The dresser drawers were no more enlightening, yielding nothing more exciting than Renet's white cotton underwear and flannel nighties and more baggy sweaters. Besides the closet, which was nearly empty, Renet's clothes being kept handily on the floor, there was a built-in wall cupboard with drawers beneath.

The drawers were locked, but the cupboard itself, when they pawed the doors open, revealed shelves filled with assorted small cardboard boxes, a few children's toys, some cheap china knickknacks, and several cameras. Crammed among the clutter was a doll; they could see just a wisp of blond hair and a flick of white lace. Dulcie reared up, looking. "Is that the doll Mae Rose gave to Mary Nell Hook?"

"Why would Renet take the doll away from Mary Nell? The old woman seemed really happy to have it. Why would Renet want… Well hell, she is a mean-hearted broad."

Dulcie crouched to leap up onto the shelf, tail lashing for balance, but she dropped back again as, from the hall, the sound of the vacuum cleaner approached, sucking and roaring, its bellow suddenly louder as it slid from the hall runner onto the bare hardwood, heading for Renet's door. They froze, staring, then streaked away through the open French doors to Renet's balcony.

Crouching behind a clay pot planted with ferns, they watched the machine, guzzling and seeking, come roaring into the room; and they shivered.

They were not inexperienced kittens to cower at a vacuum cleaner, but that kind of machine stirred a deep, primal fear, a gut terror about which neither Joe nor Dulcie could be reasonable.

Besides, any machine that could suck up crew sox and sweater sleeves was to be respected.

The maid guided the blue upright around the discarded clothes, moving nothing, circling each cast-off item, scowling as if this business of a messy room might be some private vendetta between herself and Renet. She'd be damned if she'd move one item. She was a middle-sized, middle-aged, dumpy, and unremarkable woman, her black uniform and ruffled little cap reminiscent of an English comedy on TV. A few strands of gray hair protruded from beneath the edge of the frilly cap. Moving toward the cupboard, she paused as if to close its two doors, but instead she lifted out the doll, seemed very familiar with it, as if perhaps she had done this before.

Her back was to them, but they glimpsed the movement of the doll's pale hair and could see a flash of white and a long slim leg. The maid's arm moved as if she were stroking it or smoothing its hair. Clutching the doll, she seemed about to carry it away with her, but then she sighed and returned it to the cupboard, tucking it back among the boxes.

Shutting the cupboard doors, she moved on into the adjoining bath-they could hear the water running as she scrubbed the sink and tub-and began to sing. Her words were in Spanish, the melody sad and slow and enhanced by the heavy echoes of the tiled walls.

Even a cat's singing resounds better in the bathroom; the reverberations from the surrounding hard surfaces tending to make one's voice seem full-bodied and professional. They remained on the balcony listening, a captive audience, until she returned at last, drying her hands on a paper towel. Before she left Renet's room, she tried the inner, locked door.

She twisted the knob and pushed, and when the door wouldn't open, she pressed her ear against the panel. But at last she turned away, with a closed, dissatisfied expression.

Pausing again at the cupboard, she reached as if to open it, then seemed to change her mind, headed for the hall.

"Why was she so interested in the door, interested in the next room?" Dulcie said softly.

Joe didn't answer; he stood rigid, looking intently in, at the locked door.

"Maybe," Dulcie began…

But he was gone; the balcony beside her was empty. She whirled around, caught a flash of gray as he vanished over the rail into empty space.

Dulcie crouched on the balcony, staring across empty space where Joe had disappeared. He was not on the next railing eight feet away, and when she pushed out between the wrought-iron bars to look down far below to the concrete, the curved drive stretched away unbroken. Stories shivered through her, of cats who had fallen, sometimes to their deaths-it was another human myth that cats invariably landed on their feet.

But no pitiful accident victim lay below her, no gray tomcat flattened and unmoving or trying to right himself.

Looking again to the far terrace, she hopped up onto the balcony rail and gathered herself, crouching, and steeled herself, wondering if she could make that eight-foot span.

If she'd had a good purchase, a solid platform, or if her target was somewhat below her, no problem. But the tiny, slick metal rod beneath her paws felt like a tightrope, and the other rail was no wider.

She could see that the glass doors stood open, and she caught a scent of the harsh chemicals. Surely Joe had gone in there, but why couldn't he have waited for her. Talk about impulsive-he was always on her case for being impetuous.

She knew she was procrastinating, afraid of a simple eight-foot hop.

No good thinking, just do it. Why would she fall? She crouched tighter, a coiled spring, and took off with a hard thrust-was in midair when Joe appeared from out the glass doors, springing to the rail. She nearly plowed into him, nearly fell; landed beside him hissing. The chemical smell hit her so hard she doubled over, choking and sneezing. She glared at him angrily.

"Why didn't you wait for me? I thought…"

He gave her a sideways smile and licked her ear. "You okay?"

"I guess."

He trotted on inside, couldn't care less that she was mad enough to claw him. "Come on, Dulcie, this is too good to miss."

She followed, swallowing back her anger.

Beyond the glass doors, shutters had been partially closed, dimming the room within. The chemical stench came so strong she could taste it, like swallowing some disgusting prescription medicine.

The room seemed to be half dressing room, and half some kind of workroom. A stainless-steel worktable occupied the center of the large space, and around it the walls were crowded with cabinets and built-in drawers. On their left was the locked inner door to Renet's bedroom. Across the room to their right were two doors. One stood open. But the chemical smell that came from beneath the closed door was so strong one did not want to press one's nose against that crack; Joe sniffed as close to the space as he could manage.

"It's a darkroom. I'd bet on it."

Occupying most of one wall was a large dressing table, an elaborate affair with a hinged, three-way mirror, its glass top cluttered with bottles and jars and, at one end, a stack of round, old-fashioned hatboxes. Dulcie paused, torn between the dressing table and the two doors. The room seemed a wealth of possibilities, a treasure trove perhaps bristling with clues hidden inside the cupboards or on the dressing table.

Leaping up, she wandered among the bottles and crowded jars, stepping carefully, sniffing at the lids, trying to identify the contents. Makeup, certainly, but some smells were very strange. Stepping over an array of lipsticks and little boxes of eye makeup, over eyebrow pencils, cotton swabs, and a pair of tweezers, she paused to look into the three-way mirror, enchanted by her multiple reflections. To see herself from all angles at once, see herself from the back as if looking at another cat, was like an out-of-body experience.

Forgetting Joe, preening shamefully, she heard, from the drive below, from somewhere beyond the kitchen, a car start up and pull away, heard it move around the front of the house and head off up the long drive.