Cat Laughing Last (4 page)

But, comforted by the officers' thoroughness, she began to feel easier. She was not a flighty woman, she was not going to get hysterical over this. After the wreck that had left her so crippled, which had taken a year to recover from, she had been able to keep herself together. So why go to pieces over something so much smaller? All the time she was in the wheelchair she had not lost her nerve or resolve—at least, not very often. She told herself that this break-in, this ugly invasion of her privacy, was nothing compared to that nightmare. Yet she couldn't shake the sense of being totally violated.

She supposed everyone felt this way when such a thing happened, felt incredibly angry at their own helplessness. If she could get her hands on either of those
men, even the hurt one, and if she was strong enough, she wouldn't answer for what she might do.

Parking a block from the Swiss House, she smoothed her short hair and put on some lipstick. Detective Garza was right, she needed her friends. Clipping on Lamb's leash, she let him out of the car and headed for brunch, praying that she wouldn't end up crying in her pancakes, making a fool of herself.

W
hen the
ambulance screamed again through the village, Mavity Flowers jumped, startled, dropping the handful of old beaded evening bags she'd been sorting through. That violent noise tore right through a person. She never got used to it, not since the ambulance came when her husband died, when Lou was taken away.

Pushing back her kinky gray hair, she knelt to pick up the little old purses, clutching them against her white uniform. Rising, she laid them out across the cluttered table atop a mess of other bargains so she could choose the best ones. You'd think she'd be used to sirens at her age, and with so many older folk in the village. The ambulance went out often, even if only for some poor soul who had taken a bad fall—went out more frequently than she liked to think about. She felt uneasy suddenly, thinking about her Senior Survival friends. But Cora Lee and Gabrielle were right there at the sale. Wilma never came to these events—but Wilma was healthy as a horse, working out twice a week and walking every day.

She hadn't seen Susan, and that was strange. Susan
got up so early, she was always among the first, eager to get the best buys. Looking around for her, Mavity wanted to use the McLearys' phone, see if she was all right.

But that was foolish, that was the kind of fussing that would deeply annoy Susan. She was too independent to tolerate her friends' checking on her for no sensible reason.

Mavity sorted through the purses, selecting the nicest ones, and looking to see if any beads were missing. She hoped that when her time came to depart this world, there would be no need for sirens. That she'd go fast, that she wouldn't have some terrible, debilitating stroke to leave her lingering. It terrified her to think of growing weak and helpless, of being unable to care for herself.

Even though she was getting up in years, she felt young inside, and she kept herself in good shape, cleaning houses all day. She could still walk a mile into the village, buy her groceries, and carry them home again, and not be breathing hard when she plunked the bags down on the kitchen table. Still wore a size 4, even if all she bought was white uniforms in the used-clothing shops. Only when she looked in the mirror at her wrinkles and crow's-feet did she see the truth about her age.

She had no children to look out for her if she got sick. Now that her niece was dead, she had only her brother Greeley, and what good was he? Older than she was, and he'd be all thumbs, trying to care for a person. Irresponsible, too. Living down there in Panama like some foreigner. The last time he flew up to see her, look at the trouble they'd had, him stealing, right there under her nose, robbing from the village stores.

No, she couldn't depend on Greeley. When her time
came, she prayed for one massive stroke. Zip. Gone—to whatever lay beyond.

Maybe she'd see Lou again, maybe not. Two old folks wandering hand in hand again. Or maybe they'd be young again. No aches and pains. Wouldn't that be nice.

She hadn't been to church for years, didn't remember how a priest described Heaven. Well, if there wasn't any Heaven, if there was nothing after this life, she wouldn't know it, would she? Might as well think like there was, and enjoy the promise.

Anyway, now she wouldn't be alone if she got decrepit, now she had a new kind of family to depend on, and to depend on her.

She'd balked at first at the idea of the Senior Survival club; it had seemed silly, and she'd never been a joiner. But maybe it would work. They were committed now, the five of them set on making their lives easier by their own efforts, not depending on some agency that they had no control over. Susan said they were reinventing their futures. Well, they weren't planning on nothing fancy, no grand cruises or flights to Europe. Just a way to grow old with more security, by helping each other, using the money they were making right now as they picked over the McLearys' cast-off junk, plus the money they'd all make selling their houses.

