The Cat Sitter's Nine Lives

by Clement, Blaize, Clement, John

  I’m not a big fan of heights myself, but it didn’t seem right to just flat-out refuse. Hesitantly, I said, “Of course, but … how high is he?”

  She smiled. “Not to worry. Mr. Peters is a very good climber, and he has quite an adventurous streak—I can vouch for that—but Janet tells me he’s well within reach. He’s in the old magnolia tree in the West Garden.”

  I sighed. “Yes, of course.”

  “Oh, thank heavens, you’re a dear. He’s never climbed that particular tree before—what an adventurous fellow he is. Normally, of course, I’d never ask you to do such a thing, but with the footman having run off God knows where, there’s no one else to ask. Janet’s waiting for you downstairs. She’ll direct you to the ladder.”

  “Ladder?”

  She nodded. “It should be in the garden shed. That is, if the footman didn’t steal that as well. Janet will show you.”

  She sat and watched as I made my way through the chairs, and when I got to the door I looked back. She was still sitting there, her back ramrod straight. She unwrapped the flowered scarf from her head and waved it at me.

  I couldn’t tell if she was waving good-bye or telling me to get a move on, but I waved back and smiled. Now, I thought, in addition to “Missing Pets Detective,” I could add “Girl” to my job description.

  I wondered if that meant I’d get a raise.

  24

  Janet was waiting for me by the front door, staring at her shoes. We walked out to the porch, and I followed her down the portico and around to the right side of the house. The gardening shed turned out to be an ancient dry-stone building with a peaked slate roof, topped with a weather vane in the shape of a chicken, its wings spread wide to catch the wind. It was set in the middle of an undulating sea of weeds and rosary pea vine, covering a series of raised beds and low walls made with the same red brick as the driveway. There was a maze of overgrown shrubs surrounding the entire yard, with vine-covered statues here and there, and I could tell in its heyday it had probably been a very impressive display garden.

  Janet led me down a beaten path through the weeds to a narrow gate set in stone, and as we made our way along it I tried to strike up a conversation.

  “I take it Mr. Peters likes to climb trees a lot?”

  She opened the gate and pointed at an extension ladder inside the shed. “Yes.”

  I nodded and thought to myself, Alright, then, good talk! Janet was about as personable as a soggy bar coaster.

  She pulled on a chain just inside the door, and an old hanging lamp illuminated the interior. The floor was covered in dried leaves and hay, and along one wall was a stack of clay pottery and broken pieces of an old trellis. Next to the ladder were shelves with dusty mason jars filled with various seeds and fertilizers and covered in cobwebs, and in the corner of the top shelf was a huge squirrel’s nest made of twigs, woven through with scraps of paper and shredded bits of lavender-colored fabric.

  Janet helped me carry the ladder out, which wasn’t completely necessary since it was aluminum and actually quite light, but it was a little awkward getting it through the shed’s small doorway, so I was thankful for the help. She led me across the yard to an ancient magnolia tree as big as a mountain, which stood at the far end of the garden like an emperor surveying his vast holding of lands. It was in full bloom, and the heady scent of the flowers filled the air.

  Looking a bit like the Ghost of Christmas to Come, Janet raised one thin arm and pointed up into the tree, where, perched on a branch at least twenty feet off the ground, was a snow white cat with piercing blue eyes. He was gazing down on us with an expression that was part curiosity, part utter disdain.

  I said, “Oh, wow, he’s really up there isn’t he?”

  Janet curled her lip briefly and then made her way back toward the house without saying a word. I leaned the ladder up against the massive trunk of the tree and muttered at the back of her head, “Oh, Janet, you jokester you!”

  She didn’t answer. She was probably headed back to her servant’s lair somewhere deep in the bowels of the mansion, where she sat staring in the mirror and practicing her stink-eye. Of course, if the Silverthorns were paying her anywhere near what they were paying me, I’d be in a foul mood, too.

  The ladder was actually two ladders joined together on a sliding track, with a yellow rope attached on one side to a pulley that could be used to extend the length as needed. I pulled on the rope and hoisted the extension ladder up until it reached as far as it could go, which was about twenty-five feet.

