Read Online Cat Raise the Dead by Shirley Rousseau Murphy - Free Book Online Page A

hills and back again, cruising. By now, seven families were working in their gardens despite the dark sky and fitful wind, diligent homeowners too conscientious to spend the morning loafing. That , Joe thought, is one of the main advantages of being a cat. Cats do not have a problem with compulsive personalities . And now, far out to sea, a web of lines slanted down where rain was pouring.
    The blue hatchback paused beside a two-storied Spanish house set well back on a large corner lot. It didn’t stop; it crept slowly by as if the driver was looking the place over. The way the house was angled, one would be able to see into a portion of the backyard, where a family of five was planting shrubs and small trees. The hatchback turned at the next corner and parked.
    A woman emerged, a dumpy creature dressed in a long, full skirt, a sloppy sweater, and a floppy hat. Joe crept forward, watching her, his stub tail twitching. She glanced around her, studying the houses nearby, then headed upthe street toward the white stucco. Approaching from the side street, she would be able to see the backyard, but might not be noticed by the busily gardening family. The cats watched her glance into the backyard then turn away, retrace her steps to the front door.
    They didn’t see her ring the bell. She tried the knob, glanced around again, and moved right on in. Evidently no one in the backyard noticed her, no one made a move toward the house. Maybe she belonged there. And maybe she didn’t. Joe leaped to the cupola roof. Rearing tall, he studied the house, getting his bearings. Standing like a weather vane braced against the wind, he counted the streets.
    â€œFive blocks above Janet’s burned studio. Four blocks to the left.”
    And they fled down the trellis and across yards and sidewalks, up across the grassy park above Highway One and up the winding streets, through the high grass of the open fields, through tangles of broom and holly; across lawns and manicured flower beds, moving so swiftly that when they reached the blue hatchback—which turned out to be a late-model Honda—the motor was still ticking softly, and the tires and wheels were still warm.
    Again there was dried mud smeared across the license plate. But this time, pawing together at the caked dirt, they were able to flake away enough mud to reveal California plate 3GHK499.
    There was no indication of issuing county, of course. California plates did not include that information. The car could be registered anywhere in the state; only Max Harper would know, when he pulled up the number through DMV. It galled Joe that the cops had access to information the average citizen—average cat—couldn’t touch.
    But he guessed it had to be that way; a cop’s job was tough enough. Give civilians access to the DMV files, and they’d create a ton of mischief.
    Leaving the Honda, trotting on up the street to the white stucco house, they found the family still working away, lowering the burlap-wrapped roots of sturdy nursery shrubs into the earth. There the constricted bushes could stretch out their thin white roots like hundreds of hungry tongues reaching for food. A black Mercedes was parked in the drive. The cats jumped to the hood, then to the top of the car, leaving pawprints, and leaped to the garage roof, onto the rounded clay tiles.
    To their left, the two-story portion of the house rose above the garage. The windows of both bedrooms were open, the sheer white curtains blowing. Within the front bedroom a figure moved, her baggy skirt and huge sweater catching the light in lumpy folds as she turned to the closet. The cats slipped closer, up across the tiles, and pressed against the wall, glancing around to look warily in through the glass.
    The woman had pulled the double closet doors open and was examining the hanging garments. Her ragged gray hair was in need of a good trim and a vigorous brushing. She looked like she’d made her