The Cat Sitter's Nine Lives

by Clement, Blaize, Clement, John

  “Hey,” he interrupted. “Is that my hoodie?”

  “Yeah, sorry. I got a little cold, so I put it on.”

  “Umm, it’s like eighty degrees outside.”

  “Yeah, I know that, but…” I cast about in my head for a good excuse, but all I could come up with was a plaintive “I like how I look in it…?”

  He raised one eyebrow. “Yeah. You’re like a hot shoplifter.”

  I shrugged and flashed him a sweetly disarming grin, but he wasn’t buying it.

  “Dixie, what’s going on? And what happened to your lip?”

  I sighed. “Alright, but you asked for it.”

  I put my backpack down and said, “Now, I’m totally fine, but…” I unzipped the hoodie and slid it off my shoulders.

  Ethan’s jaw fell open. “Holy … Dixie, what the hell happened to you?”

  “I was in an accident, but really, I’m fine.”

  His face went pale as he looked at the bloodstains on my clothing, and for a second I thought he was about to swoon himself.

  I put my hand on his chest just in case he tipped over. “No, no, no. The blood’s not mine!”

  He stood there, nodding for a couple of seconds and taking it all in. Then he said, “Yeah. I need to sit down.”

  I led him over to the couch, and he stretched out on his back and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Okay,” he said, looking up at the ceiling. “Go ahead.”

  I knelt down at the edge of the couch and smiled sheepishly. “You okay?”

  He nodded vigorously. “Oh sure. Yeah, I’m great. Go on.”

  I told him everything that had happened. All about the accident, how Baldy had been tailgating me, how after I’d let him pass he had hit a truck head-on, about the pileup and how I’d been rear-ended by a girl who was talking on her cell phone and only braked at the last minute.

  His eyes were closed, but I went on anyway. “And now, except for a stiff neck and a little cut on my lip, I’m really, totally fine.”

  He turned and looked at me. “Good story. Now get to the part where you pulled the bloody guy out of his car.”

  “Oh right, yeah. So then I pulled the bloody guy out of his car.”

  He waved one hand in the air nonchalantly. “And hence the blood.”

  “Ethan, I didn’t have a choice. There was smoke pouring out of it. If I hadn’t gotten him out before it exploded, there’s no way he would’ve survived.”

  He stared at the ceiling. “Exploded.”

  “Oh. Yeah, his car exploded. Well, ‘exploded’ seems a little dramatic. It blew up.”

  He shook his head and started laughing quietly to himself.

  “Ethan, seriously, there was nobody else there to help him. What was I supposed to do?”

  He turned and looked at me. “I know. You’re amazing.”

  I held up my hand for a high five. “Finally! This is what I’ve been trying to tell everybody!”

  He shook his head. “No, seriously. That took guts. How bad is your neck? Maybe we should get it looked at.”

  “Oh please, don’t be such a drama queen. I’m fine.”

  He sat up slowly. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. It’s nothing an aspirin and a hot shower can’t fix. And look, can we please not tell Michael and Paco? I don’t want them to make a big deal out of it.”

  He put his hands on my knees. “Okay. Sure, if that’s what you want. I’ll give you one of my patented neck massages later.”

  I sighed. “Okay, good. I mean, I’ll tell them later. I just don’t want Michael to freak out.”

  He nodded, and that was it. No lecture, no hand-wringing, no “next time this” or “next time that.” Just a little dramatic light-headedness and then he simply listened. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I like a man who knows how to listen.

  I like a man that knows how to listen a lot.

  “So here’s the plan,” I said. “I managed to sneak upstairs without them getting a good look at me. So now you go down and tell them I had a phone call or something. Meanwhile I’ll hide the evidence, take a hot shower, and be right down like nothing ever happened.”

  He stood up, “Okay, let’s reconnoiter downstairs. Ten-four, Agent 99, over and out.”

  He saluted and then stuck his hand out for a handshake. I swatted it away. “Very funny.”

