The Cat Sitter's Nine Lives

by Clement, Blaize, Clement, John

  I sighed. “I have no idea. I’m afraid to open it.”

  She nodded solemnly and took a sip of tea. Cora knows everything there is to know about Guidry. When I had first met him, I was like a hermit crab that never came out of her shell. I’d spent so many years mourning the loss of Todd and Christy that I didn’t know how to feel anything even remotely close to love. Cora had helped me see that it didn’t have to be one or the other. I could hold Todd and Christy in my heart and still let somebody else in at the same time; all I had to do was make a little more room. Cora taught me that the heart is expandable.

  She said, “Well? What are you waiting for?”

  I said, “What if he’s changed his mind? What if he still wants me to come to New Orleans? What if he’s coming back here?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Oh my goodness! All these what-ifs! What if he’s made of cheese?”

  “I know it sounds stupid, but…”

  “Sweetheart, what are you so afraid of?”

  I thought for a moment. “What if Ethan’s not the one?”

  “The one? Oh, Dixie, we’ve already been down this road.”

  I groaned. “I know, I know, I know.”

  “You actually think God hides our ‘One True Love’ somewhere, and then he plops down on earth and says ‘ready, set, go!’ and then we’re supposed to go running willy-nilly all over the planet trying to find him before we die, like a game show?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Oh, phooey. Love isn’t a game of chance. It’s a feat of strength.” She balled her fist up and tapped it on the table for emphasis. “A tour de force! You find a man that you love, and you make him the one.”

  I grinned. “Maybe you should get a computer and set up one of those matchmaking sites. You’d probably make a fortune.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Oh, I don’t care for computers.”

  “I’m right with ya, sister. As far as I’m concerned they’re totally unnecessary.”

  “Oh, no, dear, they’re absolutely necessary. One day they’ll be all that’s left of us.”

  I said, “Huh?”

  She smiled. “When I was a little girl, in the field behind our house my daddy had an old apple orchard—well, that’s what he called it—it was really only about ten trees or so, but he was extremely proud of it, and we always had a nice crop of fresh apples. Every spring, just when the ground was starting to warm up, he’d take his old Louisville Slugger out there and bang away at all those tree trunks. He’d give each one of ’em at least ten good whacks. I remember asking my mother what in tarnation he was doing out there hitting those trees with a baseball bat, and she said, ‘He’s telling those trees their time is up!’”

  She poured us both another cup of tea. “Well, I know what you’re thinking, but my daddy wasn’t crazy. He was just giving those apple trees a good scare. If you bonk the base of an apple tree with a baseball bat, its little apple tree brain thinks the end is nigh, so it puts all its energy into making as many apples as possible—every last one of them chock-full of seeds, filled with every blessed piece of information that old tree can think of. And when it’s dead and gone, somebody can plant one of those seeds and make a whole brand-new tree just exactly like the original. Believe me, there’s nothing a living thing wants more than to keep on living.”

  “Cora, what the heck does that have to do with computers?”

  “Well a computer is nothing but an apple seed.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s the seed of Planet Earth, which is just a big living, breathing organism, if you ask me, and Mother Nature is busy loading it up with all the information in the world, all our books and languages and genetic codes and songs and religions, putting it all on a computer chip that keeps getting smaller and smaller and smaller. And then one day, when the earth is all used up and gone, some alien from outer space will be flying along and find that chip and take it home. All they’ll have to do is figure out the right soil to grow it in, and then there you go—they’ll re-create our whole world.”

  She took a sip of her tea and winked at me over the rim of her cup.

  I said, “Cora, that is hands down the looniest idea you’ve ever had. You better not go around saying that to too many people or they’ll lock you up in a funny farm.”

  Her eyes sparkled. “That’s what they said to Galileo.”

  I had to admit, what with global warming and oil drilling and ocean pollution, if the earth is a living thing, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if it felt like somebody was beating it to death with a baseball bat, but Cora had already moved on to another subject.

  “Sweetheart, there’s something else we need to talk about.”