Mavity had to smile. This all sounded like a confidence scheme. Except there was no outsider to rip them off. It had been their own idea, the five of them, all friends for years. Four of them widowed, and Wilma divorced, all alone now and tossing out ideas for their futures. She paused a moment, looking across the garden at her friends, at Gabrielle, and at Cora Lee.
And for a moment, she couldn't help it; she felt a nudge of envy.

 

“Mavity's daydreaming again,” Dulcie said. “Wool-gathering.” She watched Mavity, who was watching Gabrielle and Cora Lee, and she could almost guess what Mavity was thinking—a little of Mavity's indulgent daydreaming.

Across the McLeary garden, Gabrielle was inspecting a tableful of silverware, her tall slim figure handsome in her pale blazer, her short, soft blond hair catching the sunlight. Beyond her, Cora Lee French sorted through some boxes of books, her café-au-lait coloring and long white sundress making her look about seventeen, despite the salt and pepper in her black hair.

“What are you grinning about?” Joe asked, cutting her a look.

“About Mavity—at what she's thinking.”

“What? You're psychic suddenly?”

“She's thinking,
In my next life, I'll be tall and willowy like Gabrielle and Cora Lee
.”

“Come on, Dulcie…”

“She is. I've heard her say it often enough, rambling on while she's helping Charlie clean someone's house. It's Mavity's one discontent, that she isn't tall.
If I was born again tall and slim and beautiful, and with a little cash, I'd know I was in heaven.
”

“You're making fun of her.”

“Not at all. I love Mavity,” Dulcie said, her green eyes widening, her tail lashing. “But that is what she's thinking. And probably thinking, too,
Well you can't have everything…
And maybe,
I'm healthy and inde
pendent. I can outwork most women half my age.
” And the cats looked down fondly on little Mavity Flowers, hoping she'd be tall in the next life, the way she wanted to be.

They watched her select a pearl-beaded bag and tuck it with five other evening bags into her two-wheeled, wire mesh cart, laying half a dozen hand-embroidered hankies on top so they wouldn't wrinkle. All would bring a nice profit on eBay. Amazing, the things people would buy on the Web. They'd listened to the ladies tell how they'd cleaned out their own mothers' attics years before and had sent to charity items they wished they had back. Old Sandwich glass, Dulcie remembered, that Gabrielle had once thought was so tacky. And the old brass binoculars that Wilma said would now bring eighty or ninety dollars.

Water under the bridge,
Mavity would say, and that made Dulcie purr.
What's gone is gone.
She could just hear her.
Look at what's right here under your nose, don't be crying for what's lost, that you can't bring back
.

“You
are
making fun of her,” Joe said. “You're smirking like the Cheshire cat.”

“I'm not. Anyway, Mavity doesn't care what anyone thinks—she wouldn't care what a cat thinks. Look, she's going to buy those used uniforms, too, like she always does.”

Joe didn't reply. He was watching an old man try out a set of golf clubs. Old guy had a real hook. He ought to take up checkers.

Dulcie smiled as Mavity held a white uniform against herself for size. Mavity bought the generic uniforms that would do for any trade, beautician, waitress,
or her own job of housecleaning. The little, spry woman was proud of her work. Her square, blunt hands were rough from scrubbing, but gentle when they petted a cat. Her face was brown and lined from the California sun and from the sea wind that blew down the bay into her small house when she left the windows open.
Fishing shack,
Mavity would say,
if the truth be told
.

But now Mavity's house was called a bayside cottage, and worth half a million. Mavity said that she and Lou had paid thirty thousand for it, forty years ago when they were first married. Just a little house on stilts, at the muddy edge where the marsh met Molena Point Bay. Amazing, everyone said, what had happened to the Molena Point economy—to the whole country's economy. Mavity was, through no effort of her own, a well-to-do property owner.

Except that soon the house wouldn't be hers. The home she'd kept dear since her husband died was, the ladies said, about to be gobbled up in the all-powerful sweep of village politics. About to be condemned, as was the whole row of bayside houses.

“Well, Mavity has a good job,” Dulcie said. Working for Charlie's Fix-It, Clean-It, she couldn't have a better boss. Tall, redheaded Charlie Getz was such a no-nonsense person. And now since Charlie had bought that old rundown duplex, she and Mavity were working on it, painting and sanding the floors. Mavity liked working in an empty place more than she liked cleaning while someone was in the house. She always said she didn't like anyone looking over her shoulder, and Dulcie understood that.

