Raining Cat Sitters and Dogs

by Blaize Clement

  She crawled in the driver’s seat. “Did you see anybody?”

  I didn’t want to talk about it. My jaws were trembling, and I had to clench my teeth to keep them from rattling.

  She started the engine and backed out of the garage. “How long do you think it will be before they bring him home?”

  I shrugged and tried to stop shaking.

  She did that secret magic thing again that opened the gate in the wall. “You think he’ll be home when I get back?”

  I gave her a jerky smile. “I hope so, Mo.”

  Maureen was energized, shot through with excitement. I was a wreck.

  I felt as if I’d just gone through a rite of passage into an exclusive world, like my first period or my first kiss with tongue. Now I was a member of a club whose members have delivered ransom money to a kidnapper. It was a creepy feeling.

  I closed my eyes and leaned my head back for the rest of the drive. Maureen chattered without seeming to notice that I wasn’t responding. When we rolled to a stop at my place, I opened my door and slid out.

  She said, “I owe you one, Dixie.”

  I said, “Mo, please don’t ever mention this night again. Not to me or to anybody else.”

  She held her thumb and forefinger together in an O. “You got it, friend!”

  I clicked the car door closed and walked away. As I started up my stairs, she backed out and zoomed down the drive loud enough to wake Michael, the seagulls, and all the parakeets.

  Feeling as if I were wading through deep water, I went upstairs and dropped my clothes on the floor beside my bed. The clock on my bedside table said it was twelve forty-five, slightly less than an hour since I’d left. I fell into bed as if I were drugged. As I lost consciousness, I reminded myself that even though it had been a stressful night, Maureen would get her husband back.

  At least that’s what I thought.

  14

  My alarm went off at its regular time, and I got up with a surprisingly clear head, as if my middle-of-the-night tryst with a million dollars had given my nervous system a boost. I was so full of energy that I ran an extra lap around the parking lot track with Billy Elliot, and I spent a few extra minutes with every cat playing spirited games of attack-the-peacock-feather or leap-at-the-flying-dish-towel.

  Even pilling Ruthie went faster. Now that she knew what to expect, she seemed to look forward to being lifted from her head. I’ve found that to be true with most cats. I’m not sure whether it’s because they associate the feeling with being kittens carried by their mothers, or if they just think they might as well get it over with. She and I did our act in about a minute flat, and then she ran to Max for praise.

  Max said, “I think Ruthie knows you used to be a cop. She’s intimidated by authority.”

  He said it in a joking way, but I suspected he missed being able to intimidate people with his authority.

  I said, “That’s an act she puts on. She’s really using me to save face. This way she doesn’t have to give in and swallow the pills by herself, plus she gets extra attention from her favorite human.”

  He looked pleased. “She does follow me around like a dog.”

  I wasn’t surprised. Even when they live with more than one human, Foldies typically become especially bonded with one person.

  I left Max and Ruthie admiring each other and sped to Big Bubba’s. When I whisked away his night cover he fluttered his wings as if he had as much extra pep as I did. I opened the door to his cage so he could hop out, and he clambered from his doorway to the top of his cage and surveyed his domain like a king. Parrots are like cats in their belief in their own superiority over all other beings.

  I left him there and went to the kitchen for his morning fruit. He was still atop his cage when I came back, so I gave him half a peeled banana.

  I said, “Would you like fries with that?”

  He gave me the one-eyed bird stare and pecked at the banana.

  I scraped poop off his perches and washed his dishes. I removed the dirty paper from the bottom of his cage and put down fresh.

  I said, “I’m giving you the sports section today. You like that?”

  He spread his wings and sailed to the floor. I opened the sliding doors to the lanai so he could go out into the fresh air. Instead, he waddled to the table that held his TV, and pecked at a table leg.

  I said, “Not talking today, huh? Well, that’s okay. I have days when I don’t feel like talking either.”

  I put fresh seed and water in his cups. I hung a fat sprig of millet from his cage roof.

  I said, “How about some Cheerios with your seed this morning?”

  He didn’t answer, but I gave him some anyway.

