Cat Raise the Dead by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

some kid’s lap; this was not part of the deal. And why would Wilma invite a twelve-year-old kid on this excursion? Was the child some new kind of pet to be added in with the dogs and cats? And did the kid have to keep petting him? Her hands were hot and damp and made him itch. Irritated out of his skull, suppressing a snarl, he crouched lower and squeezed his eyes closed.
    The kid hadn’t messed with Dulcie for long. One green-eyed venomous glance from the little tabby, and the girl had jerked her hand away fast.
    Dulcie stood, with her paws on the dash, staring out the window totally enthralled, as she always was in a car, watching the hills, watching eagerly for the first glimpse of Casa Capri, as if the retirement villa was some really big deal, as though she’d been invited to high tea at the St. Francis or the Hyatt Regency.
    Dillon Thurwell, that was the kid’s name. Who would name a female child Dillon? Her black hair hung stringy and straight beneath her baseball cap. Her dark eyes were huge. She began to scratch behind his ear, but kept staring ahead expectantly as if she, too, could hardly wait to get to Casa Capri, all set for a fun afternoon.
    She was dressed in jeans and one of those T-shirts that made a statement, a shirt she had obviously selected as appropriate for the occasion. Across her chest four cats approached the viewer, and on the back of the shirt, which he’d seen as she came around the car to get in, was a rear view of the same four cats walking away, as if they were stepping invisibly through the wearer’s chest, their tails high, and, of course, all their fascinating equipment in plain sight.
    Abandoning his ear, she began to scratch his cheek just behind his whiskers. Couldn’t the little brat leave him alone? He was doing his best to be civil. It was enough that he had condescended to sit on her lap—and that only after dour looks from Dulcie and Wilma. Under her insistent scratching, he shook his head and got up, pressing his hard paws into her legs, and resettled himself dourly on her bony knees. He hated when people touched his whiskers.
    But then she found that nice itchy place by his mouth, and she scratched harder, and that did feel good. Slowly, unable to help himself, he leaned his head into her hand, purring.
    Wilma glanced down at the child, gave her a long look. “What made you dye your hair, Dillon? What’s that all about?”
    Dillon shrugged.
    â€œI always envied your red hair; I hardly knew you today. What did your folks say?”
    â€œMama said I might as well get it out of my system—I cried until she had to say something.” Dillon grinned. “It’ll grow back, it’ll be red again. I just wanted to try it.”
    Wilma stopped at a red light, pushed back a strand of her long gray hair, and refastened the silver clip that held it. Then, moving on with the traffic, she turned up Ocean toward the hills, following the little line of vehicles, a cortege of five cars and a white Chevy van, headed for Casa Capri.
    â€œCome on, Dillon, what’s the rest of the story?”
    â€œWhat story? I don’t know what you mean.” The kid was cheeky, for being only twelve.
    Wilma sighed. “Why change your looks the day before you join Pet-a-Pet? What’s the deal here?” Wilma Getz wasn’t easily taken in; she hadn’t spent her professional life listening to the lies of parolees without gaining some degree of healthy skepticism.
    â€œI just wanted to try it,” Dillon repeated. “I wanted to do it now during spring break, so I can go back to school looking different. So I can get used to my new look before the kids see it.” The kid was, Joe felt, talking too much. “How could my hair have anything to do with Pet-a-Pet? My friend Karen has black hair, and she’s so beautiful.” Her little oval face was bland as cream, her brown eyes shone wide and honest.
    Wilma shrugged and