  As soon as he was gone I was out of my clothes and in the shower in less than ten seconds. I’m a champion shower-taker. I can stand there until all the hot water runs out and my fingertips look like little wrinkled babies’ butts, or I can be in and out in under three minutes, as efficient as a pit crew at the Indy 500. This time, I didn’t exactly empty the hot water tank, but I let the water run over my neck and shoulders long enough for a few muscles to relax back to their normal spots.

  I toweled off quickly and slipped on my nicest pair of long slacks, which is what you wear to lounge around in when your work uniform is shorts and a T-shirt, and then a pale yellow linen blouse with little blue cornflowers embroidered on the cuffs that I bought at an Indian shop downtown years ago. I wear it whenever I want to feel extra clean and carefree, which is exactly how you want to feel after you’ve spent a few hours covered in somebody else’s blood.

  On my way out, I paused in the kitchen. There was an envelope in the basket at the end of the counter where we put the mail. For a second, I just stared at it. My eyes were working fine, but my brain was having a little trouble processing the name in the return address.

  It read J. P. Guidry.

  5

  The view from my balcony was almost enough to make me shed tears of joy. There were tiki torches surrounding the deck, giving the entire courtyard a flickering golden glow, and the big table in the middle looked like a photo shoot for one of those fancy food magazines. At one end was an old tin bucket, its sides sweating in the warm air, filled with ice and two bottles of white wine attended by four chilled wineglasses, all glittering with the reflected light from the torches. At the other end of the table was a big bowl of elkhorn lettuce, arugula, endive, and Swiss chard, tossed with big shaves of Parmesan, sliced red onion, and black olives—not the yucky canned type but the nice ones from the Italian market. In the center, practically glowing in all its glory, was a platter full of fresh grilled fish.

  I knew right away that Paco must have been in charge of the meal. Michael is the true chef in the family, but every once in a while one of us steps in to give him a break. If it’s my turn, I order takeout—I’m not much of a cook—but when Paco takes over, it’s a special treat.

  Paco is the kind of man who women dream about turning straight. He’s of Greek American descent, but with his dark good looks and facility with languages he could pass for almost any nationality in the world. I can barely master my own native tongue, but Paco speaks at least six fluently, and he’s always learning more. He’s been studying Korean for two years now, usually at the end of the day when everybody else is watching TV or playing Sudoku or staring at the wall. That kind of dedication comes in handy when you’re an undercover agent. His family name is Pakodopoulos, but that’s a mouthful for most people, so we call him Paco for short.

  His parents immigrated to the States before he was born, but his mother taught him all the recipes she remembered from her own mother’s Mediterranean kitchen. Tonight he’d made striped bass, filleted and sprinkled with lemon juice, freshly ground cayenne, and coarse sea salt, then grilled to utter perfection on a quilt of fennel, tops and all. White fish tends to dry out on the grill, but as the fennel steams, the moisture rises up through the fish, keeping it moist and lending a note of anise and celery, while the charred, feathery greens curl up around the fish and give it smokiness. Paco served it on a bed of wilted kale with couscous and roasted pine nuts, sprinkled with ground peppercorns and paper-thin slices of lemon.

  If I ever meet Paco’s mother, I’ll get down on my hands and knees and kiss her feet.

  As I joined them at th
e table, Michael handed me a glass of wine. “Hank called from the firehouse and asked if I could be on call tonight. He said there was a bad accident on Ocean. Some guy in a convertible got hit by a garbage truck head-on.”

  Before I could stop myself I said, “A landscaping truck.”

  “Huh? How’d you know that?”

  I winced and glanced at Ethan for help. “Um, yeah, I drove by there on my way home from work.”

  At the same time, Ethan said, “Yeah, it was on the news.”

  I grabbed my fork and shoved a big bite of salad in my mouth while Ethan reached for his wine.

  Michael shrugged. “Oh. I guess Hank got it wrong. Anyway, he said it was pretty bad. Two people had to pull the guy out of his car.”

  I tried not to choke on my salad. “Wow, that’s impressive.”

  “Yeah, he said the car was on fire, so this blond girl and another guy literally picked the dude up and carried him to safety.”

  “Huh,” I said.

  “And then the dude’s car exploded.”