  The trunk of the tree was easily ten feet around, with braided ropes of bark winding their way up into the canopy. The north-facing side of the trunk, where it received the least amount of sunlight, was covered in a fine carpet of green moss, and there was a column of tiny black ants traveling up and down a two-lane highway.

  On my way up the ladder I had a few more choice words for Janet, and by the fifth rung or so, only five or six feet off the ground, my heart started skipping and I made a point of grasping the rails a little tighter. I couldn’t imagine Janet’s fear of heights being any worse than mine, but since it was in the service of rescuing a cat, I forged ahead.

  Moving slowly, I climbed all the way up to the top of the ladder, where the glossy magnolia leaves formed a darkened cavern. I immediately knew why Mr. Peters might want to hang out here. He could lie about in the cool comfort of the shade while spying on all the birds flitting from branch to branch. I hoped for the birds’ sake that he was only enjoying the view and not hunting for a late-afternoon snack.

  Mr. Peters watched me with a bemused twinkle in his eye, as though he’d done this a million times before and knew the drill. When I got to his branch, he twitched his whiskers and tipped his chin as if to say, “Evenin’.”

  I said, “You know, Mr. Peters, this would be a lot easier if you’d just come down to me.”

  He didn’t say a word. Cats are perfectly engineered for climbing up anything they can sink their claws into, but coming down is a whole different story. I reached down into the pocket of my cargo shorts and pulled out the little plastic bag I’d grabbed from my backpack on the way out. I figured a few irresistible kitty treats might give him the extra bit of encouragement he needed, and it turned out I was right.

  I held a cube of cheddar cheese between my thumb and forefinger and held it out so Mr. Peters could see it. He sniffed the air and then tentatively put one paw forward.

  I said, “That’s a good kitty. Come and get it.”

  He stood up now on all fours and crept down the branch about a foot, and just when I thought I’d have him in my arms in no time, a gray squirrel, its mouth full of strips of paper, popped out of a hole in the trunk not half a foot from my head. It scared me so bad I nearly fell right off the ladder.

  For a brief moment, the squirrel and I just looked each other in the face, each of us equally flabbergasted. I giggled silently when I realized the strips of paper in his mouth had an archaic-looking print on them.

  I said, “Well, it looks like Mrs. Silverthorn isn’t the only one around here with their own private library.” Mr. Peters ignored me and took a few more steps forward. He was just as interested in the squirrel as he was in the cheese, if not more so.

  Suddenly the squirrel hopped out of the hole and scampered down the tree, and Mr. Peters and I watched as he ran across the tangled lawn of vines and slipped into a hole near the foundation of the gardening shed. I turned to Mr. Peters. Now I knew what he’d been up to.

  I said, “You know, it’s not very nice to go around hunting poor defenseless squirrels, especially when you have a devoted owner who I’m sure keeps you very well fed with the finest cat food available.”

  He gazed at me, unblinking, and I wondered if that was even true. If the Silverthorns’ financial situation was as dire as it appeared, it was possible Mr. Peters was wholly responsible for rustling up his own dinners.

  I held the cube of cheese up again, cooing softly at him, and even though he
eyed me suspiciously the entire length of the branch, it only took a little more encouragement to get him to come all the way down and gingerly take it from my fingers. As he gobbled it down and licked his chops, I could see his eyes were even more beautiful up close. They were an impossibly clear baby blue, like something an artist could only come up with in a dream.

  He flashed me an expectant look, so I took that opportunity to make my final move—one more tiny offering of cheese, which worked like a charm. He fluttered his tail in the air and rubbed his cheek up against the back of my hand, purring like a tiny salad spinner. Now I knew I’d won him over completely, so I gently scooped him up in my arms and handed him another morsel. He barely argued, which was a good thing since I had no idea how I would have managed to climb down that ladder and hold on to a flailing cat at the same time.

