Kitty Kitty

by Michele Jaffe

  My hands shook as I wrapped the cat sculpture in the paper and went to the door. I stopped there. “Did you eat or drink anything while you were here?”

  He stared at me. “No, why?”

  “You didn’t touch that glass in the sink? And no one but you has been here?”

  He shook his head.

  “I’m going to take it.”

  He followed me to the sink as I slipped it into a plastic bag. “I don’t see what—”

  “It’s for my crazy stupid investigation, to get Arabella’s prints,” I told him, and walked out.

  My legs were still wobbly as I went down the stairs. I’d never done that, lost my temper, with anyone. I really was becoming BadJas. And I wasn’t sure I liked it.

  The fog was still thick on the street when I got outside. I had an idea how to get home but it was hard to see more than a few feet in any direction. This was probably a bonus for anyone else around because I was pretty sure that if they’d seen me in broad daylight after the night I’d had they would have had to be admitted to a psych ward for post-traumatic stress disorder, but it wasn’t that fantastico for me. I was distracted, pausing at each bridge to see if it was the one I’d crossed on my way there, backtracking once—so at first I didn’t hear it. Them. I stopped abruptly.

  And so did whoever was following me.

  I looked behind me but I couldn’t see anything except fog. My heart started to pound against my ribs and I began climbing over bridges, turning down calles, not paying attention to where I was going.

  The footsteps, quiet, almost shuffling, stayed behind me. I’d take two steps and they’d take two steps. I’d go three and they’d go three. Their pace matched mine, as though they were waiting to see what I did, where I’d go.

  I started running.

  The sound of my cowboy boots echoed off the walls of the narrow calle and were matched by another set, pounding toward me. I made a right, then a left, another right. The footsteps followed, dogging me, always there, coming closer.

  And then they weren’t. Abruptly, they’d disappeared.

  I slowed down, walking on my tiptoes to make sure I could hear.

  Nothing.

  I took a few steps to be sure. A few more. Silence.

  I was alone. I’d done it. Eluded them. I leaned against the wall to catch my breath.

  I took a mental memo to avoid wearing cowboy boots in the future if I thought I was going to be followed. They made entirely too much—

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw something shiny flash. There was a thud, followed by a shooting pain in my head, and the ground came rushing toward my face. I thought, Polly will never forgive me for dying in this outfit. And everything went black.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I know it’s wrong to say, but I was sort of disappointed in Heaven when I got there. Based on several things my aunt Winnie had told me after my mom died—especially the words “most beautiful sight you can imagine”—I’d pictured it as kind of like a huge taco stand, but it turned out to be less All-You-Can-Eat-Fiesta and more gray stone walls. And lots of grabby people. One of whom was now saying, “Miss Callihan? Can you hear me?”

  I sat up slightly to see who was speaking and that’s when a family of chipmunk clog dancers started rehearsing Stomp! The Musical! in my head.

  I lay back down and closed my eyes.

  “Miss Callihan, are you all right?”

  “Yes, yes, fine, it’s just the chipmunks,” I said.

  “The what?”

  “Clog dancing,” I added by way of explanation.

  “Miss Callihan, can you open your eyes?”

  I opened my eyes and found myself staring into twin pools of fascinating and mysterious gray.2 They belonged to Max, the smoldering gondolier from the day before.3

  I got cautiously up on one elbow. The chipmunks mounted a small protest but nothing as vehement as before. “How did you know my name?” I asked, my fingers quivering to touch the stubble that graced his square-cut, manly jaw.4

  Max turned behind him and, in his rich melodious voice, said something in Italian along the lines of “She’ll be fine, there is no concussion,” then turned back to me. Beneath his steely exterior, his eyes smoldered with concern.5 Smoldering, he reached out with a gentle yet filled-with-smoldering-ness touch to brush a lock of hair from my forehead and said smolderingly, 6 “Your wallet is on the street next to you with your identity card in it. Apparently the brigand did not have time to steal its contents. Or your phone.” He handed both to me.

