The Cat Sitter's Nine Lives

by Clement, Blaize, Clement, John

  After Zoë’s surgery, the muscles in her hind legs began to wither away from inactivity, and I was worried she’d never get back to normal if she didn’t get some kind of exercise in. So Timmy and I put our heads together and came up with the perfect solution. It took some time and patience, as well as a floaty vest, but eventually I had Zoë doing laps in the pool. At first she’d just thrash around like a maniac, but once she realized the vest kept her afloat when I let go of her, she would happily motor around the pool like a brindle-butted tugboat.

  I sat down on a chaise lounge at the edge of the pool, and as soon as Zoë saw me slide my bag over she started barking excitedly and swimming in circles. I pulled a couple of tennis balls out and tossed them in the pool. She immediately paddled after them, letting out an excited yip to let me know she’d take it from there.

  Her goal is to get ahold of both balls at the same time, which even for her big maw is a tall order, so she’s busy for at least twenty minutes, sometimes longer. Eventually she’ll climb out of the pool, thoroughly spent, and loll around in the sun panting happily. It’s a good solid workout.

  I stretched out on the chaise. When a dog’s happy and well exercised, there’s not much more to do than check the water bowl. Cats, however, are a whole different story. They have a flair for mischief rarely matched in the canine world. A cat can have all sorts of side projects in progress—toilet paper sculptures, potted plant demolition, trash can spelunking—so I consider it part of my job to do a thorough check of the house and right any feline wrongs I find, but with Zoë splashing around in the pool, I figured I could afford to take a break.

  I pulled my new book out of my backpack and slipped it out of its crisp wrapping. I knew it was crazy, but I just couldn’t get over how beautiful it was. The cover was a deep forest green, its edges burnished darker by generations of curious readers, the embossed print gleaming like gold, which for all I knew it actually was.

  I smiled with anticipation as I opened it up to the title page: The Furry Godmother’s Guide to Pet-Friendly Gardening, by V. Tisson-Waugh. The paper was a creamy white, and opposite the title page was a colorful, intricately drawn illustration of a long-tailed Maine Coon cat, perched proudly atop an overturned fruit basket set in the midst of a garden of flowering plants, all aflutter with bumblebees and butterflies.

  There was an introduction by the editor, which invited the reader to enjoy the book as it was written, slowly and with loving appreciation for all things living, and not, as it said, “with one’s heel pressed firmly at the horse’s flank.” I ran my finger down the table of contents. The chapters all had Latin titles, which I assumed were all different plants, but they sounded more like fatal diseases you might get from a swamp mosquito, like Nepeta cataria and Dactylis glomerata.

  The very bottom of the index page had been torn out, probably by some mischievous nineteenth-century cat, so I leafed to the back of the book to see how it ended.

  “Huh,” I said.

  Now I knew why somebody might have been willing to part with such a beautiful book. There was a section missing in the back, probably not more than twenty pages. All that remained of them were some ragged strips of cream-colored paper clinging to the inside of the spine and a few dangling threads here and there. For a second I thought, No wonder it was so cheap, but I had a feeling Mr. Hoskins hadn’t even noticed it.

  By now, Zoë had pulled herself out of the pool and was stretched out on her back on the warm concrete, paws in the air and snoring loudly. I snapped the book shut and slipped it down in my backpack.

  “Okay, Brindlebutt! Let’s move it inside.”

  She hopped up and trotted over while I pulled out one of the striped beach towels Timmy keeps in a basket by the back door. As I dried her off, I could feel the long, thick bands of muscle in her hind legs. I congratulated her on the progress she was making. She wagged her tail and grinned all the way to the living room, where she took her place on the couch while I clicked on the TV with the remote and tuned to the Learning Channel. I personally wouldn’t allow any dog of mine to watch one single episode of Toddlers & Tiaras, but if that’s what Zoë likes, who am I to judge?

