Wilma shrugged and gave it up, said nothing more.
Joe figured that dyeing her hair was just a stupid kid tiling, but he did wonder why Dillon had joined Pet-a-Pet. What twelve-year-old would elect to spend spring break making nice to a room full of geriatric couch potatoes? She ought to be biking or swimming or playing ball.
He knew that Dillon Thurwell was a favorite of Wilma's. Dulcie said she'd been going to the library ever since she could toddle, and when she asked to join Pet-a-Pet, Wilma was delighted. Never mind that the kid didn't have a dog or cat; she could be in charge of Clyde Damen's gray tomcat. Don't ask him, just appoint the kid surrogate cat handler for yours truly, just plan his life for him.
The little entourage of cars trundled along up a steep, narrow side street like a third-rate funeral procession, and turned into a long, private drive. Ahead, on the crest of the hill, Casa Capri sprawled in Mediterranean splendor, a one-story villa as imposing as a Spanish monastery, pale walls and red-tile roofs all shadowed beneath the requisite oak trees, its deep-set windows guarded by handsome wrought-iron grilles, their intricate curlicues designed to prevent illicit entry. Or maybe illicit escape?
On beyond the buildings, up along the hills, ran a narrow street, but there were no houses near, just the round green hills dotted with old sprawling trees. To Joe's left rose an oak wood, a little private park. He could see a path winding through it among beds of ferns, and he imagined the frail residents taking little walks there, in the cool shade, accompanied by attending nurses.
They parked at the beginning of a circular drive, and Dillon disembarked, clutching him tightly against her kitty T-shirt, holding the nape of his neck in her fist in a maneuver designed to prevent him from running away, a technique she had undoubtedly learned from some book on cat care. The full instructions would direct the handler to grip the nape of the neck firmly in one hand, grip the base of the tail in the other hand, and carry kitty away from one's body to avoid being scratched. If Dillon went that far, she'd find herself dangling two bloody stumps.
Dulcie rode limply over Wilma's shoulder, all sweetness and smiles, looking ahead to Casa Capri, her green eyes glowing with anticipation. All ready for a fun afternoon frolicking with the cat-loving elderly. Their party was made up of fourteen humans and the same number of household pets, a remarkable assortment of dogs, mostly tiny, and cats-in-arms. One small woman toted a plastic cat carrier with air holes, through which two enraged blue eyes glowered.
In the center of the circular drive was a raised fish pond with a little cupped birdbath at one side, and burbling fountain in the center, a little oasis for our aquatic and avian friends. A flock of sparrows and finches rose lazily away, birds perhaps fed by the residents until they had lost all fear of other creatures. Joe looked after them hungrily. This would be a prime hunting preserve if he could ditch the Pet-a-Pet crowd.
Flanking the walk and drive, regiments of stiff bird-of-paradise plants grew, their dark leaves thrusting up like swords, their red and orange bird heads turned stiffly to observe new arrivals. The walk was mosaicked with tiny stones set in a curving pattern, rising in three steps to a wide landing. The double doors were dark and ornately carved. The resemblance of Casa Capri to the Prior estate in architectural style, even to the doors themselves and the window grilles, led one to conclude that Adelina had ordered the plans and the architectural accessories at a two-for-one sale.
To his left, through long French windows, Joe could see white-clothed tables set with glasses and flatware, as if the help liked to get an early start on the evening meal. To his right, within the nearest window, he glimpsed a window seat scattered with a tangle of bright pillows. Dillon let go of his neck but continued to hug him, pressing him to her like a cuddly toy until he growled at her.
She cut her eyes at him, but loosened her grip only enough to let him breathe.
The group's leader, Bonnie Dorriss, stood above them on the steps, smiling down as if she were a schoolteacher waiting for a gaggle of five-year-olds to gather. Her short sandy hair was the same color as the freckles which spattered her nose and cheeks. Her stocky figure was encased in tight, ragged jeans and a faded green sweatshirt. But she wore a good stout pair of Rockports.
Joe looked around him at their motley group of four-legged recruits, the little lapdogs fluffy and shivering and as useless as whiskers on a toad. But there were two big dogs as well; and the sappy-faced golden retriever looked so much like Barney, with that big silly smile, that Joe felt a lump in his belly the size of a basketball.
Clyde had brought Barney home that morning, had got him settled on his blanket on the bottom bunk of the two-tier dog and cat bed in the laundry room. Barney had seemed glad to be home, but the outlook wasn't good. The problem was his liver. He was on medication; Clyde had come home again at noon to give him his pills and try to get him to drink; all morning, Barney hadn't moved from the bunk.
Joe had hated to leave him all alone in there except for the other animals, because what could they do? Rube and the cats would be no help if he took a turn for the worse. Clyde said he'd run home a couple of times during the afternoon. He and Dr. Firreti were waiting to see if the pills would snap Barney out of it. It was midafternoon now, and he wondered if Clyde was at home. Worrying, he said a little cat prayer for Barney.
And he turned on Dillon's shoulder so he wouldn't have to look at the golden retriever; the dog made him feel too sad.
The other big dog was the brown poodle that belonged to Bonnie Dorriss. The poodle appeared totally aloof, paid no attention to any of the animals. Either he was extremely dignified or bored out of his skull. He must have felt Joe staring, because he glanced up, gave him a completely innocent look-as if to say he never, never chased cats.
Oh sure. Turn your tail, and you'd have poodle teeth in your backside before you could bare a claw.
Their little group consisted of eight dogs and six cats, including a black-and-white cat who could use some advice on the principles of a slimming diet. The longhaired white cat had one yellow eye and one blue, but she was totally color-coordinated: blue collar and a natty yellow name tag. Cute enough to make you retch.
The big yellow tom glowered threateningly at him, as a tomcat is expected to do. But beneath the show of testosterone he looked both sleepy and bored.
Joe could see into the plastic cat carrier now, where a scruffy-looking tortoiseshell huddled, her blue eyes not angry now, but only painfully shy. This was the Pet-a-Pet group? These scruffy cats and puny little lapdogs were expected to play skilled therapist to a bunch of needful humans? And, of course, among the mixed participants, Joe and Dulcie were the only nonhuman members who could have carried on a conversation with the old people.
That would generate some excitement.
Led by Bonnie Dorriss, their group moved on through the wide doors into the entry, the golden retriever gawking and stumbling over its own feet. The big poodle stepped lightly beside Bonnie into the spacious reception area and sat down at her heel. Impressive, Joe had to admit.
The entry was even more elegant than the carved double doors had implied, the blue tile floor gleaming, the small potted trees in hand-painted containers fingering their delicate leaves against the white walls. The heavy ceiling beams looked hand-carved, and to his right hung an old, antique oil painting of the Molena Point hills as they must have looked before any house marred the wild sweeps of grass and young oaks.