  “Brigand?” I said, slowly sitting upright.

  “The thief who attacks you.”

  I felt the side pocket of my jacket. It was unzipped, like someone had reached into it, but with my fingertips I could make out the lump of the glass sculpture wrapped in paper there, and the photo I’d taken from Arabella’s beneath it. I breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Something is missing?”

  “No,” I said. “Nothing is missing.”

  “He must have been frightened off.”

  And then I remembered: Right before I passed out, a voice whispering, “Leave them alone.”

  This wasn’t a brigand at all. Whoever did this wasn’t interested in stealing anything. They were interested in scaring me. Making me stop asking questions. Which meant someone was hiding something. Like that Arabella’s death hadn’t been suicide. She’d been murdered.

  This was it, IT, the proof I’d been waiting for. Not proof that you could touch or use or show the police or do anything helpful with, but still, proof.

  !

  Little Life Lesson 29: If you ever find yourself glad that someone has followed and then attacked you, immediately reassess your life goals.

  I looked at Max. “What were you doing here?”

  “I am on my way to work on the gondola and I hear a sound, then I see a girl in a heap on the ground. Naturally, I stop. Max does not leave girls lying in heaps on the ground.”

  “Did you see anyone else? The person who hit me?”

  “No. When I arrive, there is just you, and soon a crowd of well-wishers. But I tell them to go. You do not need to be ogled.”

  I tried to get up all at once, which didn’t please the chipmunks, so Max helped me to my feet. That’s when I saw the glass I’d taken from Arabella’s to lift her fingerprints. Or rather the pieces of the glass. It looked like I’d fallen on it.

  I started moving the glass bits into a pile with my boot.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I want to take this”—I gestured at the pieces of glass—“back to my hotel with me.”

  “Of course I do not mean to question your taste, but are you sure this is the souvenir of Venice you desire? We are a city known for our glass, but this is not perhaps the finest example.”

  “I don’t want it as a souvenir.”

  “No? Then perhaps you do this from motives of tidiness. This is very noble but do not worry, there are people in Venice we pay to do this.”

  “It’s not trash, it’s evidence. Do you see a paper bag or anything we can put it in?”

  “Evidence,” Max repeated skeptically, but he went away and came back a minute later with a brown paper bag. “This is suitable? Now what do we do?”

  “We scoop up everything that was around where I was lying on the ground, especially the glass,” I explained. “But try to only touch it on the edges, not on the flat surfaces.”

  Max jumped back from the piece of glass he was about to pick up. “Sorry, I am not aware of how we treat evidence.”

  His concern touched me to the very core of my being. That and the way his broad shoulders filled out the zip-necked sweater he was wearing over a sky-blue button-down shirt. A spark like faeries kissing passed between our fingers when they touched.7 I said, “That’s okay, I’ll take your prints later to eliminate them.”8

  We worked together like that to gather the larger pieces of glass as well as the other bits-o-debris lying around—some plastic wrap, the
corner of a candy wrapper, a pebble—then he helped me sweep the smaller ones into the bag with his foot.

  “Wait,” Max said. “There is more.” And he came and very gently picked several pieces of paper and a peanut shell out of my hair.

  Our faces, our bodies, were so close that the tension smoldered between us. It was like every bad teen pop song ever made was playing in the background. I couldn’t keep my eyes off his full, soft-looking, begging-to-be-kissed lips, and as he put a finger under my chin and tilted my face up to his, his hooded eyes smoldered with invitation. He said, “I am glad you are not hurt, Miss Callihan.”

  Our lips were just millimeters apart.

  I yawned.

  BECAUSE YES THAT IS HOW I ROLL. LIKE A SUAVE THING. In fact, address all further correspondence to me at my new address: 1 Suave Hall, Suave Court, Suavie-land, Planet of She’s-So-Smooth-I-Can’t-Believe-She’s-Not-Butter.