  I left her with a kiss on the top of her velvety head and a promise I’d be back in a few hours for another swim. I figured I had just enough time to swing by the bookstore on the way to my last morning client. Not that I had any intention of returning my new book, but I figured Mr. Hoskins might want to know about the missing section, and he’d probably want to check the other books it came with just in case they’d been mangled, too.

  Now when I think about that moment, I wonder how things might have been different if I’d just stayed there in Timmy’s apartment with Zoë for the rest of the morning. If I’d known what I was about to walk into, I would have sat right down on the couch next to her and watched a whole Toddlers & Tiaras marathon—every single episode of every single season.

  But no.

  That’s not what I did.

  7

  I have a morning routine that I’ve worked out over the years, and I stick to it with an almost military dedication. I roll out of bed, stumble into the bathroom, splash cold water on my face, and pull my hair back into a tight ponytail. Then I pad into the closet and paw through the shelves for my standard uniform: khaki cargo shorts, white sleeveless tee, and a fresh pair of white tennis shoes. Anybody who knows me knows I can’t stand old, smelly shoes, so I keep a steady supply of brand-new Keds lined up on the rack in my closet. As soon as one of them gets even the slightest bit ragged, out they go, right to the Salvation Army.

  I’m out the door and on the road by the time the sun’s coming up, and when my morning rounds are done, usually around nine or so, I head straight over to the Village Diner, where I have the same exact breakfast every single day. Then it’s home for a shower and a nap, and then on to my afternoon rounds, and then dinner and then bed. It’s the same every day, seven days a week.

  In other words, I don’t like surprises.

  Then again, as I cruised down Ocean Boulevard on my way to the bookstore, whistling happily along like one of Snow White’s seven dwarves, I had to admit: Breakfast on a silver platter was a nice change, especially when it was served by a beautiful man. I chuckled at myself for still thinking about it, but I couldn’t stop. Even though I felt like my schedule was still a little out of whack, it had put me in a good mood, not to mention the fact that my neck felt worlds better.

  I wondered how I could convince Ethan to make sure that both nightly massages and breakfast service became standard additions to my daily routine.

  I was looking forward to seeing Mr. Hoskins again. I had instantly liked him, as befuddled as he was, and I think I was kind of hoping that maybe we’d become friends. He was a little more disheveled than I remembered Mr. Beezy being, but there was definitely something similar about them. Of course, I couldn’t hope to re-create the bond I’d felt with Mr. Beezy, but it certainly couldn’t hurt to try. I think those bonds we form as children are almost impossible to find again, especially after we grow up and see the world for what it really is.

  I pulled the Bronco into a spot just in front of Amber Jack’s, a local hangout with an open-air patio and a little stage in the corner for live music. During the day it’s deserted save for a few sparrows and snowy egrets foraging around under the tables for bits of french fries or burger buns from the night before, but in the evening it’s PTB—the Place to Be. In fact, they even have a live webcam so people can check out the crowd from the comfort of their own home anywhere in the world. The beer is cheap and the music is good, and it’s the kind of establishment where tourists can rub elbows with us locals and pretend they live in paradise all year long, too.

  I grabbed my book and had just opened the car door when my cell phone rang. One look at the caller ID and I laughed out loud. It read SARA MEM HO.

  I was pretty sure this was the same “Sara Somebody” who had already called a couple of times, but I knew right away it wasn�
�t the Sara who works the hot dog stand down at the beach pavilion, and it wasn’t a new client either. Sara Mem Ho was caller ID shorthand for Sarasota Memorial Hospital.

  I’d been friends with a girl in high school named Christine Ho, but I’d certainly never heard of anybody named Mem. I grinned thinking about how I’d tease Ethan about it later, except then I remembered with a jolt that my friend Cora had recently had a little heart trouble, and my first thought was that she was back in the hospital.

  Hoping with all my might that I was wrong, I flipped it open and said, “Hello?”

  A young woman said in a rushed half-whisper, “Hi. You don’t know me, and I shouldn’t be doing this, but I just thought you should know.”

  I said, “Who is this?”

