female was too cowardly to fend for herself.
And in the backyard, moderately fortified with his dry snack, he had slept until 4 P.M.
He'd awakened hungry again, starved. Slipping back into the house, he had phoned Jolly's. When, twenty minutes later, Jolly's delivery van pulled up in front, he allowed time for the boy to set his order on the porch as he had directed and to drive away. There was no problem about paying-he had put it on Clyde's charge. When the coast was clear he slipped out, checked for nosy neighbors, then dragged the white paper bag around the side yard to the back and up onto the chaise.
Feasting royally, he had left the wrappers scattered around the chaise and gone back to sleep, his stomach distended, his belch loud and satisfied.
But now, suddenly, he was rudely awakened by someone poking him.
He jerked up, startled, then subsided.
Through slitted eyes he took in pant legs, Clyde's reaching hand. He turned over and squeezed his eyes closed.
Clyde poked again, harder. Joe opened one eye, growling softly. Around them, the shadows were lengthening, the sunlight had softened, its long patches of brilliance lower and gender. The cool breeze that rustled the trees above him smelled of evening. Joe observed his housemate irritably.
Clyde was not only home from work, he had showered and changed. He was wearing a new, soft blue jogging suit. A velvet jogging suit. And brand-new Nikes. Joe opened both eyes, studying him with interest.
Clyde poked again, a real jab. Joe snatched the offending fingers and bit down hard.
Clyde jerked his hand, which was a mistake. "Christ, Joe! Let go of me! I was only petting. What's the matter with you?"
He dropped the offending fingers. "You weren't petting, you were prodding."
"I was only trying to see if you're all right. You were totally limp. You looked dead, like some old fur piece rejected by the Goodwill."
Joe glared.
"I merely wanted to know if you'd like some salmon for dinner." He examined his fingers. "When was your last rabies shot?"
"How the hell should I know? It's your job to keep track of that stuff. Of course I want salmon for dinner."
Clyde studied his wounded appendages, searching for blood.
"I hardly broke the skin. I could have taken the damned fingers off if I'd wanted."
Clyde sighed.
"You jerked me out of an extremely deep sleep. A healing, restful sleep. A much-needed sleep." He slurped on his paw and massaged his violated belly. "In case you've forgotten, cats need more sleep than humans, cats need a higher-quality sleep. Cats…"
"Can it, Joe. I said I was sorry. I didn't come out here for a lecture." Clyde's gaze wandered to the deli wrappers scattered beneath the chaise. He knelt and picked up several and sniffed them. "I see you won't want the salmon, that you've already had dinner."
"A midafternoon snack. I said yes, I want salmon."
Clyde sat down on the end of the chaise, nearly tipping it though Joe occupied three-fourths of the pad. "This was a midafternoon snack? I wonder, Joe, if you've glanced, recently, at my deli bill."
Joe stared at him, his yellow eyes wide.
"Ever since you learned how to use the phone, my bill at Jolly's has been unbelievable. It takes a large part of my personal earnings just to… "
"Come on, Clyde. A little roast beef once in a while, a few crackers."
Clyde picked up a wrapper. "What is this black smear? Could this be caviar?" He raised his eyes to Joe. "Imported caviar? The beluga, maybe?" He examined a second crumpled sheet of paper. "And these little flecks of pink. These wouldn't be the salmon-Jolly's best smoked Canadian salmon?"
"They were having a special." Joe licked his whiskers. "You really ought to try the smoked salmon; Jolly just got it in from Seattle."
Clyde picked up yet another wrapper and sniffed the faint, creamy smears. "And is this that Brie from France?"
"George Jolly does keep a very nice Brie. Smear it on a soft French bread, it's perfection. They say Brie is good with fresh fruit, but I prefer…"