A fax still unnerved her. Though she had watched the library's fax, she couldn't get used to it spitting out pages suddenly without any apparent human input-as if the messages were generated by nothing living.
But she had felt that way about the telephone, at first, shivering with fear. As Joe pushed the headset off, punched in a number, and talked into the little perforated speaker, she had deeply distrusted the disembodied voice which answered him.
She felt easier with a copier. She had played with Wilma's copier, and that machine seemed to her more direct. You pressed a paw into the sand and created a pawprint. You put a page in the copier and got a copy. No invisible, offstage presences.
Even computers seemed more straightforward. You punch in CAT, you get CAT on the screen. She considered a computer to be a glorified typewriter-until you got into modems. Then the ghosts returned.
Frances had a modem; Dulcie had watched her from the doorway and knew that she received many pages via modem. These she edited, making changes, putting in appropriate punctuation, then sent the material away again to some mysterious, unnamed destination.
Mama, complaining that Frances neglected her for the computer, said Frances typed some kind of medical report. Mama had even less notion than Dulcie herself about the workings of a modem. And Dulcie had no idea whether Frances did this work to help support the household or to get away from the old woman. Maybe both. Whatever the reason, she spent a good part of the day in there. And who could blame her. Anything to get away from the oppressive clutter in the rest of the house-there was nowhere to go in this house that didn't make Dulcie herself feel trapped.
Last night, her second as a secret agent, in the old woman's lap she had waked in a panic of confinement, kicking and fighting, trying to free herself. In her dream, dark walls pressed in at her, threatening to crush her. She was with the white cat, pushing along beside him between damp, muddy walls that pressed in too close and dark, she was wild with fear; she woke with the old woman's hands pressing against her, trying to calm her. "Kitty? Oh, dear, what a dream you must have had. Were you chasing mice-or was a bad dog chasing you?"
She had leaped off the old woman's lap and raced away, totally frustrated.
She'd been with the Blankenships three days, waiting for some pearl of information about Janet's murder, and all she got was bad dreams and cuddled to death by Mama and yelled at by Varnie.
She'd made herself as accommodating to Mama as she could, obligingly eating string beans and mashed potatoes and even Jell-O, whatever the old woman saved from her own meals. She should feel flattered that Mrs. Blankenship put aside part of her supper despite Varnie's sarcastic comments.
Now, even the dark little space between the stove and wall was beginning to get to her, to give her the jitters. It was cramped, too warm, and smelled of grease. Peering out, she watched Varnie open a beer, stand looking out the window, then prowl the kitchen, opening cupboards, maybe looking for additional snacks. She longed to be with Joe out on the cool hills, running free. The brightest moments in her day were when she leaped to Mama's window and looked across the street. If Joe was sitting in Janet's window watching for her, immediately she felt free again and loved, didn't feel like a prisoner anymore.
This morning when he saw her, he had stood up against the glass, his mouth open in a toothy laugh, then disappeared. In a moment he came slipping out beneath the burned door, grinned at her, and, assured that she was safe, trotted away up the hill to hunt, cocky and self-possessed. She had looked after him feeling painfully lonely. She didn't remind herself that this little visit with the Blankenships had been her own idea. And she'd been tempted to go hunt with him; there was nothing to prevent her. The first night, Frances had propped open a window in the laundry and slid back the screen, leaving a six-inch opening through which she could come and go. Frances hadn't done it out of thoughtfulness but was saving herself the trouble of letting the cat in and out, or of cleaning up a sand box.
But if she went to hunt with Joe, began nipping back and forth between the two houses, the old lady was going to get curious. And she would find it harder, each time, to return. No, she had come for information. She'd stay until she got it. When she went outdoors she remained close to the house, returning quickly. But by the third night she was ready to pitch a fit of boredom, wanted to claw the furniture and climb the drapes.
Yesterday, when she looked out Mama's window, she'd seen Charlie's van parked below Janet's, and seen Charlie kneeling beside the porch checking the cat bowls. Strangely, that made her lonely, too.
The crackle of cellophane and cardboard echoed in the kitchen as Varnie opened chips and pretzels. He snatched up a handful and began to munch. She stiffened at the sound of footsteps on the back porch, then loud knocking. As Varnie headed for the door, she heard a dog bark.
She knew that bellowing. She slipped out from behind the stove and leaped to the counter, pressing against the window to look. Behind her, the two men's voices thundered in jocular greeting. Staring into the night, she couldn't see the dog, but she could smell him. It was the beast that had chased her and Joe, the dog with a mouth like a bear trap.
Looking across the street to Janet's, she couldn't see Joe at the window-the black glass was unbroken by the tomcat's white markings. She prayed he hadn't been outside when the dog came, prayed that he was safe.
"Get the hell down from there." Varnie shoved her, knocked her off the counter, and she hit the linoleum with a thud, jarring all four paws. "Frances, get this cat out of here."
She ran, fled into the hall. But when he turned his back she eased into the kitchen again and hid behind the stove. She didn't want to miss anything. Varnie might talk more to his friends man he did to Mama or Frances.
The two men popped open beers and sat at the table spraddle-legged, eating pretzels, obviously waiting for the rest of the group. She studied the newcomer with interest. Varnie called him Stamps. There was a James Stamps who worked for Charlie, and this guy fit Charlie's description, thin face, thin, round shoulders. Long sleazy brown hair and little, scraggly brown beard. Long, limp hands. And the same whiny voice that Charlie had mimicked.
The same sullen attitude, too. When he began to talk about his boss, he was not complimentary. Belching, stretching out his long skinny legs, he chomped a handful of pretzels. "Don't know how long I can keep that job."
"What's so hard about it? It's a dumb-head job. You didn't blow it already?"
"Didn't blow it. Don't know how long I can stand that woman. Pick, pick, pick at a man. Redheaded women are so damn pushy, and who wants to work for a woman. This one is hard-nosed like you wouldn't believe-worse than my parole officer, and that guy is a real hard-ass."
Stamps aimed a belch into his beer can; it echoed hollowly. "Never saw a woman didn't have a thing about getting to work right on the damn minute. And you don't dare think about leaving early. You come back from lunch two minutes late, they want you to work overtime-for straight pay. Make up every friggin' minute."
Behind the stove, Dulcie smiled. Too bad she couldn't repeat Stamps's remarks to Charlie. Soon Stamps began talking about the trial.
"That art agent, the one that testified this morning. That's another hard-assed woman. She had a set of keys to that place, did you know that? Had keys to the woman's van, too." Stamps settled back, tilting his chair, crossing his legs. "Made herself look bad, talking about those keys. But she don't know nothing. And the dead woman's sister, that Beverly Jeannot, they had her on the stand."