  “I’m a night nurse at Sarasota Memorial Hospital. We’re not supposed to get involved in our patients’ private affairs, but…”

  I took a deep breath and braced myself for bad news. “Okay. What happened?”

  “He’s been asking for you.”

  I frowned. “Huh?”

  “Mr. Vladek. He made me promise not to call you, but then he asks for you in his sleep.”

  She was talking so quietly I wasn’t even sure I’d heard her right. “Mr. Vladek?”

  “Yes, Anton Vladek.”

  I let out a sigh of relief. “Oh my gosh. I think you have the wrong number. I don’t know anyone named Vladek.”

  There was a quick intake of breath and then silence.

  I said, “Hello?”

  She blurted, “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I have the wrong number. Please don’t tell anyone I called you.”

  I started to ask her who the heck I would tell, but then the line went dead. I sat there staring at the phone for a second and wondering what in the world that could have been about. Anton Vladek sounded exactly like the kind of person I’d get a mysterious call from if I was an international spy. For a second I fantasized about hitting redial, disguising my voice, and asking the mystery nurse to deliver a top secret, coded message to Anton Vladek: The microfilm is in a black valise at the front desk of the Russian embassy, and the eagle flies at midnight.

  Instead, I slipped the phone down in my pocket and grabbed my new book. The last thing I needed right now was more drama in my life. Anton Vladek would just have to carry out whatever international spy-ring undercover sting operation he was working on without me.

  As I came around the front of the Bronco and stepped up on the sidewalk, I saw a little crowd up the street in front of Beezy’s Bookstore. The first thing that came to mind was that they were having some kind of sale, or maybe a book signing. There are lots of writers around here, so often you’ll see somebody with a table set up, signing their new book at the library or the farmer’s market downtown. But then I realized they were all wearing the same thing: spruce green trousers, black boots, and short-sleeved, green polo shirts.

  I stopped dead in my tracks. There were about six sheriff’s deputies in all, standing in a circle behind a line of yellow-and-black police tape. There were two department cruisers parked across the street, and two policemen were stringing more tape around the two shops on either side of the bookstore. They’d also cordoned off the parking spaces directly in front of the shop, which were vacant except for a dusty maroon minivan parked right in front. On the side of the van was a black circle of lettering that read BEEZY’S BOOKSTORE, and inside the circle was an image of an open book.

  The door to the bookshop swung open, and two policemen stepped out, followed by a tall woman with sorrel hair and pale, freckled skin. She wore a knee-length skirt the color of a baked potato, with a gray blouse and dull black mules. I recognized her immediately.

  Samantha McKenzie. When Guidry had moved to New Orleans, it was McKenzie who’d taken over as lead homicide detective for the Sarasota County Sheriff’s Department. I had met her a couple of times before. She wasn’t much older than me, but I always felt like a little child in her presence, and I must have looked like a fool standing there with my arms dangling at my sides and my mouth hanging wide open. When she saw me, our eyes locked for a second. She had a look on her face that I had seen before—intense alertness and concentration, but with a vague, resolute sadness.

  She stepped forward and held out her hand. “Ah, Miss Hemingway, we were just talking about you.”

  8

  I was standing just inside the bookstore, next to the old burnished-wood counter with the antique cash register on top. It was eerily quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioner built into the wall over the front door. The shop looked the same as it had the night before, except now all the lights in the back of the store were off. The light over the register was on, as were the two hanging glass lamps in the display window, but there was no sign of Cosmo anywhere.

  I had the urge to call out for Mr. Hoskins to let him know we were here, but of course that would have been crazy. Somewhere in the back of my mind I must have known what was going on, but there seemed to be a part of me that just wouldn’t allow it. My eyes scanned the pen-and-ink drawings arranged on the wall behind the register, as if I might find some sort of answer in their innocent scenery. In one, a comely woman with long dark hair falling off her shoulders peered down at me with wise, comforting eyes.

