"Take care." He licked her ear. "I'll be watching. Don't forget, morning coffee."

She gave him a whisker kiss, jumped down, and slid out beneath the door. She was back at the Blankenships' and through the laundry window before the dog knew she had passed. When belatedly he scented her, he fought his shortened rope, roaring. Inside, she dropped to the laundry room floor. Padding toward the kitchen, she paused in the shadows of the hall.

In her absence two more poker players had arrived, the room stank of cigarettes and beer and reverberated with loud voices. Hurrying on past, she headed for the old woman's room. She'd hear no more secrets now.

Another night in this house didn't thrill her, but maybe, if Joe did have a plan, tomorrow she'd hit pay dirt.

13

As Frances opened the back door, airing the kitchen of stale beer and cigarette smoke, Dulcie trotted out to crouch on the threshold. Sniffing the fresh morning air, she was just getting comfortable when Frances nudged her with her an impatient toe. "Go on out, cat. You're in the way." She hunkered down, gluing herself to the floor, then leaped over Frances's offending foot, back into the kitchen. She had no intention of going out; she wasn't going to miss a lick this morning. Whatever plot Joe had hatched for Mama and Frances's coffee hour, she meant to be right there, cat on the spot.

Impatiently Frances returned to the table, fussing around, restoring the salt and pepper shakers and potted fern, the pig sugar bowl and cow-shaped cream pitcher to their rightful places, her movements abrupt, sharply agitated. Maybe her anger was the result of Varnie's loud poker party. Dulcie watched her with interest.

Last night, as Dulcie crouched behind the stove listening to Varnie and Stamps, Frances had been listening, too. Dulcie had been so intent on the conversation, she'd hardly paid attention, thinking that Frances was just passing.

But she hadn't been passing, she'd been standing in the hall, very still. Then, in a moment, she had turned away again, back to her office.

Now, as Mama came wandering into the kitchen, shuffling along in her soft slippers, Frances poured the coffee and set the pot on the table beside a plate of day-old cookies. Mama sighed and settled into her chair. The room had begun to smell of baking, the hot, peachy scent of turnovers from the oven soon overpowering the barroom stench. Dulcie sniffed appreciatively and leaped up to Mama's lap, prepared for a little snack. Whoever said cats didn't like sweets didn't know much.

Curled up against Mama's fat tummy, watching Mama nibble a cookie, she shuttered her eyes against the likely event of spilled crumbs. Interesting that Frances seemed to have no compunction about loading the old lady up on sugar and fat-but maybe Frances had her reasons.

She curled into a little ball, hoping Mama wouldn't spill hot coffee. Mama herself seemed irritable this morning. She nibbled her cookie, sipped her coffee, but said little. Dulcie was drifting into sleep when Frances said, "Mama, you're going to have to make up your mind."

"About what?"

"You know about what; about what I told you at breakfast."

Dulcie was wide-awake. She had missed something when she went out earlier.

"I have made up my mind. Made it up long ago."

"Mama, all you've done is avoid the issue. You know the right thing to do."

"Not going to the police."

"You have to go, Mama. You know the police think someone is withholding evidence. They'll search until they find out who."

"Nonsense. Where would they get such an idea?"

"It was on the local news, I told you. The seven o'clock news."

Mama sat up straighter, jamming Dulcie against the edge of the table, forcing her to change position. "You're making that up."

"They think one of the neighbors saw something that weekend-didn't report it."

"What would make them think such a thing?"

"I don't know, Mama. I don't know how the police get their information."

"This is rubbish." Mama stiffened. "Or else you told them," Mama said warily.

The timer made a small ding, and Frances rose. Standing at the warm stove, she removed the baking sheet of bubbling turnovers, placing two on a plate for her mother-in-law, totally unconcerned that she was feeding Mama enough calories to keep a young hippo. She took one for herself, setting the rest by the window to cool. Dulcie wondered if that rich smell of baking would waft across the street to Joe. Frances sat down again and refilled their cups. She cut a small bite of turnover, taking it on her fork. "If the police think you saw something and withheld evidence, they're going to make trouble."

Mama tried to eat a turnover with her fingers, but it was too hot. She kept juggling it from one hand to the other. At last she broke it in two, dribbling hot peach down Dulcie's ear.

Dulcie licked her paw and swiped at her scorched ear. The hazards of investigative work. Hungrily she licked her paw, making Mama smile. Mama blew on the half turnover, broke off a small piece, and held it for Dulcie to nibble.

"Mama, don't feed the cat and then handle your own food-you don't what diseases it has."

Ignoring Frances, Mama broke off a bite for herself with the same hand, gobbled it greedily, and offered the last crumb to Dulcie.

"Mama, you never listen. About hygiene, about that cat-about the police…"

"Varnie says I don't need to go to the police. Varnie says I don't need to go through such indignity at my age, going down to that police station and being cross-examined and then up in front of everyone in that courtroom. I'm too old and frail to get up in front of all those people; my bad heart would never stand it."

"It will be far worse for your heart, Mama, if the police arrest you."

"Why would they arrest me?"

Frances sighed. "For withholding evidence," she said patiently.

The old woman snorted, scattering crumbs.

"They put people in jail every day for less than that, Mama. It won't help your bad heart if they put you in jail."

"Put an old woman with heart trouble in jail? Don't be silly. Varnie wouldn't let them do that."

"Varnie can't…"

The ringing phone startled them. Mama gave a little jump, unsettling Dulcie so she nearly scratched Mama as she tried to hang on. Hastily she retracted her claws, watched Frances reach to the counter, pick up the phone and set it on the table.

"Blankenship residence." Her voice was cool, impersonal.

She listened a moment, frowning, then put her hand over the mouthpiece, looked at Mama for a long moment. She started to hand Mama the phone, then seemed to change her mind.

Speaking into the phone again, her voice was pure ice. "Mrs. Blankenship isn't feeling well. I'll speak with her. May she return your call?"

She reached for a pad and pencil, and jotted down a number. She repeated it back, then hung up. She looked helplessly at Mama.

"It was an attorney, Mama. I told you this would happen. He's connected with the trial, and he wants to talk with you."

"I don't know any attorneys. I don't have to talk with anyone."

"You will if he gets a subpoena; you won't have any choice."

"Call him back," Mama told her. "Tell him I'm too sick. He can't get a subpoena for a sick old woman."

"You want to tell him that, here's the phone." Frances pushed it across the table.

"You have to tell him, Frances. I'm not calling anyone. Who is this lawyer-what's his name? What business does he have calling me?"

Dulcie could feel her paws gripping at Mama's leg.

"I don't know anything about him, Mama. His name is Grey-Joseph Grey. Grey, Stern, and Starbuck. I don't recognize the firm, but that doesn't mean anything. He… "