Vivi Traynor was still picking and poking, now among some stacked boxes. When Charlie cleaned for
them, she'd told Wilma, she had to be really quiet. She said Elliott was the temperamental kind of writer, couldn't stand noise. She said less complimentary things about Vivi. One thing was sure, Vivi Traynor was young enough to be the novelist's granddaughter.

Snippy, too,
Dulcie thought
. With a giggle like a freight train whistle
. And Dulcie had seen Vivi flirting with the village men. Though if her famous husband was too busy with his writing to care, why should anyone else? He stayed at home in the afternoons and in the evening, shut up in his study, but most mornings when Charlie did up the place, the Traynors were at the little theater.

Vivi, having apparently found no treasure worth purchasing, rose from the clutter of boxes. She stood glancing around her, jingling her car keys and jangling those bangle bracelets she always wore, then she moved on again, looking, slipping among stacks of broken toys and used clothing. Dulcie watched her lift a folded bedspread to see what was underneath, then rifle through a stack of suitcases, shifting the dusty valises and opening them. She was very focused, as if she were looking for something special. As she pried and prodded, never stopping to admire any item, her face was frozen with distaste—maybe she couldn't bear dirt or the smell of old things; but her black eyes darted everywhere, looking. And across the yard, Gabrielle had stopped collecting sale items, and stood very still, watching Vivi.

Strange that Gabrielle hadn't greeted Vivi, that the two women hadn't acknowledged each other. But Gabrielle was like that, she wouldn't press their brief acquaintance. Despite her look of smooth sophistica
tion, Gabrielle was shy and reserved—she had met the Traynors during a trip she'd made last fall to New York, one of those senior tours. She had gone to school with Elliott's sister, and had called them, then stopped by their apartment to extend her condolences for the sister's death, a year earlier.

Gabrielle stood frowning uneasily toward Vivi, as if puzzled or, Dulcie thought, almost uncomfortable because Vivi was there. But when Vivi glanced up, Gabrielle turned quickly away.

And here came Richard Casselrod, getting out of his Mercedes SUV. Casselrod always seemed a bit seedy, his tweed sport coat worn and wrinkled, his black hair mussed. His pockmarked complexion made him look like a street bum—yet he did keep an elegant shop, two floors of lovely antique furniture and accessories. Wilma had bought several nice pieces from him, including her cherry desk where Dulcie liked to sit in the sunshine, looking out the front window. Strange, in Casselrod's sour face, how his black eyes were always smiling—as if he loved everyone he met.

He showed up at all the yard sales and estate sales. The ladies of the Senior Survival club said he was always buying, and that they'd see him in the consignment shops, too, and the charity stores when they were looking for things Susan could sell on eBay. They said Casselrod had no compunction about elbowing a person out of the way to snatch up some nice bargain before you could get at it.

No compunction, either, about selling the stuff he bought in his fancy antiques store, Gabrielle said. She said he would buy stuff from his neighbors and from
the charity shops, put it in his show window, and double the price for the tourists. The locals held out for better prices; they knew how to bargain with him. And now, Susan said, he was selling his purchases on the Web as well.

But the Senior Survival ladies were selling in the same way—only theirs was for a better cause. And after all, if that was the way Richard Casselrod wanted to make his living, it was no one's business. No one had to patronize his store. All three senior ladies watched him as he moved along the tables examining each item, collecting a few nice things that, very likely, they wished they had grabbed up first.

But Casselrod's attention was half on Vivi Traynor, giving her quick, sliding glances, making Dulcie wonder if Vivi was the kind that appealed to Richard Casselrod. She didn't see how Vivi could be attractive to any man, with that grating giggle, and the way she was always sucking on a cherry, her mouth all pursed up.

I am being mean
, Dulcie thought, smiling. Charlie said Vivi kept a container of cherries in the freezer, so she could suck on them like little round Popsicles. Even as Dulcie watched, Vivi spit out the pits and dropped a handful of cherry stems on the grass. Casselrod had turned away, moving toward Cora Lee, who knelt sorting through a tangle of toys and small appliances. As she reached for something underneath, Casselrod moved closer.

Cora Lee was still a moment, then stood up holding a white-painted box, a small chest the size of a toaster. The wooden cask was lumpy looking, and the paint was streaked like thick whitewash. The front seemed to
be carved with some kind of crude design. Examining it, touching the lid, she glanced up, startled, when she sensed someone watching her.