  I got a little nervous. There was a look in her eye that I’d never seen before.

  She propped her elbows up on the table and folded her hands together. “Now, I told Kate Spencer that when I’m gone she can have my bread machine.”

  I sighed. “Oh, come on. I do not want to talk about this.”

  “Well, you’re gonna have to, Dixie. Now, Kate Spencer is a perfectly nice woman, but she can barely boil an egg, and she’s dumb as a box of flip-flops. And the woman’s ten years older than me anyway, so I don’t know where she got it in her fool head that she’ll still be here after I’m gone. So if something should happen, I want you to come straight here first thing. I want you to pack up that bread machine and take it home with you.”

  “Cora—”

  She held up one hand to stop me. “Now, I don’t want to hear it. You can give it to your brother if you want, but somebody has to make that bread when I’m gone or you’ll go jump off that bridge, and I don’t want that hanging over my head for all eternity. And another thing—I’m gonna hide my bread recipe in a shoebox under the bed. I want you to take that, too, and guard it with your life.”

  “Alright already,” I said. “Let’s change the subject.” I slid Guidry’s letter closer to her. “What about this?”

  “What about it?”

  “Tell me what I should do.”

  She looked out at the bay, and her eyes softened. There was a congregation of yachts and sailboats anchored in the middle of the marina, and the water was glittering and gleaming in the sun like a big bowl of emeralds. As she took another sip of tea, a mischievous smile spread across her face, and her cheeks fractured into a million tiny, fine lines.

  She said, “You should damn well grow up is what you should do.”

  23

  There had been another quick afternoon thunderstorm, which seemed to have cheered up the Caesar weed and spike sedge growing through the cracks in the redbrick drive at the Silverthorn Mansion. They looked a good foot taller than they’d been on my first visit, and the big marble fountain in the center of the courtyard was filled to the brim with fresh rainwater. As I walked by, a bright green frog pulled itself up onto the fountain’s rim and eyed me with unveiled contempt.

  I looked at my watch. Perfect timing. Mrs. Silverthorn had asked, well, more demanded, that I arrive at four o’clock. I made my way up the cracked steps of the front entrance and was steeling myself for Janet’s down-in-the-dumps greeting when she opened the door and stepped out. She seemed genuinely startled to find me there, but before I could say anything, Mr. Silverthorn stepped out behind her.

  I could swear they were both wearing the exact same clothes they’d worn on my first visit to the mansion. Standing there together, they looked like the couple in that American Gothic oil painting, except instead of a pitchfork, Mr. Silverthorn was holding an old, rusty flashlight with a handle almost as long as a French baguette. Unlike Janet, he seemed genuinely pleased to see me. “Ah! Miss Hemingway, fancy meeting you here.”

  I shook his hand and glanced at Janet. There was something markedly different about her—dark circles under bloodshot eyes with lines of worry across her forehead. She was listing slightly to one side, as if it took every ounce of strength she had just to stay on her feet.

  Mr. Silverthorn cle
ared his throat and said, “Janet, won’t you please let Mrs. Silverthorn know that her guest is waiting downstairs.”

  Janet nodded sullenly and disappeared inside, leaving the door open behind her.

  He leaned in and whispered, “I gather you’re here to file a report on Cosmo.”

  I gulped. This whole time I’d been operating under the assumption that my search for Cosmo was strictly undercover. “Umm, I…”

  He winked. “Not to worry. Mrs. Silverthorn can’t keep a secret to save her life. She spilled the beans after the detective was here yesterday afternoon. I understand you’ve had a very productive week.”

  “Well, I think I may have some good news.”

  His face brightened. “Oh? Did you find our fugitive feline?”

  “No, unfortunately, but it’s possible someone else did. You know the butcher shop two doors down?”

  “Yes, of course, that’s one of our buildings.”

  “Oh, right. Well, the butcher told me someone found an orange cat in the alley a couple of days ago.”

  “Oh, good news, indeed.”

