"You think she'd turn on the gas and risk blowing the place up? Don't be silly. And so she blocks my cat door. You know I can open any door in this library-the back door, the front door, the door to the side street. I can turn the knobs and, with a little time, I can turn every one of these dead bolts."
Wilma stroked her diffidently. "I know how skilled you are. And I know your hearing and eyesight are far superior, that there's no way she could slip up on you. But you refuse to admit that, simply because of size, a human might have some advantage. She's cruel, Dulcie. And she's angry!"
Dulcie turned away and began to wash, every lick across her tabby fur telegraphing her disdain.
Wilma walked around the desk and sat down facing her. "Please, won't you stay in my office during the day? Near your cat door? And stay away at night until the petitions go to the city council?"
Dulcie leaped off the desk, lashing her tail, and without another word pushed out her cat door. She'd had a difficult morning already, before Freda started in, and now Wilma. Tired and cross beyond toleration from leading Azrael around the village while trying to avoid his intimacies, she had come into the library needing a long nap, and there was Freda making another fuss. And now Wilma roiling at her. She felt as irritable as a bee trapped against the window; she wanted only to be left alone.
Azrael had pretended to enjoy her company as she gave him the grand tour, showed him the best places to hunt wharf rats, demurely led him along the shore and into the warehouses; as she showed him the meanest dogs to avoid and where the best restaurant garbage was judiciously hidden out of sight of wandering tourists-not that any village cat frequented such places. Why should they, when they could enjoy George Jolly's offerings? But the entire morning she didn't dare let her guard down. He had only one thing on his mind-he would keep nuzzling her. She had swayed on a tightrope between seeking to distract Azrael while Joe searched Mavity's cottage-and fighting her own distressing fascination. She didn't want to find Azrael charming; she didn't want to be drawn to him.
Well he was a good storyteller. Lying in the sun on Molena Point's fishy-smelling pier, he had told her wonderful tales of the jungle, had shown her the jungle's mysterious, leafy world awash in emerald light, the rain approaching like a silver curtain to drench the giant leaves and vines then move on again, a silver waterfall receding, glinting with the sun's fire.
He had shown her the steaming city sidewalks crowded with dirty children begging for food and stealing anything their fingers touched, had shown her black buzzards bigger than any street cat hunched above her on the rooftops, diving heavily to snatch garbage from the sidewalks; had shown her tangles of fishing boats tied to the wharves, then buckets of silver cod dumped flopping on the pier. His stories were so vivid that she could smell the stench of the open market where fly-covered sides of beef hung rotting in the tropical sun-and the tomcat's soft-spoken Spanish phrases enticed her, caressed her, though she did not understand their meaning.
She had ignored the darkness surrounding Azrael, the cloying heaviness beneath his sweet Spanish phrases-until he repeated his ugly predictions of murder.
"The people in this village, that woman Bernine Sage, and this investment person, and your Wilma Getz and her niece and that auto mechanic, all of them are drawing close to death. As unable to pull away as leaves blown to the edge of a dark pool." And Azrael had smiled as if greatly enjoying the prospect of human death. Rising, he had peered down into the shadowed world of mud and pilings below them, where Molena Point's small colony of stray cats eked out a meager living.
Suddenly, lashing his tail, he had leaped off the pier and shouldered into the shadows below, snarling and belligerent, routing the cowering strays, tormenting and bullying those thin cats, had sent them slinking away into dark niches to crouch terrified between the damp boulders.
Shocked, she had stormed after him and driven him back with steely claws. To hell with guile and sweet smiles.
But at her attack, his amber eyes had widened with amazement. "What's the matter? They're only common cats. They're not like us. Come on, Dulcie, have a little fun-they're only stupid beasts."
"You think they're stupid because they can't speak? You think they're without feelings? Without their own sensibilities and their own unique ways?"
He had only looked at her.
"Common cats have knowledge," she had said softly. She was hot with anger, but she daren't enrage him-not until Joe had finished with Mavity's cottage. "Can't you see," she had mewed gently, "that they have feelings, too?" All the while, she wanted to tear the stuffings out of him, he was so arrogant-this cat couldn't see a whisker-length beyond his ego-driven nose.
Disdainfully he had flicked his tail at her silly notions and stalked away. And she, chagrined, had swallowed her pride and galloped after him, sidling against his shoulder.
He'd glanced down at her, leering smugly again, turning on the charm, rubbing his whiskers against hers. She had held her tongue with great effort and spun away from the wharf, laughing softly and leading him a wild chase through the village. The cat was so incredibly boorish. Who needed a torn that viewed other cats so brutally, who viewed a female not as an interesting companion or hunting partner, but as a faceless object meant only to mount, only for male gratification?
And when at long last she heard the tower clock strike ten, and knew that Joe would have left Mavity's, she gave Azrael the slip. Making a tangled way among and through the shops, through enough varied scents-spices, perfumes, shoe polish-to hide her trail, she had slipped into the library guessing that, even if Azrael tracked her, he wouldn't follow her into that sanctuary of strict rules where he'd likely be thrown out on his lashing black tail.
Alone at last, she'd had a little wash and settled into the shelves of medieval history for a quiet nap. But it wasn't two hours later that she woke to Wilma and Freda arguing.
Alarmed, she had leaped down and trotted into Freda's office to rub against Wilma's ankles-whether out of support for Wilma or out of curiosity, she wasn't sure. And Wilma had picked her up and cuddled her, as together they took the blast of Freda Brackett's temper.
Jergen watched his lunch date emerge from the head librarian's office looking like a million dollars in the pale pink suit, its tight skirt at midthigh, the low-cut jacket setting off a touch of cleavage and Bernine's golden tan. Her red hair, piled high and curly, was woven with a flowered silk scarf in shades of red and pink. The minute she saw him, she turned on the dazzle, gave him a bright and knowing smile.
"Ready for champagne?" he said, offering his arm. "Our reservations are for one." Escorting her out, their passage was followed by the envious stares of several women behind the checkout counter. They made, Jergen was fully aware, an unusually handsome couple, well turned-out and enviable.
Crossing the garden, he stopped to pick a red carnation for Bernine. He was handing her into the car when, glancing across the street, he saw a portly couple entering an antique shop. He forgot Bernine and froze, stood staring-felt as if his blood had drained away.
But, no. Surely he was mistaken. That could not have been the Sleuders. Not Dora and Ralph Sleuder.
How would those two get here to Molena Point, and why would they come here? No, he had only imagined the resemblance. Taking himself in hand, he settled Bernine within the Mercedes, went around and slipped behind the wheel. The Sleuders wouldn't be here, three thousand miles from Georgia. If those two hicks took a vacation anywhere, it would be to Disney World or to Macon, Georgia, to look at the restored southern mansions.