  Ethan was looking down at his plate, moving his couscous around with his fork. “I guess they probably saved that guy’s life.” He looked up and flashed me a sly smile.

  Michael nodded. “Oh yeah, definitely. Luckily the guys were right on it. They got everything hosed down before it could spread anywhere. Hank said the blonde was cute but a little broad in the beam.”

  I paused. “Huh?”

  Michael held his plate out over the table, and Paco put some salad on it. “You know, broad in the beam—isn’t that what Grandma used to say? I think he meant she had a big butt.”

  I put my fork down and calmly took a sip of wine.

  “He said she was kind of cute, but with a huge big fat butt, and she was wearing a white T-shirt and cargo shorts. Oh, and she drove a pale yellow Ford Bronco.”

  I looked Michael levelly in the eyes. A big, mischievous grin spread across his face. I said, “I am going to come over there and personally beat you up.”

  Paco burst out laughing, and Michael raised his hands in mock surprise. “What did I say?”

  I turned to Ethan. “You traitor. You told them!”

  “I swear I didn’t say a word!”

  Michael said, “Dixie, did you think the guys down at the firehouse wouldn’t recognize you?”

  I said, “Look, I was going to tell you. I just didn’t think you’d want to see me all messed up.”

  “What do you mean, all messed up?”

  “Michael, the guy was in a head-on collision. There was a little blood involved.”

  He frowned. “Oh, I didn’t even think of that.”

  “Right.”

  “Okay, I get it. Yeah, I would not have enjoyed that. Thanks for sparing me.”

  “You’re welcome. And for the record, the truck didn’t hit him. He hit the truck. I was coming down Ocean from my last client, I was on my way to the bookstore, and he was tailgating and weaving in and out of the road. So I pulled over and let him go by.”

  Paco said, “That was mature of you. Nothing annoys me more. People don’t understand you shouldn’t be closer than one car length for every ten miles per hour you’re traveling. And they’re not just putting you in danger, they’re putting themselves and everybody else in danger, too.”

  I said, “I know, but this guy was in a hurry. I don’t think safety was very high on his priority list at that point.”

  Ethan said, “Was he local?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know, but I doubt it. By the time I got to him he was barely conscious, and he didn’t have any ID. They put him in the ambulance, and that’s the last I saw of him.”

  Paco sighed. “I wonder if he made it.”

  We all sat there in silence for a few moments. I didn’t want to say, but suddenly the way Baldy had looked up at me when he was lying there on the sidewalk made me less than hopeful about his chances—that serene smile on his face, almost as if he were at peace …

  Michael was peering at me across the table. “Wait a minute. What happened to your lip?”

  I said, “Oh, it’s fine. I bit it when the girl rear-ended me.”

  He put his elbows on the table and cradled his head in his hands. “Oh my God. What girl?”

  I sighed. “Oops. Yeah, I forgot that part. The head-on caused a pile-up. I slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting the car in front of me, but the girl driving behind was on her phone, so she was a little slow on the uptake. But Michael, she barely tapped me. I mean, the Bronco only flew forward like maybe a foot.”

  He let out a little groan.

  “And my neck is kind of sore…”

  He groaned again and said, “Let’s just change the subject.”

  I nodded vigorously. “Okay, okay. Let’s change the subject.”

  I looked at Paco and Ethan, but they weren’t any help, so in my most cheerful voice I said, “Oh, while I was waiting for the street to open back up I found a really cool book at the bookstore. You’re gonna love it.”

  Still cradling his head in his hands, Michael peered at me through his fingers. “You pulled a bloody man out of a burning car and then went to the bookstore?”

  “Well, it was right there, so…”

  Paco said, “Umm, didn’t they wonder about the bloodstains all over your clothes?”

  Ethan raised a finger in the air. “Yeah, that’s where I come in.”

  I said, “Ethan had left one of his old hoodies in the back—”

  Ethan interrupted. “Well, it wasn’t that old—”

  “So I covered up with that before I went in.”