  He flapped his wings and hopped over the slider groove to the lanai where he stalked around the perimeter like a border guard. Wild birds in the trees immediately began loud insistent chirping, and he squawked bird-language replies that sounded like a military commander ordering his troops to shape up. Max would have been proud of him.

  While he shouted to the wild birds, I got out Reba’s hand vac and sucked up all the seed shells and fluffy little underfeathers that had fallen on the floor. Then I went out to the lanai and coaxed Big Bubba onto my arm. With his relatives looking on from the trees, I ran around the lanai a few times while Big Bubba raised his wings for balance and hollered with excitement. The wild birds probably thought I was Big Bubba’s handmaiden, a servant who meekly provided his every need. They weren’t far off.

  When I was too winded to run anymore, I carried him inside and let him hop into his cage. Then I turned on his TV and tuned it to the Discovery Channel.

  I said, “I’ve enjoyed our time together, Big Bubba. I hope you’ll keep everything we’ve said confidential.”

  He cocked his head and fixed me with one eye. He said, “Did you miss me?”

  I laughed. “Too late to sweet-talk me now, Big Bubba. But I’ll be back this afternoon and we can discuss it.”

  Big Bubba was my last pet visit of the morning, but before I headed to the Village Diner for breakfast I stopped at Hetty’s house. Like before, I heard her footsteps stop behind the door so she could look out the peephole before she let me in. She was smiling when she opened the door, and she invited me inside as if she really meant it. She was wearing an elastic bandage wrapped around one wrist.

  Louder than necessary, she said, “I was just telling Jaz that you might stop by this morning.”

  Ben skittered out of the kitchen, his puppy feet so fast and awkward that he slid on the wooden floor. Jaz swung into the open doorway behind him, a giggle trailing to a stop when she saw me. She wore shorts with just-bought creases in them and one of those barely-there cotton tops that look indecent on any woman over the age of fourteen. Her skin and hair had a new glossy look, as if she’d had a recent bath and shampoo.

  Still speaking as if I might have gone deaf since she last saw me, Hetty gestured me through the kitchen door. The kitchen had a faint aroma of bacon, a smell I love more than perfume. It didn’t take detective skills to guess that Hetty had made breakfast for Jaz.

  She said, “Doesn’t Jaz look cute? We went to Wal-Mart last night, all three of us. Ben needed experience in a crowded store and Jaz was nice enough to go with us, and while we were there I saw a bunch of things that were perfect for Jaz. We had a great time.”

  In other words, Jaz had returned to Hetty’s house after sundown, and Hetty had hauled her off to Wal-Mart and bought clothes for her. I wondered if Jaz had gone with her stepfather’s permission.

  Instead of asking questions, I made female noises about the new clothes. Jaz didn’t exactly smile under my praise, but her face lost some of its tension.

  In the kitchen, Winston sat at the table like a judge presiding at court. I scratched the top of his head and turned down Hetty’s offer of coffee and cookies.

  I said, “Hetty, how’d you hurt your wrist?”

  She made a mock grimace and waggled it in the air. “Oh, I twisted i
t this morning lifting a bag of puppy food. It’s not hurt bad, just a sprain. Good thing Jaz is here to help me with heavy things.”

  Jaz said, “And combing Ben.”

  Hetty looked a mite embarrassed. “And combing Ben too. My goodness, if Jaz weren’t doing that, Ben would be a tangled mess.”

  I bit back a grin. Ben’s puppy hair did need combing, but he wouldn’t exactly be a tangled mess if he skipped a day. I also suspected that Hetty’s injury was mostly talk, a way of making Jaz feel needed and important. Nothing wrong with that. We all need to feel important.

  I said, “Good thing you’re nearby, Jaz. Where did you say you live?”

  The girl shrugged. “A few streets over. I don’t know the name.”

  She was either a really good actress pretending not to know her own address, or a kid who hadn’t lived in her house long enough to learn it.

  Careful as walking on spilled birdseed, I said, “Is your house on stilts? So you go up tall steps to get to your front door?”

  She seemed to consider whether it was safe to answer, then nodded. “How’d you know?”

  “Just a guess.”

  Hetty looked perplexed, wondering how I’d figured out where Jaz lived.