  I couldn’t help it! I’d barely gotten any sleep (not counting time spent being knocked unconscious). Plus I’d skipped dessert the night before so I was starving.

  Max took a step backward and said, “You will allow me to give you a ride on the gondola to your hotel?”

  “No, it’s okay, I can—”

  “It is perplexing, this business of you denying yourself the pleasure of my company. Is it again because you do not trust yourself in the proximity to my charms? I will turn down their volume.”

  “I just—”

  “Ah, look, the police are arriving. Perhaps you wish to chat with them? I will say only in passing that my gondola is in the opposite direction from where they arrive.”

  And since another run-in with the police was on the list of Things Jas Needs beneath both Limb Loss and Smaller Boobs, I said, “A ride on the gondola would be great,” and followed him onto his boat.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I’d only been in one gondola before, and that was at the Venetian Hotel in Vegas, so I hadn’t realized how nice the real ones were. Max’s had sky-blue-and-gold brocade seats with blue silk tassels on them, and a little glass vase with a single yellow rose in it coming off the side. A panel in front of me was hand-painted with a scene of a gondolier wooing a maiden out the window of her palazzo.

  I glanced at my watch as I settled in and saw that it was ten fifteen in the morning. That meant two fifteen A.M. in Los Angeles. Suddenly I missed my pals more than ever. I’d been in a lot of Interesting Situations before, but never one where someone I knew was murdered. And I’d always had my friends around to help. But right now they were probably somewhere making up crazy dance moves or eating pizza or watching old alien invasion movies or dressing up in crazy costumes.9

  For some reason that made me think of Arabella, which made me le sigh.

  Max said, “You know what makes Venice unique? It is the silence. On the water, you can go anywhere in silence. She is like the circulation system of the city.”

  “Ah.”

  “It is very nice to be out on the water in the gondola, no?”

  He was right. The fog was starting to clear and you could see sunlight sparkling on the canal. “Yes,” I said.

  “And yet you do not seem to be enjoying either it or my most fascinating conversation, which has entranced hundreds of tourists.”

  “Sorry. It’s just that my friend, the one from yesterday in San Marco?”

  “Sì?”

  “She’s dead.”

  His expression of surprise would have been comical if he hadn’t almost tipped the boat over. “Dead?”

  “Late. Gone. Passed on.”

  “But, no!” he said. “That is not possible. I mean, she was so full of life—and running—yesterday. What happened?”

  “The police say she killed herself.”

  He stopped rowing completely then and stared at me. After a while he said, “I am sorry to hear this. It is very hard when someone you know does this. Ar—Are they sure?”

  “They are. I’m not convinced. I think she was murdered.”

  “Why?”

  “It just doesn’t make any sense.”

  He took a deep breath. “I understand. But the suicide never makes sense. Not for the people who stay behind. You have a reason for thinking she is murdered?”

  “She knew something was going to happen to her. She sent me a letter with instructions to pick this up from her apartment.” I unwrapped the cat statue and held it up.

  He winced. “Please, I am begging you, put that away. I believe it is trying to steal my soul.”

  I laughed despite myself. “It is pretty hideous.”

  “That is the understatement grandissimo. You are sure she liked you? I do not give this to even my number-one enemy. You have considered that perhaps your friend was crazy? I do not say this to insult her, it is just a fact.”

  I stared at it. “It’s got to be a clue.”

  “Yes, a clue that she is not to be trusted.”

  “I guess I’ll have to find out where she got it. Maybe that’ll tell me something.”

  “My advice is to take the whole thing and throw it away and never think of it anymore.”

  “No, I’m going to take it back to my room.”

  “I would not. It will cause you nightmares. And your head is still fragile. If you must, I recommend keeping it wrapped up. You could start now.”

  I smoothed out the paper, wrapped it up, and put it back in my pocket.

  We went on in silence for a while. I asked, “Why do you speak such good English?”

