The Cat Sitter’s Pajamas

by Blaize Clement

  I put my tea on the desk, and Ella jumped onto the desktop. She knows the routine as well as I do. Music plays, she bends the tip of her tail to the beat, and I return phone calls from clients, handle whatever business needs handling, and record my client visits.

  I’m very meticulous about keeping records of my pet visits. I note every visit, what I did there, and anything out of the ordinary that I found. Usually that means something like a cat sneezing or a bird looking droopy on its perch, not a half-naked woman parading around in the homeowner’s big shirt. Definitely not a woman with her throat slit. Nevertheless, I had to make some record of my visit to Cupcake Trillin’s house, so I wrote: Intruder present, called 911. Officers found homicide victim. Cats taken to Kitty Haven until house is clear for their return.

  I thought that covered the situation very nicely. Except for the part about the intruder having stalked Cupcake and him lying about knowing her.

  When I finished the clerical duties, Segovia was still playing, and I couldn’t find any excuse to kill more time. Feeling defensive before he even answered, I called Sergeant Owens. Even after being away from the department almost four years, I remembered his number by heart.

  Caller ID told him it was me, so he was already ready for my question when he picked up his phone. Without even saying hello, he said, “The suspect turned herself in about an hour ago, Dixie. Came in with her attorney. I’m sure the investigating officer will want to talk to you, but it’s just a formality.”

  He sounded defensive, too, as if he’d expected me to ask him why the heck his new homicide detective hadn’t contacted me so he could follow the dots in tracing what had happened that morning. Guidry would have questioned me within minutes of arriving at the scene. Their new guy must be a lot slower.

  It was at that moment that I should have said, “Oh, by the way, I just happen to have spent about an hour with the suspect before she turned herself in. She told me she’s known Cupcake Trillin practically her whole life. I’m sure she’s lying, because Cupcake wouldn’t lie about knowing a famous model who’s been stalking him. I mean, why would he?”

  I didn’t say that for a whole bunch of reasons, the main one being that even though I wasn’t a deputy anymore, Owens would have my head on a platter if he knew I’d talked to Briana while officers were looking for her. Another big reason was that Cupcake was my friend, and I’m loyal to my friends, even when I have the teensiest suspicion one of them may have lied to me. Which, no matter how much I told myself it was Briana who had lied about knowing Cupcake, I sort of did.

  So for those reasons plus a few more, I kept my mouth shut about seeing Briana and taking her to Ethan’s office. Like a kid with sugar on her cheeks hoping nobody will guess she’s been snitching cookies, I figured Briana might keep quiet about me and maybe nobody would ever know.

  Instead, I said, “When will the investigators be done with the house? I’ll need to call the crime-scene cleaners before I can take the cats back home.”

  Owens said, “Check with me in the morning and I’ll know more about that. I’ve talked to Mr. Trillin. He and his wife will leave Parma for Rome a little after midnight our time. If they make all their connections, they’ll get to Sarasota around ten tomorrow night. Twenty-one damn hours in the air.”

  I had never heard Owens profess so much interest in somebody’s travel plans. He was trying to divert my attention from the investigation.

  I said, “Who is the homicide detective on the case?”

  Curtly, he said, “I’ll know more about that tomorrow, too.”

  He clicked off without saying good-bye, which left me staring at my phone. Owens is never a gushy guy, but he’s not rude. He didn’t want to talk about the homicide detective on this case. Guidry had waited until the department had hired his replacement before he left, but this was going to be a high-profile case, and my bet was that the new guy hadn’t worked out. The department was probably scrambling to find somebody with the experience to handle it.

  I wished I knew if the murdered woman had been identified.

  I wished I knew if Cupcake was lying about knowing Briana.

  I wished I knew if Briana had told the truth about a mysterious person coming into the house and murdering the woman.

  If Briana’s story was true, a vicious killer was on the loose.

  7

  Before it was time to go on my afternoon calls, my cell phone rang with the distinctive ring reserved for Michael, Paco, or Guidry. My heart did the same little tap dance it always did when I heard that ring, because I hoped it was Guidry. Guidry had left Sarasota in November, and at first he had called often. After almost six months, not so much.

  I hoped he’d got over his disappointment that I’d stayed in Siesta Key. I hoped he didn’t miss me. I hoped he missed me and hurt every waking moment because I wasn’t there.

  I wished I would quit missing him.

  I was a mess.

  The call wasn’t from Guidry. It was my brother, Michael.