  “Yeah, except the problem is it might not have been Cosmo. The main reason I went in the bookstore yesterday was I thought I saw something move inside, and then I noticed a cat print…”

  His face fell. “Yes, the detective told us all about it. How ghastly for you. Luckily I managed to persuade the detective to omit the more unsettling details when she spoke to my wife, and I’d prefer you do the same. It would only worry her more.”

  I knew it wasn’t my place to ask, but I couldn’t stop myself. I said, “Mr. Silverthorn, when I talked to your wife on the phone earlier, she seemed really upset. Was she close to Mr. Hoskins?”

  He nodded sadly. “I know. And yes, I’m afraid she was. My wife’s fondness for cats is equaled only by her love of books, as I’m sure you have already gathered by her rather monstrous collection in the ballroom, so she knew Mr. Hoskins quite well. She’s probably the best customer he ever had.”

  I shook my head. “That’s terrible. He seemed like such a nice man—of course she’s upset.”

  “Unfortunately they seemed to have had some sort of falling-out recently. She had been favoring a bookshop in Bradenton, and I think that may be weighing quite heavily on her. Probably something silly, the price of a book, or whatnot. You may be aware, Miss Hemingway, that my wife can be rather … impetuous.”

  I tried to hide a smile, but he could tell I understood completely.

  “Well, don’t let me keep you.” He held the rusty flashlight up. “If you’re wondering what this old thing is for, I’m afraid you’re not the only private investigator my wife has enlisted in this matter. My orders are to search every nook and cranny in the alley behind that bookstore.”

  I said, “Oh, that’s good. The more people looking for him the better.”

  “Yes. I’m afraid my indifference to cats is quite outweighed by my undying loyalty to my wife. I don’t like to see her worry, but also I can assure you that one doesn’t lightly cross paths with Mrs. Silverthorn. I’ve learned over the years that when she makes a request, if it has anything to do with cats, it’s always best to simply nod and obey.”

  “Well, I admire a man who obeys.”

  He smiled. “Yes, most women do.”

  “I can tell you one thing, though. The detectives will still be there now that it’s a crime scene again, so I doubt they’ll let you inside the shop.”

  “Yes, I thought as much.”

  “But there’s an old air-conditioning system that’s not used anymore, and the detectives saw paw prints just outside one of the vents in the alley, so I think there’s a good chance he’s going in and out that vent.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “What a clever cat.”

  “I left a bowl of kibble and some water for him in the back office, so he won’t have to worry about food, and there was a bowl of chocolates by the register, which is poisonous to cats, so I asked the detective in charge to remove it just in case.”

  He nodded. “A wise decision. I’d hate to think what would have happened if he shared your weakness for chocolate.”

  I nodded. “Well, I can tell you from personal experience, Mr. Silverthorn, it’s torture. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.”

  He chuckled, but then his eyes softened and a blush spread across his face, “Miss Hemingway, I’m sorry to change the subject so abruptly, but … you know … there’s no money.”

  I looked down and nodded. The cuffs of his pants were slightly worn, but he had polished his shoes to a glossy sheen. “Mr. Silverthorn, I was looking for Cosmo long before your wife called me. I couldn’t bear the thought that Mr. Hoskins’s cat might be roaming the streets alone and hungry, so there’s nothing to worry about. I’m more than happy to help.”

  He smiled wistfully. “Thank you, Miss Hemingway. It’s a difficult subject. I appreciate your kindness. I’m afraid this whole mess may serve as more fodder for gossip and rumor—if nothing else we still have our good name to uphold, and it weighs heavily on my wife. If Mr. Hoskins’s cat can be found it will be one less thing for her to worry about.”

  He reached down in his pocket and pulled out a set of car keys, and I noticed there was a silver medallion with a colorful coat of arms and a crown on top. “Ah, and here’s Janet.”

  I turned to see Janet through the open doorway, standing motionless at the bottom of the stairs and waiting.

  I said, “Mr. Silverthorn, please call me if you see anything back there. I’m pretty good at coaxing cats out of their hiding places.”