  Ella Fitzgerald was curled up on one of the chaise lounges watching us intently. I swiveled around toward her and said, “Oh, and Ella, the man that owns the bookstore has a very handsome orange tabby named Cosmo. Maybe you’ll meet him one day.”

  I always like to include Ella in the conversation. She hopped off the chaise and came padding over to the table. I’d prefer to think she was fascinated with my line of conversation and the prospect of making a new friend, but I think she was more interested in the grilled fish than anything else. She hopped up on her appointed chair and said, “Thrrrip?”

  Michael said, “You’re not telling me Mr. Beezy is still there, are you?”

  I shook my head. “No, he passed away years ago.”

  “That’s too bad. I remember that old guy. He was cool.”

  “Michael, you wouldn’t believe it—the store looks exactly the same as it did thirty years ago.”

  Ethan reached over and gave Ella a couple of scratches under her chin. “It’s looked the same forever. That whole section of the street does. It’s all still owned by the same family that originally built it.”

  Paco said, “You mean the Silverthorns?”

  Ethan nodded. “Believe it or not. I know because my grandfather did some work for the Silverthorn family, and we still handle all the business permits and rental agreements for those shops along there.”

  I’d never known any of the Silverthorns personally, but I had grown up hearing the name, and I certainly knew the Silverthorn Mansion. It was one of the last remnants of old Siesta Key, when wealthy land barons had bought up most of the beachfront property and built summer homes here.

  The Silverthorn Mansion was at the bottom of the Key, at the end of a long, narrow strip of sandy soil that now forms the southern part of Midnight Pass. The story is that it had originally stood in the center of a vast country estate in England, and that Mrs. Silverthorn, heir to her family’s vast railroad empire, had it dismantled, shipped across the Atlantic, and put back together like a jigsaw puzzle. It was a surprise for her new husband, a third cousin from a not so wealthy limb of the family tree whose last name was also Silverthorn, which of course only served to make the whole Silverthorn family all the more exotic and mysterious.

  By the time I came around, the mansion had already become a landmark for us kids. The railroad industry had taken a dive, and the family’s fortune had been
divided among its heirs and then divided again, so the Silverthorns barely had enough money to keep the mansion from crumbling down around them. Most of us believed it was haunted, and the fact that it had fallen into such disrepair strengthened that notion. We made up stories about missing children locked away inside to scare each other, and at least once a year one of us would declare that we planned to sneak in that very night and explore every inch of it. Of course, we never did.

  I remembered playing along the beach down below the house, in the days when we were free to roam around the island without having to worry about crossing onto private beaches. There was rarely more than one light on in the entire place, and we always said it was because they could only afford one lightbulb.

  Ethan said, “I probably shouldn’t say, but it’s actually a huge tragedy. Just about every penny they make from their rental properties goes to pay their land taxes, and Mrs. Silverthorn refuses to sell off any of it. She’s pretty eccentric. People call her the ‘cat lady.’ I’ve heard that mansion is filled with hundreds of cats. And all our business is either through the mail or over the phone. If I need something signed, I have to mail it to her. She won’t let anybody on the property.”

  Just then Ella perked up and said, “Mrrrap!” She was probably reminding us that fish is a well-known favorite among many feline species, but she knows not to push it. If she sits quietly, paws off the table, she can stay in her seat and watch. If she’s really good, there might be a reward in her bowl later.

  I was just about to tell Michael more about the gardening book when I heard my cell phone ringing upstairs. I’d left the French doors to my apartment open, and I could hear its familiar ring mixed with the chorus of crickets that had risen up since we’d started eating.

  Michael raised an eyebrow as he refilled my wineglass. “Don’t you dare.”

  We all sat and ignored the ringing, even Ella. I’d like to say that we have an unspoken rule about not answering phone calls during dinner, but since my cell phone is constantly ringing with new jobs or traveling clients calling to see how their pets are doing, the rule has to be spoken just about every time we sit down at the table. It’s mostly because of Michael that we still follow it, a remnant of one of the few domestic rules our mother established. I pretend to be against it, but I’m really not. It helps keep dinnertime sacred and reminds us that family, no matter what shape it takes, always comes first.