Buck's nervous attention was fixed on a spot where three old thick trees stood close together, casting heavy shadows. Harper could see nothing moving there, but Buck was watching something. Max heard, behind him, the car door slam, then footsteps going up the outside stairway at the far end of the house, and in a minute he heard a door open and close. He forced Buck to the edge of the grove, where the gelding tried again to whirl away, snorting and staring like some green colt. Max squinted into the shadows between the heavy oaks, pressed Buck on, amused by their stubborn-willed contest. He seldom had a problem with Buck. But suddenly the breeze changed. Came sharper. And he knew what was wrong with the horse.

He caught the smell himself, the smell of rotting flesh.

Frowning, he let Buck spin around and move away, and at the far end of the grove, upwind from the stink, he swung out of the saddle. Undoing his rope, he made a halter of it and tied the gelding to an oak tree.

He stayed with Buck, talking to him until the gelding calmed, then left him. Walking slowly, he quartered the cemetery around the old graves, looking. Could not pinpoint the source of the putrid scent as it shifted on the wind, could see no sign of digging, but as he neared the three close-growing trees, the smell came so strong it gagged him.

The only thing that looked out of place on that smooth turf was the heap of dry leaves piled against a tree.

Poking around with a branch, he found a small portion of earth disturbed beneath the leaves and, scraping the leaves aside, digging into the dirt, his stick hit something unnaturally soft, something that wasn't earth.

He knelt, gently brushed soil and leaves away with the tip the branch, uncovered a small lump of what looked like rotting flesh, a dark and stinking mess buried in a shallow hole. Covering his nose and mouth with his glove, he knelt to look closer.

It appeared to be hamburger, chopped meat of some kind. And he could smell, besides the rotting meat, the distinctive scent of cyanide.

He had found not a body as he'd expected, but a lump of poison bait.

And as he knelt studying the meat and the disturbed earth, he saw not only scrape marks from digging, but faint pawprints-as if perhaps some animal had been after the meat, and had been frightened away.

Except, the pawprints were under the leaves, not indentations on top. These animal tracks had been made before the leaves were scraped over.

Had some animal buried the stinking mess and scraped leaves over it?

Exploring further, he found where the bait had originally lain, some two feet from where it was buried.

What kind of animal would move rotten meat and bury it? Would dig a hole, push the meat in, and scrape dirt and leaves over it?

Cats buried offal, buried their own offensive mess.

He stood looking into the gloom of the cemetery, then fished his handkerchief from his back pocket and, with the stick, scraped the cyanide-laced meat into it.

Leaving Buck tied, carrying the rotten meat, he headed for the old adobe stable, where he could hear a hose swishing and could glimpse, through the open gates to the stable's inner courtyard, the caretaker at work, hosing off the wheels of the big riding mower. Moving quickly, Harper stepped inside the big double gates.

32

As the door opened, the cats streaked from the darkroom, through Renet's dressing room, and out onto the balcony, and crouched against the wall beneath a spindly iron chair. There were no potted ferns here to conceal them. They heard the outer door close, and as footsteps crossed the room, Dulcie peered around through the glass-and went rigid.

"That's not Renet. That's-oh my God. She hasn't come here. What colossal nerve."

"Who hasn't?" He pressed against her, to look.

"Your cat burglar. That's your cat burglar."

The frowsy old woman was dressed, today, not in her tentlike black raincoat, but in a tan model, equally voluminous. A floppy, matching rain hat was pulled down over her straggling gray hair-perhaps she found the fog just as distasteful as a pouring rain. She crossed the room as brazenly as if she owned the place. Joe watched her with blazing eyes, enraged by her nerve-yet, highly amused. He felt a sudden, wild admiration for the old woman. Talk about chutzpah.

She had walked right into the Prior household, and in the middle of the day. Walked in, with who knew how many maids and other household help on the premises, walked in here bold as brass balls on a monkey.

"And where did she get a key?" Dulcie whispered. "From one of the maids? Did she bribe one of the maids? And didn't the yardman or anyone see her, didn't anyone wonder?"

Entering Renet's dressing room, the woman pulled off her raincoat and laid it carefully on the metal worktable. It was lumpy, its inner pockets loaded. Her baggy black skirt and black sweater made her look even more ancient. She stood looking around the room, then approached the dressing table.

Staring into the three-way mirror at her wrinkled old face and shaggy gray hair, she winked. Winked at herself and grinned. Seemed as pleased with her reflection as if she were young and beautiful.

Sitting down at the dressing table, making herself right at home, she removed the floppy hat, shook out her long gray hair, and eased off her shoes. She seemed unafraid that someone would burst in and find her. She undid the waistband of her skirt, rose, and pulled it off.

"What's she doing?" Dulcie breathed.

"Maybe she's planning to wear some of Renet's clothes when she leaves." As he reared up for a better look, he glanced down over the balcony and saw the horse and rider crossing the drive, headed up toward the cemetery. "There's Harper." And he grinned, his yellow eyes gleaming. His voice in her ear was barely audible. "Perfect timing. We'll get Harper up here. She's a sitting duck; Harper will nail her."

The woman tossed her skirt onto the table, atop her coat. She removed her black sweater, and her blouse and slip, then turned back to the dressing table. Stood in her pants and bra, looking in the mirror. The cats were so amazed they couldn't have spoken, if their lives depended on speech.

But the cat burglar did not seem distressed. The shocking contrast between her young, firm, smooth body and her ancient wrinkled face seemed not to phase her.

She looked like a young woman wearing the mask- the living mask-of a Halloween witch.

She sat down at the dressing table, lifted up her gray hair, and removed it with one smooth motion as casually as she had removed the floppy hat. Beneath the vanished wig, her own pale hair was wispy and matted. She brushed it and tried to fluff it, and sighed.

Putting the wig in one of the hatboxes, she arranged it as if the box might contain a little stand, perhaps one of those white Styrofoam heads with no face. The cats crept closer to see, moved in through the balcony door, into the room, staying behind the metal table.

Lifting a large bottle, she uncapped it, releasing a smell like nail polish remover. Pouring the clear liquid into a little dish, she soaked a cotton ball and began to scrub at her eyebrows, then rubbed the sharp-smelling liquid into her wrinkled face.

She did this several times, and then, working quickly, she peeled away her thick gray eyebrows and began to peel off her wrinkles, wadding them in handfuls, dropping the refuse in the wastebasket. Revealing young, smooth skin beneath.

Slowly Renet's face emerged, smooth and plain. A face totally unremarkable, as quickly forgotten as bland generic cat food.

Halfway through this task she stopped her work and turned, looking nervously around the room. Behind the table, the cats froze. Did she sense someone watching?