  I hadn’t the faintest idea where she lived. I had described Reba Chandler’s house because the boys had come to Reba’s believing it was where they’d find Jaz. It therefore seemed a safe bet that she and her stepfather lived in a house that looked like Reba’s.

  I was doing so well with my hunches that I tried another one.

  I said, “It’s really nice of you to help out here, Jasmine.” I pronounced it “Jas-min.”

  “Jas-meen,” she said, then clapped her hand over her mouth.

  I tried not to look as pleased as I felt. “I said it wrong, huh? Sorry.”

  Above her covered mouth, her eyes were wide and frightened.

  Hetty said, “No matter how you say it, it’s a pretty name.”

  The girl lowered her hand, but she looked wary. “I’m not supposed to go by that name now.”

  Hetty’s eyes met mine for an instant, both of us keeping our faces still.

  I said, “I have a friend named Maureen, but I’ve always called her Mo. I don’t remember why I started calling her that, but Mo fits her better than Maureen. Maureen is sort of formal, don’t you think? Mo is friendlier.”

  She said, “I don’t want to be a Rosemary.”

  Hetty and I exchanged glances again.

  I said, “You seem more like a Jasmine than a Rosemary.” I was careful to pronounce the name Jas-meen.

  Stiffly, she said, “That’s because I am a Jasmine. That’s what my mother named me.”

  Hetty picked up the empty teakettle and carried it to the sink to fill, and Jaz was quickly beside her.

  She said, “I’ll do that! You’ll hurt your wrist!”

  Hetty smiled sheepishly and allowed Jaz to fill the pot and carry it to the stove. Jaz looked serious and determined. She and Hetty obviously had a mutual-admiration thing going.

  As Jaz settled the pot on the stove, she looked up at the purple clock on the kitchen wall and stiffened. “Oh, my gosh! I didn’t know it was so late! He’ll kill me if he finds me gone!”

  With her face anxiously pinched, she turned and ran out the back door, letting it slam shut behind her.

  Hetty said, “What—”

  I didn’t stick around to hear what she was going to say. Instead, I grabbed my keys and ran to the front door as fast as I could. Unlike Jaz, I pulled it closed behind me before I charged to the Bronco. I was determined to find out where Jaz lived.

  15

  Jaz was already half a block away, running on the sidewalk like a spooked colt. I started the Bronco, backed out of the driveway like Mario Andretti at the starting line, and then slowed so she wouldn’t know I was there. She ran toward the bay, following the curves of the street, all spindly legs and determined rush. A couple of cars pulled around me to pass, the drivers probably wondering why I was creeping along so slowly.

  The closer she got to the bay, the more I wondered where the heck she was running. There are no private homes on that particular stretch of the bay, only the posh Key Royale resort hotel. An acre of wild nature preserve separates the hotel from private homes, and as Jaz neared its edge I saw a khaki-colored Hummer idling at the curb.

  Something about that mountainous Hummer sitting on the street made me uneasy, so I sped up to narrow the gap between us. When I was about twenty-five feet behind her, she ran past the Hummer’s right side. As I swerved around the Hummer on the left, Jaz suddenly made a right turn and plunged into the nature preserve. I pulled to the curb in front of the Hummer, but all I caught was a glimpse of her head before she was swallowed by the greenery. Behind me, the Hummer revved its engine and roared toward the bay.

  I sat for a few minutes trying to figure out where Jaz was going, but the answer was as obvious as it was unlikely. She could only be headed toward the resort hotel.

  Sarasota has almost as many pricey tourist hotels as it has private homes, but the Key Royale caters to the crème de la crème. The Royale’s guests crave privacy and seclusion above all else, and they’re willing and able to pay top dollar for it. No paparazzi, no nosy reporters, just discreet hotel employees.

  Jaz and her stepfather were not wealthy. They were not famous actors seeking a respite from continuous press coverage. They were not politicians or world leaders needing time out of the limelight. But if Jaz was trying to get home before her stepfather found her gone, that home had to be at the Key Royale. Which could only mean that her stepfather was an employee there, and they had been given living quarters.