  “Now I know you flatter me. Once my English is good. Now it is mere. My mother is American and when I am younger I spend a year at school in America. But we had a parting of the ways.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They desired to have Max in their classes. This is understandable, of course. But Max desired not to be in the classes. So we compromised and I left.”

  “Where does your mother live?”

  “One hopes in heaven now. Before that, in Virginia.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up a difficult subject.”

  “There should be no secrets between us. And now let us speak of you. For example, how is it that Venice finds itself lucky enough to be host to such a treasure as yourself?”

  “My father is writing a book about the history of soap.”

  “Your father is a soap maker?”

  “He’s an anthropology professor. Soap is just his most recent fascination.”

  “I can see why. It is very fascinating.”

  “Not to me.”

  “In my observation I think you prefer less cleanliness and more disorder.”

  “It would appear that way.”

  “And your father, what does he think of this?”

  “He’s not a fan. In fact, I have a feeling that as soon as we get back to the hotel he is going to lock me up forever and never let me back out.”

  “But then how will you have lunch with me today? No. Something must be done about this.”

  Whatever it was had to be done soon, because we were pulling up to the Grissini Palace boat dock then. The windows of the dining room overlooked it and I could see that all the tables were full, but none of them were full of Dadzilla. Which meant there was a chance I could sneak back in without him—

  “Is this gentleman who comes with gnashing teeth your father?” Max bent down to ask me.

  “Yeah.” I stood up and braced for Dadzillapact.

  He stomped toward us. “Jasmine Noelle Callihan, do you have any idea how big a heap of trouble you are in?” He was looking very DO NOT PLAY ON OR AROUND.

  So, of course, the monkeys said, “Somewhere between a Mt. Kilimanjaro–and a Mt. Everest—sized heap of trouble?”

  “This is no joke.”

  “Mt. Kilimanjaro and Mt. Everest are no joke.”

  Max stepped forward then. “Do I have the privilege to address the famous Professore Callihan? It is an honor to meet you, sir. I am, naturally, an admirer.”

  Dad
zilla directed his Eyes of Searing Anger at him. “Who the devil are you?”

  Max said to me, “You see, already he takes a warm interest in me,” then turned back to my father and launched into a history of himself, starting with his second birthday party, which had a cowboys-and-Indians theme.

  “I don’t want to hear about your blasted birthday party,” my father said, cutting him off, Zilla-style. “What are you doing with my daughter?”

  “She does not tell you? Ah, naturally she wanted it to be a surprise. Is that not right, Jasmine Noelle?”

  I stared at him. He nodded encouragingly. “That’s right,” I agreed.

  “What surprise?” Lo Zilla growled.

  “It is like this. Jasmine and I meet as one does here in Venice, in the manner of destiny. We chat. She tells me of your burning passion for soap. I say to her, I know the foremost expert on soap. If you come for a row on the gondola with me in the morning, I will arrange for your father to meet my uncle, Lazlo Matrucci.”

  My father’s eyes got huge, but then he said, “Lazlo Matrucci is dead.”

  “No. He just pretends for the income tax. Would you like to meet him? Yes? Good. You have an appointment today at noon.” Max took a notebook out of his pocket, wrote something, and handed the paper to my father. “Here is his address.”

  My father stared at him, speechless. Speechless! My father!

  Little Life Lesson 30: Always carry a camera because you never know when you might want to record a historic moment.

  Lo Zilla held up the paper. “This is really where he lives?”

  “Yes. He will be expecting you.”

  Ever a paragon of manners, my father turned, shouted, “Sherri! You won’t believe this!” and toddled off.

  I was momentarily stunned by this example of Dadzilla management. Max had gifts. Thinking-on-his-feet-type gifts. “That was impressive. I’m sorry about my father’s manners. But, thank you. Is that man really your uncle?”

  Max beamed at me. “My motives are completely selfish. Now that your father will be busy in the middle of the day, you can have lunch with me. If you are worried you will be bored, let me mention that I am a very accomplished juggler.”