  I glanced into the back of the store, but since the only light was coming from the front, it was too dark to see anything clearly.

  I turned to Detective McKenzie and said, “What’s happening?”

  She cleared her throat, and I felt the inside of my palms start to sweat. “We got a call this morning from the man that delivers the newspapers every day. Normally when he gets here the shop’s not open for business yet, so he knocks on the door to let Mr. Hoskins know he’s here and then leaves his stack of papers on the sidewalk.”

  She pointed outside, and there on the sidewalk next to the door was a stack of newspapers wrapped in white nylon twine.

  “He said usually by the time he’s back in his delivery van, Mr. Hoskins has come to the door and they exchange a wave or a ‘good morning.’ But this time Mr. Hoskins didn’t come to the door. So he got out and went back to look through the door window. The lights were on inside, but the door was unlocked. That’s when he realized something was wrong.”

  I looked around the shop. It didn’t seem like there’d been a burglary or a fight or anything like that, so I still couldn’t quite fathom what McKenzie was doing here. At that point, I’m not even sure I understood why the whole place was surrounded with police tape. To me, it was obvious what had happened. Last night, I’d shown up at closing time and interrupted Mr. Hoskins’s normal routine. He’d simply forgotten to lock up before he went home.

  I said, “Mr. Hoskins seemed a little absentminded. Maybe…” but the expression on McKenzie’s face stopped me. She shook her head slowly and glanced over my shoulder at something on the countertop behind me.

  I didn’t want to, but I turned and looked. Right away, I knew why she’d been talking about me when I arrived. The check I’d made out to Beezy’s Bookstore the night before was still lying next to the bowl of chocolates beyond the cash register. She’d seen my name on the check and was probably about to call me. My check wasn’t what McKenzie was looking at, though.

  There, in a diagonal line across the countertop, was a row of red splotches, each about the size of a quarter and spaced a few inches apart. My stomach tightened into a fist as I realized—it was blood.

  McKenzie said, “The cash register is empty, and just before you arrived, Mr. Hoskins’s daughter called the station. The doorman in his apartment building said he never came home last night.”

  My legs were beginning to feel like jelly. I looked at her and said, “I was just here. I was here last night before he closed up.”

  She nodded at the check. “Yes, I figured as much.”

  I looked down at the book in my hand, and then my eyes followed the central corridor to the round claw-foot table in the center of the store, but it w
as too dark to see anything farther back.

  I said, “Is he … is he back there?”

  McKenzie shook her head slowly. “No. We don’t know where he is. I was hoping you might be able to help with that.”

  I hugged myself and sighed with relief. Just then, one of the deputies waiting outside tapped on the door and pushed it open slightly.

  “Ma’am,” he said, “there’s something out here you should see.”

  She turned to me. “Dixie, would you mind waiting a bit?”

  I nodded mutely and then just stood there in a daze. I think I was still trying to process exactly what was going on.

  She smiled slightly and said, “Um, outside, if you don’t mind?”

  I reached for the door, but she slid in front of me. “Let me get that for you.”

  She nodded at the deputy, and he pushed the door open. I noticed he was wearing blue latex gloves. I looked down at McKenzie’s hands and realized she was, too. It was only then that it dawned on me that this wasn’t just Beezy’s Bookstore anymore. It wasn’t just a place to come and explore, to lie on the carpet with my head resting on a stack of books and forget about the world outside. It was a crime scene, and everything inside was potential evidence.

  The deputy led McKenzie past the big display window to the edge of the building and lifted up the police tape for her. Before she went under, she turned back and said, “Dixie, I know you’re busy, so I won’t be long, but I do have a few more questions for you.”

  I nodded. Even though she hadn’t asked me any questions yet, I knew I’d already answered some. Guidry had taught me that you can sometimes learn more from watching a person’s first reaction to a crime scene than you can from a hundred hours of interrogation. I was sure McKenzie had taken note of my every move, what my eyes had lingered on inside the store, how my breathing had changed, where I put my hands, what my first words had been.