  Just then, I noticed one of the strips of paper hanging halfway out of the squirrel’s hole. It had perfectly aligned bite marks all the way down one end, but that’s not what caught my attention. It was the color of the paper—a pale, creamy yellow.

  I have no idea what possessed me to do what I did next, because in my mind, every nook and cranny in the entire state of Florida is teeming with venomous snakes just waiting for an opportunity to strike, but sometimes my curiosity gets the best of me. Cringing, I reached my arm down into the hole and my hand fell on something at the base of it, something fluffy, like a cheerleader’s pom-pom, but solid underneath. I closed my hand around it and slowly drew it out.

  My jaw fell open and my eyes must have grown ten times bigger.

  Now I knew exactly where I’d seen that paper before, plus the old-fashioned print. I was certain. The bottom half was nibbled and shredded, and the whole thing was wrapped in a water-stained lavender scarf, which was also pulled and chewed through, but I knew without a doubt that it was the missing chapter from The Furry Godmother’s Guide to Pet-Friendly Gardening, by V. Tisson-Waugh.

  I said, “Huh,” and pursed my lips together, making a little sucking sound of air through my teeth.

  Mr. Peters cocked his head to one side and stared up at me quizzically.

  “Mr. Peters,” I said. “I have no frickin’ idea.”

  Part of me knew it was wrong. Part of me knew I should have dropped the stupid thing right back in its squirrel hole and never thought of it again, but I didn’t care. In a way, it was mine. I folded the whole fluffy mess up as neatly as possible and was tucking the wispy ends of the scarf between the pages when something slipped halfway out the bottom.

  It was a drawing—a pen-and-ink drawing, to be exact—of an attractive woman with long dark hair cascading off her shoulders. She was sitting on a couch, her knees drawn up beneath her, with one arm draped casually over the side cushion, and looking straight at me with a slyly seductive look in her eyes. I recognized her immediately.

  It was the same woman in the drawings hanging behind the register at Beezy’s Bookstore, the same woman with the diamond ring and the tiny kitten in her lap. This drawing, however, was a little different from the rest—the woman was completely naked.

  When I got to the bottom of the ladder and was back on solid ground, I turned to find Janet standing behind me, her arms folded over her chest.

  I gasped. “Good Lord, you scared me to death! I thought you went back inside.”

  She narrowed her gaze. “I came back.”

  Something in the way she was staring me down made my palms break out in a sweat. I could probably have freed Mr. Peters right then and there and said my good-byes before she started asking questions, but I just couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t run right back up the tree, and I definitely didn’t feel like climbing that ladder again. Janet stepped forward and held out her hand with an expectant, almost accusing look in her eye. I took a deep breath.

  She said, “I take cat.”

  I handed Mr. Peters to her. He tried to squirm out of her arms, but she held on to him with a firm grip and then glanced in my general direction.

  “Thank you,” she said and then turned back toward the house.

  I’m not sure what came over me then—maybe the adrenaline from having stuck my hand down in a potential snake’s lair—but there was something about her voice, her accent, that made something click in my brain.

  I said, “You’re welcome … Mrs. Vladim.”

  She stopped and turned to me. In that instant I knew. I could see it in her eyes. She was Baldy’s wife, the Bonnie to his Clyde, the woman the police were looking for—and Mrs. Silverthorn’s missing “footman” was none other than Baldy himself.

  Her eyes widened, and she smiled politely. “I’m sorry? My name is Henson. Janet Henson.”

  Then she turned and continued toward the house, her pace slightly quicker now. Not knowing what else to do, I followed her through the garden and around the corner through the portico, and when we reached the front entrance Janet opened the door and bowed her head. “I will tell Mrs. Silverthorn that you are gone.” Then she closed the door behind her.

  I stood there dumbfounded, staring blankly into the eyes of the weathered green elephant door-knocker, my mouth hanging open like a boxer who’s just received a good left hook, followed directly with a heavy jab from the right. My hand fell down to the side pocket of my cargo shorts and closed around the tattered edge of the missing section of my book.

  There appeared to be a whole host of things hiding at the Silverthorn Mansion.

