Leaving Dr. Firreti's, they drove straight up into the hills toward the Blankenship house. The kitten sat on the seat beside Dulcie, erect and observant, looking up through the windows at the treetops and sky with a wide, delighted gaze, lifting a paw now and then as branches whizzed past.
Wilma parked a block from the brown house and waited in the car while Dulcie directed her charge down the sidewalk beside her. He seemed thrilled with the warm wind and the fresh smells, with the blowing leaves and the tender grass, but he stayed close. Though six months was a silly, defiant age, he minded her very well. He gamboled and pranced, but he didn't bolt away on his own. She led him up to the shabby brown house, straight to the old woman's window.
Leaping to the sill she found the window open as if, all this long time, day after day, Mama had continued to wait for her. Inside, Mama sat dozing in her chair.
Dulcie looked down at the kitten, and mewled.
He tried to jump up to her, made a tremendous leap, and fell back. Tried again, then tried to scramble up the wall. After his third fall she jumped down and took him by the nape of his neck.
The kitten was heavy, she hardly made it herself carrying the big youngster. She landed clumsily on the sill to find Mama awake.
Mama's face registered joy, surprise, confusion. She stared at the kitten with a strange uncertainty.
Dulcie nosed the kitten toward her, urging him on over the sill. He looked up at Dulcie, puzzled, then stepped right on in, waded across the cluttered table, placing his big paws with care among the bottles and china beasties, stood at the edge of the table looking intently into Mama's face.
Mama scooped him up and cuddled him against her flowered bosom-but she was watching Dulcie. "I missed you, sweet kitty." She frowned, her pale old eyes looked sad. Holding the kitten, she reached to the table, began absently to rearrange the little china animals. When she looked back at Dulcie, she said, "He wasn't as strong a son as I'd hoped, my son Varnie." She shook her head. "He won't like it in jail. He was real mad when I went to the police, when I did what Frances wanted, what that attorney wanted. Varnie was real mad. And then," she said sadly, "this other thing happened, and he got arrested." Mama sighed. "I guess, kitty, that I didn't do a very good job with Varnie.
"But that young man in jail, he's free now. That Rob Lake. And he didn't do anything wrong. Strange how things turn out." She cuddled and stroked the purring kitten, and looked hard at Dulcie.
"You're not going to stay, are you, kitty?
"But you've brought me a kitten who will-maybe a kitten who needs me?" She looked carefully at Dulcie, then looked into the youngster's pansy face. "A little black-and-white kitten. Black mustache and blue eyes." Unceremoniously she turned the kit over on his back and looked between his hind legs.
"Little male cat. Well, that's fine. He should be a match for Varnie-when Varnie gets out." Righting the kit, she cuddled him again, looking deep into his eyes. "I'll call you Chappie. I had a cat once named Chappie-for Charlie Chaplin. Chappie stayed with me for fifteen years. Funny," she said, looking at Dulcie, "I never did give you a name, did I, kitty?
"Maybe I knew," she said, and her old voice trembled. "Maybe I knew, all the time, that it was just a visit.
"But Chappie," she said, stroking him, "Chappie's come to stay, hasn't he?" She cocked her head, watching Dulcie. "Strange thing for a little cat to do, to bring me another kitty, someone to take your place.
"But then," she said, "cats are strange little folk. Aren't they, sweet kitty?" Reaching across the table, she stroked Dulcie gently.
Dulcie nudged her head beneath Mrs. Blankenship's hand, and gave her a long, happy purr. She let the old woman pet her for a while, but at last she turned away. Crouched on the windowsill, she gave the old woman one last look, then leaped to the lawn.
And she ran, racing down the street to Wilma's car and in through the open door.
She did not take her usual place on the seat. She slipped under the steering wheel into Wilma's lap and stayed there, close, as Wilma drove home.
27
Leaving her old van parked in front of the Aronson Gallery, Charlie walked down to Jolly's Deli to take delivery of the picnic hamper Wilma had ordered earlier in the day. She liked the deli, with its clean, whitewashed and polished woodwork, its tile floors of huge handmade tiles glazed pale as eggshells, its hand-painted tile counters decorated in flower patterns; she loved the smell of the deli, a combination of herbs and spices and baking so delicious it was like a little bit of heaven reaching out into the street, pulling in passersby. The tiny round tables set before the windows were always full as villagers enjoyed Jolly's imported meats and cheeses, homemade breads and delectable salads.
She liked old George Jolly, too. He was always happy, seeming sublimely satisfied with the world. She imagined him in his old truck making early-morning trips to Salinas to buy the best produce, imagined trips to some exclusive specialty wholesaler for his fine imported meats and cheeses. She wondered if he did all the baking, at perhaps three in the morning, or if he delegated that task to one of his efficient assistants. She knew Jolly did his own roasting of hams and sides of beef, in a large brick room behind the deli kitchen. She wondered if he had grown up consciously striving to live up to the name of Jolly, or if his name was only coincidental. Too bad he couldn't dish out to others some of his optimism, dish out helpings of cheerfulness as he dished up Greek salad and salmon quiche.
Too bad George Jolly couldn't sell a pound or two of happiness to Beverly Jeannot. That bad-tempered woman could use it.
Beverly had been at the gallery when Charlie left. She'd seen Beverly come in as she sat at the back, at a card table, preparing a work proposal, bidding for the gallery's cleaning account. When she looked toward the front windows, Beverly was coming in, pausing for a moment just inside the glass door as if for maximum effect, before making her way to Sicily's desk.
She was dressed in a pink suit reminiscent of a bowl of strawberry ice cream. Pink shoes. Her hair in perfect marcel waves. Of course Beverly would be coming to the gallery, Sicily was her sales agent now, Sicily would be marketing-for fabulous prices-the last of Janet's canvases.
Sitting down opposite Sicily, Beverly spied Charlie at the back and beckoned imperiously.
Summoned like a servant, Charlie stood waiting beside the desk while Beverly made herself comfortable, settling securely into her chair, arranging her pink handbag carefully in her lap. She didn't waste time on social niceties. "Your cleanup work, Miss Getz, still cannot begin. The police have not released the house. I find this delay intolerable. I presume there is no help for it."
What was she supposed to say? That she'd clean illegally after midnight?
"Now, with this case dismissed and with a second trial pending, I have no idea when the work can start." She looked Charlie over. "I presume that when the police do give me a release, you still intend to perform the work immediately."
"Whenever that occurs," Charlie said. She wanted to tell the woman to stuff her damned job. Beverly didn't seem to care about the trial itself, or that the man who really murdered Janet would now be punished. Didn't seem to give a damn that an innocent man had been freed. What an insufferable woman. How could she be Janet's sister?
"If you will call me, I'll have my crew there as soon as possible." Of course she'd given Beverly no hint that her crew had consisted of three people including herself-or that now she'd lost a third of that staff. With James Stamps in jail, she'd have to hustle to find enough help to do a decent job-or any job. What a joke that one person made up a third of her entire work force.