Directly ahead through an archway shone a well-appointed sitting area. This faced, through wide French doors, a sunny, enclosed patio surrounded by the wings of the building and planted with flowers and miniature citrus trees. Charming, totally charming. He wondered if the staff would serve tea, maybe little sandwiches of smoked salmon or imported sardines and liver pate.

But then he caught a whiff of medicines and pine-scented cleaning solution; of boiled beef and onions; a mix of smells that implied actual living went on beyond the pristine entry, implied a condensed, crowded occupancy involving many more people forced together than a cat found acceptable.

Dillon, carrying him, wandered away from the others toward the parlor, but she did not enter that elegant, perfectly groomed space. She stood at the edge of the cream-and-blue Chinese rug, looking. The area was too formal to be inviting-the couch and upholstered chairs done in pale silk damask, the little mahogany tables teetering on spindly legs, the damask draperies perfectly pleated. He could imagine digging his claws into that thick fabric and swarming up, laying waste to thousands of dollars worth of thoughtful design. This must be where the residents of Casa Capri entertained their relatives and visitors, away from hospital beds and potty chairs. The room smelled faintly of lavender. Joe found himself observing the furnishings not from his own rough, tomcat frame of reference but from Dulcie's view. Dulcie loved this fancy stuff. He even knew from listening to Dulcie that the four stiff-looking chairs were of Hepplewhite design-chairs as rigid and ungiving as four disapproving spinsters.

The room, in short, might impress, but it did not welcome. There were no cushiony places to cuddle the body, no gentle pillows to ease tired old bones. Casa Capri's parlor looked, to Joe, as if a sign should be placed at the edge of the Chinese rug warning all comers not to touch.

But beyond the stiff parlor, the bright patio was inviting, sunny and lush, the walled garden filled with pastel-colored lilies and low beds of pansies, with intimate arrangements of wrought-iron patio chairs fitted with deep, soft-appearing cushions that just invited a nap.

Surely, out there in that warm and protected setting the frail elderly could take the sun and gossip and doze in peace, comfortably sheltered from the chill sea wind and from the outer world. Sheltered within those walls…

Or imprisoned. Joe felt his fur rise along his back.

But maybe his sense of entrapment was only a recurrence of his own kittenhood terrors, when he had been trapped by screaming kids in San Francisco's alleys. Thinking of those nasty small boys with bricks, and nowhere to escape, he found himself clinging hard to Dillon's bony shoulder.

He was still clinging to the child when the big front doors opened behind them and a mousy little woman stood looking in, a pale, thin creature dressed in something faded and too long, and little flat sandals on her thin feet. Behind her, through the open door, on the wide sweep of curved drive, parked just before the door, stood the pearl red Bentley Azure.

And now the driver's door opened and Adelina Prior herself stepped out. This could be no other: a sleek and creamy woman, slim, impeccably dressed in a little flared black suit and shiny black spike heels, her jet hair smoothed into an elegant knot-chignon, Dulcie would call it-which was fastened with a clasp that glittered like diamonds. She carried a black lizardskin briefcase with gold clasps, a small matching handbag.

This was the grand dame of Casa Capri, and she was everything that Clyde had described, her arch look at the gathered Pet-a-Pet group, as she entered, was cold with superiority and distaste.

Allowing her pale companion to hold the door for her, she swept past them, lifting one perfectly groomed eyebrow, her perfume engulfing dogs and cats in a subtle and expensive miasma of heady scent that overrode all the others. Joe supposed that her faded companion, who trailed away after her, was Adelina's sister, Renet. Nor had Renet appeared impressed by their little Pet-a-Pet gathering; she had remained as far from them as she could manage, quickly fading to invisibility beside Adelina's blade-perfect presence.

As the two women moved on down the hall to his right, toward what seemed to be offices, Adelina paused, turned briefly to survey them-as if hoping they had somehow vanished.

From Wilma's shoulder, Dulcie stared back at her, green eyes blazing as if she were reading Adelina's thoughts, and taking in the woman's sleek hair and slim expensive attire, her shapely legs and sheer black stockings, her spike heels sharp enough to puncture a cat's throat.

It was Dulcie who glanced away.

This was the woman who could afford a three-hundred-thousand-dollar Bentley Azure but who presumably spent her days among bedpans counting soiled sheets and inspecting medication charts. A woman who had to be driven totally by love for humanity; why else would she do this? The woman who, Clyde had told him, supervised every detail of the retirement villa like an army general. As she disappeared into an office, Joe shivered, and he, too, looked away.

11

To Joe's right, where Adelina Prior had disappeared, the admitting desk dominated a portion of the villa that was less fancy and smelled strongly of various medicines, of human bodily functions, and of a harsh disinfectant that made his nose burn. A nurse stood before the admitting counter writing on a clipboard, stopping frequently to push back a lock of bleached hair. A wheeled cart loaded with medicine bottles and various pieces of equipment that he didn't recognize and with which he didn't care to become familiar was parked beside the high desk.

The walls were plain and unadorned, the carpet of a dark commercial tweed that looked as durable as concrete. He supposed that on around the corner the hall would lead away between rows of residents' rooms, rather like a hospital on TV. He imagined open doors revealing stark hospital beds and various uncomfortable-looking contrivances constructed of plastic and chrome, and perhaps an occasional closed door behind which a patient was indisposed or sleeping in the middle of the day. From that direction came a tangle of excited television voices, a mix of daytime soaps.

Their group did not approach the admitting desk but headed in the opposite direction, down the hall to the left, where a pair of double doors stood open revealing a shabby sitting room very different from the elegant reception parlor.

In the open double doors, Bonnie Dorriss paused, waiting for them to assemble, the big poodle sitting sedately at her heel in what was beginning to be, in Joe's opinion, an excessive display of overtraining. Did the animal have no mind of his own? But then what could you expect from a dog?

He heard a phone ring behind them, probably at the admitting desk, and in a moment it went silent. He wriggled around on Dillon's shoulder to get a better view of the social room. The decor was early Salvation Army. Mismatched couches and chairs in faded, divergent patterns, a pastiche of varied colors and styles stood about in vague little groups. The multicolored carpeting was of a variety guaranteed to hide any possible stain. Probably only a cat's or a dog's keen nose would detect the spills of cough syrup, oatmeal, and worse embedded in that short, tight weave. Surveying the room, Joe got the impression that when prospective clients were welcomed to Casa Capri to discuss the placement of an elderly relative, these sliding doors were kept closed.

An arrangement of several couches faced an oversize television set, and next to it a weekly TV schedule done up in large print had been taped to the wall. The other seating groups circled scarred coffee tables piled with wrinkled magazines and folded newspapers. There were no fancy potted trees or elegant little touches such as graced the entry and parlor. And the pictures on these walls were dull reproductions of dull photographs of dull landscapes from some incredibly tedious part of the world-the kind of cheap reproductions the local drugstore published for its giveaway Christmas calendar. A pair of lost eyeglasses lay under a coffee table, and a lone slipper peeked out from beneath a couch, implying that the room had not been recently vacuumed.