  He said, “I just heard a news report about a killing at Cupcake Trillin’s house. Aren’t you taking care of his cats?”

  I gave him a quick rundown of what had happened, leaving out the part about talking to Briana and taking her to see Ethan Crane. Michael tends to get stressed when I get involved in things having to do with crime. He goes into burning buildings without the least hesitation, but murder investigations make him uneasy. Especially if I’m part of them.

  He said, “The news report said the woman who did it turned herself in. Some big-name model, it sounded like.”

  “If that’s what they’re reporting, they’ve got it wrong. She turned herself in because she knew they were looking for her, but she says somebody came in while she was in another room and killed the woman. She may be telling the truth.”

  Michael’s voice grew suspicious. “How do you know what she’s saying?”

  “I called Sergeant Owens.”

  It was absolutely true that I had called Owens, so technically I wasn’t lying.

  “According to the TV reporter, the judge denied bail for her because she broke into the Trillin house and because they think she was stalking Trillin. With her history, I guess they think she’ll run if they let her out.”

  I didn’t think there was any question that Briana would definitely want to leave if she thought she could hide out and never be found. But since her face was so famous, leaving wasn’t really an option for her.

  I was afraid I’d give away the fact that I knew Briana better than the TV reporter did if I talked to Michael any longer, so I told him I was on my way out the door for afternoon pet visits. I was almost on my way out, so it was only a small lie.

  He said, “I’ll be home in the morning. Love you.”

  “Love you.”

  We always end our conversations like that. Both of us have plenty of reason to know that every day might be our last, so we don’t leave love unsaid.

  I hurried to get dressed in my regulation khaki cargo shorts and sleeveless white tee. I slipped on fresh white Keds from the drying rack over the washer/dryer—I can’t stand shoes that smell like feet, so I go through a lot of Keds. Then I called the guy who does homicide cleanup.

  I said, “I wanted to give you a heads-up about a cleaning job in Hidden Shores. So far as I know, there’s only one contaminated floor in one room. I’ll let you know when the criminalists are done there.”

  “What kind of floor?”

  “Tile.”

  “What kind of tile? May have to replace it.”

  “Expensive tile. The owners of the house are out of the country, but they’ll be home tomorrow night. If you have to replace the tile, they can give you the particulars.”

  He thanked me for giving him a chance to plan ahead, and we said our good-byes. He didn’t ask the homeowners’ name, and I didn’t volunteer the information. He was a professional, he knew not to pry.

  Morning and afternoon, my first pet stop is at Tom Hale’s condo on M
idnight Pass Road. Tom is a CPA whose life went off on a different road than he’d intended when a wall of door displays fell on him at a home improvement store and crushed his spine. Life is like that. One moment you can be strolling down an aisle in a store admiring doorknobs, and the next moment you’re not who you used to be but somebody totally different.

  After his agony and fear and fury had got sorted out, Tom faced life as a paraplegic without a CPA office, a wife, or children. Well, he still had children, but his ex-wife had taken them and most of his settlement money to another state. But Tom’s not one to sit around feeling sorry for himself, so he started over in a wheelchair. Instead of doing CPA work in a fancy office, he does it at his kitchen table. He adopted a greyhound racing dog, who had also been given up by the world as useless, and named him Billy Elliot.

  Some retired greyhounds are happy to leave their racing days behind them, but not Billy Elliot. He needs a good twenty minutes of all-out running twice a day, so Tom and I do a trade-off. I run with Billy, and Tom handles my taxes and anything that has to do with money.

  I took the mirrored elevator to Tom’s floor, knocked lightly on his door to let him and Billy know I was there, and let myself in with my key. Tom yelled hello from the kitchen, and Billy met me in the foyer grinning and wagging his tail in absolute ecstasy. I love that about dogs. They don’t stand back and make you work at being friends with them, they’re your best friend the minute they see you.

  I got Billy Elliot’s leash from the closet and went to stand in the kitchen doorway. Tom had his laptop computer open on the table, and he looked up at me with a friendly grin. Not as friendly as Billy Elliot’s, but friendly. If Tom were a dog, he’d be a standard poodle. He has short curly black hair, round black eyes, and a round face. When he’s working, he wears round glasses with black rims that make him look a little bit like a grown-up Harry Potter.

  Tom’s on his computer a lot. I suppose he researches things for business. Maybe he also e-mails and tweets and chats and blogs, I don’t know. I’m the only person in the western hemisphere who doesn’t do any of those things, and I don’t ever intend to. But occasionally I need the kind of information that computer-savvy people can get in a trice—whatever a trice is—and when I do, I throw myself on Tom’s mercy.