  25

  It felt like I was waking from a dream as I made my way through the labyrinthian maze of hallways and stairwells at Sarasota Memorial. I hadn’t exactly planned on going there, but speeding up Midnight Pass from the Silverthorn Mansion, I found myself turning right onto Stickney Point and crossing over the bridge to Tamiami Trail. Then the next thing I knew I was circling around inside the multilevel garage next to the medical building looking for a parking place, and then suddenly I was headed straight for Baldy’s room.

  I told myself I wouldn’t stay long. I was already in deep enough and I had my own life to think about—specifically, my date with Ethan that night. I wanted to keep it short and sweet so I could go home, take a shower, and get ready for a nice evening out with my man. Of course, even as I made my way through the lobby, I had no idea why I was there or what I was planning on being so short and sweet about.

  When the elevator doors slid open at Baldy’s floor, it dawned on me that in some strange way I felt responsible for him. Sure, he’d put himself in the hospital with his crazy driving—that was nobody’s fault but his own—but I was the one who had pulled him out of his car, just the way you might free a chick that’s too weak to break out of its own shell. And just as a baby chick forms a never-ending bond with the first thing it lays eyes on, Baldy had taken one look at me and decided I was his dear, loving wife.

  As far as I was concerned, it was my duty to see that he at least made it out of the hospital okay. Plus, I had a feeling that where he was headed next, kindness would not be in full supply.

  When I rounded the corner to his room, I was surprised to find an armed guard sitting in a chair just outside the door. I should probably have expected that. Baldy was a criminal with probably a very high flight risk. My shoes squeaked on the shiny linoleum floor as I came to a stop. I considered turning right around and heading back for the elevator.

  The guard stood up out of his chair and eyed me down the bridge of his nose. He wore black pants with white stripes down the outside seam, with a cop-blue, short-sleeved shirt with pockets on the chest. There was a black leather holster strapped to his waist, with the shiny black handle of a pistol poking out the top. He was big and muscular, the type of man you might find escorting a busty movie star through a crowd of frenzied paparazzi or standing next to a presidential candidate on the campaign trail.

  His voice as deep as a bullfrog’s, he said, “Sorry, miss. No visitors.”

  I said, “Oh, I’m Dixie Hemingway. Baldy … I mean, Mr. Vladim knows me.”

  He held his h
and up like a guard directing children at a school crossing. “I’m under strict orders. No one is allowed in this room unless authorized by hospital staff.”

  I said, “No, you have to let me in. It’s important. Tell him Dixie Hemingway is here. I’m the one that—”

  He interrupted. “I don’t have to do anything. If you want access to this room you’ll have to talk to the doctors.”

  Just then I heard a voice over my shoulder. “What’s the problem?”

  I turned to see a burly man with short-cropped black hair coming down the hall toward us. He was wearing green surgeon’s scrubs under a white lab coat, and when he saw my face his dour expression brightened.

  He stopped in his tracks and held his arms open. “Hey, look! It’s Super Woman.”

  I would never have recognized him in his surgeon’s clothes. It was the man from the head-on collision, the doctor who had helped me get Baldy out of his car.

  The guard said, “This woman wants to visit Mr. Vladim, but I explained to her there’s no one allowed in this room but medical personnel. She’s leaving now.”

  He nodded and then turned to me. From the pained expression on my face, he must have known right away that I wasn’t just there to shoot the breeze, because without missing a beat he thrust his open hand toward mine and said, “Dr. Hemingway, I’m Dr. Dunlop. I believe we’ve met before?”

  As we shook hands he gestured toward Mr. Vladim’s door and said, “Shall we?”

  The guard stepped back a little as Dr. Dunlop reached past him and opened the door to Baldy’s room. I met the bewildered guard’s suspicious frown with a solemn, doctorly nod. It took every ounce of self-control in my body to keep from sticking my tongue out at him, but I figured I would never have made it through medical school and become an important, world-renowned physician at the Sarasota Memorial Hospital by acting like a spoiled, immature brat, so instead I closed the door behind me with a polite smile and kept my tongue, quite literally, to myself.