  Okay, it was beginning to come together. The stepfather wore a shoulder holster. If he was an employee at the Key Royale, he must be a security guard there. There was no mother, so he had complete responsibility for Jaz. Since the place was the epitome of exclusive, he practically kept her under house arrest to make sure she didn’t spill any secrets about the famous people staying there. He was a first-class jerk, a mean tyrant with no idea how to raise a teenager, a rent-a-cop in a cheap suit, but not a gang leader.

  But then why had young men who were gang members in L.A. come to Siesta Key looking for Jaz? And why had her stepfather been so edgy and nervous at Dr. Layton’s office? Maybe he was a gang leader who had got a job at the Key Royale as a cover while he was in Sarasota. Maybe he didn’t have a record, so his background check hadn’t raised any flags when he was hired.

  While I sat thinking, the Hummer passed from the other direction. It had driven to the bay and made a U-turn. It was behind me before it caught my attention, and all I could make out in the rearview mirror was the backs of three heads. They could have been the heads of the guys who had come into Reba’s house looking for Jaz. Or they could have been tourists. Or frustrated reporters denied entry into the resort. Or simply innocent people who were driving around in a dumb muscle car.

  I pulled away from the curb and drove to the Key Royale. At the guard house, I pulled to a stop and flashed my most ingratiating smile at a gruff gray-haired man. Gruff gray-haired men are always pushovers for blondes who smile at them. You just have to act like you don’t know they’ll be pushovers.

  I said, “Hi, I’m Dixie Hemingway. I’m a pet sitter here on the key, and I got a call this morning from some former clients who asked me to come look the place over and see if I think their Shih Tzu would like the amenities here. Do you think security would let me do that?”

  He frowned and tried to look fierce. “Why don’t they just call and talk to the concierge? He’ll even send them pictures of the pet rooms.”

  I said, “They had a very bad experience one time at a hotel that promised their dog would get nothing but the best. The best turned out to be top-quality fleas, so now they won’t take anybody’s word unless it’s somebody they know and trust.”

  I said it modestly, so he wouldn’t think I was arrogant about being the person these fic
tional people knew and trusted.

  I said, “I’m bonded, you know. Wait, I have an ID card I can show you.”

  I dug around in my handbag and handed him my laminated membership card that showed I was in good standing with a major pet-sitting association. He looked at it and handed it back to me. I don’t imagine he’d ever seen one before, but he acted as if he looked at pet sitter association cards every day. Picking up a big black phone with impressive antennas shooting up a foot tall, he mashed some buttons.

  As gruffly as possible, he said, “Lady here at the gate wants to look at the pet-friendly area. She has a dog that got fleas at some other hotel, and she’s not taking any chances.”

  Squawking noises came from the phone. He nodded at it. “Yeah, I checked her ID.”

  More squawking noises, and he turned the phone off and put it down.

  “Drive on in and park in the valet area by the front door. Go to the front desk and ask for Gary.”

  I gave him a megawatt smile. “Thank you so much!”

  About twenty years fell off his face when he smiled. “You’re welcome, hon. Wouldn’t want that dog to go someplace where it’d get fleas again.”

  Governments should hire blondes to spy on other governments. We can get into places nobody else in the world can go. The only problem is that once we’re in, we have to be twice as charming as we were when we talked ourselves in.

  I obeyed directions and parked in the valet zone. I brushed off as much cat hair as possible and went inside the hotel. The lobby was surprisingly plain. No gilt, no crystal chandeliers, no murals on the ceiling, no pretension at all. Just clean lines and neutral sand colors.

  The desk people weren’t snooty either, and if they knew right away that I didn’t belong in that rarefied atmosphere, they were nice enough not to show it. When I asked for Gary, a handsome man who looked as if he would be at home anywhere in the world came forward and shook my hand. I hadn’t expected a handshake. Since I was there to bamboozle him, it made me feel ashamed.

  I said, “Gary, it’s so nice of you to let me come in. I’m Dixie Hemingway. I’m a pet sitter here on the key. Some former clients who have moved to Switzerland called me this morning and asked me to look at your hotel for them. They have a Shih Tzu who’s like a child to them, and they want to make sure she’ll be happy if they stay here. Her name is Sally.”