  He bowed slightly and then headed down the portico toward the side of the house, where I assumed there was probably a beautiful old stone garage, covered in vines and falling in on itself, probably housing a collection of vintage Rolls Royces and Cadillacs in various states of disrepair.

  As I watched him go, I suddenly felt a wave of … I wasn’t sure. Anxiety or confusion, or maybe sadness. I could tell it had taken every ounce of strength in his body to swallow his pride long enough to discuss the matter of money with me, and the sight of his polished dress shoes broke my heart. He was doing everything he could to keep up appearances. Of course, it was a little hard to feel sorry for a man who’d lived his entire life in the lap of luxury, but I wondered if losing it all might be harder than never having had it.

  Janet led me up the stairs to the library, where Mrs. Silverthorn was waiting in the same spot we’d had tea before, the little table at the far side of the chair-filled ballroom. The floral scarf that was tied around her waist when we first met was now fitted around her head like an Indian turban, and instead of a flesh-colored leotard she wore a bright red one-piece bathing suit with a white caftan hanging off her shoulders. Her long, beautiful tresses of shiny gray hair would have been impressive except I knew right away it was another one of her wigs.

  As I made my way through the mélange of chairs, she talked a blue streak.

  “Dixie Hemingway, I am so relieved to see you! You can’t imagine what I’ve been through in the past twenty-four hours. The most dreadful woman from the sheriff’s department was here yesterday with a demeanor so wretched that I felt sad for the entire world. She told me everything that happened and insisted on asking the most unsettling questions—how long have I owned the building, how long did I know Mr. Hoskins, where was I on the night he disappeared. I told her I’ve much better things to do with my brain than use it as a virtual appointment calendar.”

  As I sat down in the chair opposite her, she pulled a tissue from the sleeve of her caftan and dabbed it at her eyes. “I cannot tell you how terrible I feel to have pulled you into such a mess. And when I think of that poor cat, waiting … all alone and helpless…”

  She lowered her head and mumbled, “Oh, bother,” and raised one trembling hand in the air.

  Now I finally understood how fragile her nerves could be. I wondered if she hadn’t slept at all since Detective McKenzie had been here.

  I s
aid, “Mrs. Silverthorn, cats are very strong, resilient creatures, and they’re experts at surviving difficult conditions—and one thing you should know, we think he’s going in and out of the store through the old air-conditioning system, and I left food for him in the back office, so I think it’s only a matter of time before we find him. I’m sure there’s absolutely nothing to worry about.”

  She raised her head, her eyes filled with tears. “Thank you, Dixie Hemingway. You’ve done a great deal to ease my mind. I don’t know what I would have done without you. I’ve asked Mr. Silverthorn to write you a generous check.”

  I looked down at the floor and nodded. “Yes, I ran into him on my way in. That’s all taken care of now.”

  Just then, the phone rang. It was an old beige princess phone, sitting on the floor next to the stack of magazines by her chair, except it wasn’t a normal ring. It was three bright chirps.

  Mrs. Silverthorn raised one thin finger in the air and said, “One moment, dear. That will be Janet.” She leaned over and picked up the phone.

  “Yes, darling?”

  There was a pause, and then her eyes rolled upward and she put the one finger she’d been holding in the air to her right temple and massaged it in a slow circle as she spoke. “How high … oh, damn it all … Yes, I understand. Alright, stay where you are and I’ll send the girl down.”

  I wondered who else was in the house that she planned on sending down—perhaps there was a cleaning woman hiding with the cats somewhere—and then I wondered how it was that the Silverthorns managed to keep so many domestic servants and yet still couldn’t quite muster up the cash to pay for my services.

  She laid the phone back down in its cradle and turned to me with imploring eyes. “Dixie … may I call you Dixie?”

  I nodded mutely. I think I’d just figured out which “girl” she was sending down.

  “Dixie, darling, that was Janet. I’m afraid Mr. Peters has climbed up a tree again and won’t budge. Silly Janet has a ridiculous fear of heights, or so she says—I’m not sure I believe a word that comes out of that woman’s mouth, but no matter. The point is, I was wondering … do you think you might…?”