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“Is that what you want?”
The kit looked from one to the other. “Joe’s right, I don’t want to drag Lucinda in again. We just need to be up there when the Wickens get there with the van, we just need to watch them. Meantime,” she said, “Lori and Dillon are going to load up the playhouse and I’m going to watch.” And Kit took off for the seniors’ house, meaning, this once, to keep her mouth shut and not tell the law what she knew.
Dulcie watched her go flying through the leaves, and then turned quietly for home. She knew that Joe was right. Or, she hoped he was.
Joe Grey watched them both, twitching an ear, then he laid back his own ears, spun around, and headed fast for the department-to see what he could learn, what new information might have come in. And to put to rest the niggling and edgy voice that said, Is this the right decision? You sure you want to withhold that information from the chief?
27
A SQUAD CAR STOOD in the seniors’ drive, its wheels and hood radiating a gentle warmth. As if it had arrived maybe half an hour earlier, Kit thought. The big white Chevy was parked just to the left of the garage, at an angle that left the closed garage doors clear-and that provided, unknown to the cop who had parked it, swift feline access to the hood, to the top of the car, and onto the garage roof. Three leaps, and Kit looked down from the flat, tarred roof at her own paw prints embossed delicately into the squad car’s thin coating of dust-then she padded across the warm tar paper to peer in through Cora Lee’s windows, into her friend’s su
The little girl was there, with Officer Eleanor Sand. Kit, twitching her tail with interest, studied the child curled up on the rug before the tall bookcases among a pile of cushions. Cora Lee sat on the floor beside her, an open book in her lap. Eleanor Sand sat on the window seat-looking directly out the window at Kit. The tall, lovely blonde showed surprise for only an instant, and then amusement, at the sight of a cat on the roof. Kit looked back at her uncertainly-then the two big dogs were leaping to the window seat beside Sand, wagging their tails and pressing their noses to the pane inches from Kit’s nose. Everyone was staring at Kit; she didn’t know whether to be embarrassed at being caught snooping or to play it up and let herself strut a little. Because she was certainly, at the moment, onstage.
But then Cora Lee, laughing, rose and opened the window. Kit stepped in, and the dogs were all over her, slurping and soaking her fur. Cora Lee settled them down, so they backed off, only wagging and gri
Gently Cora Lee pulled a lap blanket over the two of them, took up the book again, and, in a dialect that Kit had never heard from her Creole friend, continued the Christmas story. The bright jacket said Ole Saint Nick.
Cuz dere on de by-you [Cora Lee read],
W’en I stretch ma’ neck stiff
Dere’s eight alligator
A pullin’ de skiff.
The pictures, when Cora Lee held them for the little girl to see, showed not winter snow, but a sultry river among swampy trees; not reindeer and sled and Santa in a red coat, but the alligators hitched to a little square boat that was filled with bags of gifts. Santa was dressed in brown, but he had a real white, bushy Santa Claus beard; and the child seemed quite comfortable with the change from reindeer to alligators. Halfway through, Cora Lee paused to look up at Eleanor.
“Our family told a similar Christmas story in Cajun dialect when Do
“It’s charming,” Sand said. “I’ve never heard it, but the Cajun way of telling makes me feel happy. Interesting,” she added, “that our young friend picked it from among all your picture books.”
Cora Lee, being an artist, had a handsome collection of picture books, and she could hardly resist buying the most beautiful ones that came out each year. She had followed with excitement the progress of Charlie’s book; though it was not a picture book, it had many illustrations, and Cora Lee had predicted after seeing the first sketches and reading the first rough draft that it would have deep appeal to readers of all ages.
Kit hoped so. Charlie’s book was her story, it was based on her own kittenhood, on that frightened and lonely time when she had no one to love her, no one to care if she lived or died.
When Cora Lee had finished reading the rhythmic Cajun phrases, the child reached up for the book. Hugging it to her possessively, she tucked it beneath the blanket beside Kit, and held both the book and Kit close. This little girl might be mute, Kit thought, but she surely made her feelings known.
“I wish Do
There was no blue van parked in the drive today, so Mavity must be off in the real van, on a cleaning job. Kit had seen Mavity’s ancient VW parked around the side of the garage where Mavity kept it-so as not to offend the neighbors, she said. She said her old car looked like a rusting hulk up on blocks in the yard of some backcountry shack.
The VW didn’t look that bad to Kit, but probably Gabrielle encouraged Mavity to hide it-it was not a sleek new Mercedes, such as Gabrielle herself drove.
“You said your cousin Do
Cora Lee nodded. “His children, yes. There are a lot of questions about those failed levees, about the shoddy way they were reinforced, and where the federal money went, that was given to the state to do that work. Questions,” Cora Lee said, “that in my view ought to lead to some serious charges. But I guess…I guess I’m getting old and crotchety.”
Eleanor laughed. “You don’t look like you’ll ever get old. But a bit judgmental? Why not? My daddy told me, ‘If you are not brave enough to make judgments about life, you’ll end up with a head full of porridge.’ My daddy wasn’t big on shady politicians, either, and on the folk who allow and encourage them.”
Cora Lee smiled. “There’s plenty of that, in New Orleans. Even as a child, I was aware of the ugly stories about the good-old-boy politics.” She stood up when they heard a truck pull in, and moved to the window. Kit could hear a tractor or some kind of heavy equipment, and already the big chocolate poodle and the Dalmatian had charged out of the room and down the stairs, barking and threatening.
Kit wanted to see, too, but that would appear too strange. Racing to the window must be traditionally left to the rowdy and protective canines. Instead, she yawned and stretched, and made a show of slowly extricating herself from the little girl and from the quilt and pillows. She gave the child a nose touch, then languidly jumped to the sill beside Cora Lee, rubbing up against her as if for a pet, glancing out only slyly, as if she didn’t give a whit what was out there. Behind her, Eleanor Sand knelt to gather up the little girl, perhaps uneasy at the activity below. “I think we’ll move on,” she said quietly.