Cat in the Dark by Shirley Rousseau Murphy Read Free Book Online Page B

violation of your rental contract. This is a formal notice to vacate the apartment and all premises by tonight. Any item you leave behind, inside the apartment or in the yard—cement mixer, buckets, the entire clutter—will be mine to keep and dispose of.
    She set her lunch bag on the porch, dropped her jacket on top, and read the note again. Looking down toward her landlord’s apartment, just below hers, she wanted to snatch up that neat little man and smear him all over his neat little yard.
    Swinging back inside, she grabbed her stacked cardboard boxes and began shoving dishes and potsand pans in on top of her folded clothes. Jerking her few hanging garments from the closet, she rolled them into a bundle, snatched her framed drawings off the wall, and carried the first load down to her van. Halfway through her packing, she grabbed up the phone and called Clyde, told him she’d be a bit late. Didn’t tell him why. And within an hour she was out of there, chalking up another defeat.

5
    T HE BRIGHTLY lighted gallery, from the aspect of the two cats, was an obstacle course of human legs and feet. They had to move lively toward the back to avoid being stepped on by spike heels, wedge sandals, and hard, polished oxfords that looked as lethal as sledgehammers. Slinking between silken ankles and well-creased trouser cuffs, they slipped beneath Sicily Aronson’s desk into shadow where they could watch, untrampled, the champagne-fueled festivities.
    In Joe’s opinion, the way to attend an art exhibit was from, say, a rooftop several blocks removed. But Dulcie had to be in the middle, listening to the tangle of conversations, sniffing expensive French perfumes and admiring dangling jewelry and elegant hair arrangements. “No one will notice us—they’re all talking at once, trying to impress each other.”
    â€œRight. Of course Sicily won’t notice us. So why is she swooping in this direction like a hungry barn owl?” The gallery owner was pushing through the crowd with her usual exuberance. “On stage,” Joe muttered.“Always on stage.” She was dressed in silver lamé evening pajamas that flapped around her ankles, a flowing silver scarf that swung around her thin thighs, and an amazing array of clinking jewelry. Kneeling and laughing, she peered under the desk at them, then scooped Dulcie into her arms. Pulling Joe out, too, she cuddled them like two teddy bears; Joe had to grit his teeth to keep from clawing her, and of course Dulcie gave him that don’t-you-dare scowl.
    â€œYou two look beautiful, so sleek and brushed,” Sicily cooed, snuggling them against her silver bosom. “This is lovely to have you here—after all, you are the main models, you dear cats. Did Wilma bring you? Where is Wilma?”
    Joe wanted to throw up. Dulcie purred extravagantly—she was such a sucker for this stuff. Whenever she visited Sicily, wandering into the gallery, Sicily had a treat for her, a little snack put aside from Molena Point’s Pet Gourmet. And Sicily kept a soft sweater for Dulcie to nap on; she had figured out quickly that to Dulcie, pretty garments, silk and velvet and cashmere, were the pièce de résistance. Only once, when Dulcie trotted out of the shop dragging a handwoven vicuña scarf, did Sicily fling a cross word at her and run out to retrieve the treasure. Now, fawning and petting them and effectively blocking their escape, she reached behind the desk to fetch a blue velvet cushion and laid it on the blotter. “You two stay right here—just curl up and look pretty—and I’ll fix a plate for you.” Leaning down, she stared into Joe’s eyes, stroking him and scratching behind his ears. “Caviar, Joe Grey? Smoked turkey?”
    Joe felt himself weakening.
    But as Sicily left them, a big woman in a plum-colored dress descended, pushing her way out of thecrowd. “Oh, the two little models. Oh,