  I said, “You know that football player named Cupcake Trillin?”

  “I know somebody got killed in his house this morning.”

  Bad news really travels fast.

  “I’ve just been wondering, you know, where he’s from. Could you look that up?”

  Tom gave me a calculating look, probably the way he scans a list of numbers when he suspects some of them are wrong. “He’s from Louisiana.”

  Sports fans always know where sports stars came from. They may not know where their best friends grew up, but they know all the statistics about their favorite athletes.

  “Yeah, but where in Louisiana? Like where did he go to high school?”

  Flat voiced, Tom said, “You want to know where Cupcake Trillin went to high school.”

  “I just wondered.”

  “I don’t mind looking it up, but you know him. Why don’t you just ask him?”

  Billy Elliot had come to sniff at the backs of my knees, a not-so-subtle reminder that he and I had some running to do.

  I slapped Billy’s leash against my open palm. “The Trillins won’t be home until tomorrow night. You know how it is when you start wondering about something and you want to know right then or you’ll never get it out of your mind. Like the name of a movie star that you can’t remember.”

  Tom gave me a long hard look. He obviously thought I had some other reason for asking, but he was too polite to say so. “I’ll do a search while you and Billy run.”

  Billy Elliot shoved his head against my thigh, and I bent and snapped his leash on his collar. Tom watched me the entire time. I could feel question marks pelting me, but I led Billy out of the apartment without giving Tom any excuses for wanting to know where Cupcake had gone to high school. I figured I’d take it one step at a time.

  Tom’s condo building has a parking lot with a green oval in the middle. Cars park around the perimeter of the oval, and the blacktop driving area makes a perfect track for Billy Elliot to pretend he’s back chasing a mechanical rabbit while humans in the stands cheer and wave and slosh beer on one another. He’s very considerate of the fact that I’m two-legged and therefore slow. On the first lap he takes it easy, or at least runs at a pace he considers easy. I gallop along behind him and try not to wheeze. But by the third or fourth lap he’s decided that the blonde behind him has had plenty of warm-up time. He stretches his body out and goes for broke while I sort of leap and lurch to keep up with him. When we’re done, he’s grinning and whipping his tail in pure joy, and I’m a sweaty, red-faced, quivering blob.

  On the way up in the mirrored elevator, I sagged against one wall and eyed my rumpled reflection. Even though Billy and I go through the same routine twice a day, I’m always impressed at the way he glories in the fact that he’s designed for speed. The animal kingdom has its natural athletes the same way humans do. And, like humans, if they’re not allowed to be what they were designed to be, they get depressed or mean.

  At Tom’s apartment, I hung Billy’s leash on its hook in the foyer closet while Billy trotted to the kitchen to wag his tail at Tom by way of saying, “I had a really good time, Dad!”

  I followed him, got a glass, filled it at the sink, and leaned on the counter while I drank it.

  Tom tapped some keys on his computer to bring up a screen. “Cupcake Trillin’s birth name was Alvin. He’s from Thibodaux, Louisiana, which is the parish seat of Lafourche Parish. Has about fourteen thousand people and is about seventy-five miles southwest of New Orleans. Cupcake played for the Thibodaux High School Tigers and graduated in 2002. Got a sports scholarship to Tulane, played for the Green Wave, then signed with the Bucs right out of college.”

  “The Green Wave?”

  Tom looked up with pity. “That’s the Tulane football team.”

  “Oh.”

  I cleared my throat. “Uh, could you look up another name?”

  Tom’s round eyes became oval, as if he knew the other name was the one I really was interested in.

  “What name?”

  “Weiland.” I spelled it for him.

  “Got a first name?”

  I cleared my throat again. It seemed to have acquired a lump.

  “Briana.”

  “As in the name of the model they say was in Cupcake Trillin’s house when somebody was murdered? The one they’re looking for?”

  “She turned herself in. They’re not looking for her anymore.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “It would be in that town where Cupcake is from.”

  His fingers went into a holding pattern above the keys while he stared at me. “Are you saying they know each other?”

  I erased the idea with the palm of my hand. “I just heard something about Briana being from that same town. I don’t know if it’s true. Even if it is, that doesn’t mean they know each other.”

  Tom bent back to the computer keyboard but after a while shook his head.

  “If I search for ‘Briana,’ I get a ton of articles. She was on the cover of Vogue and Sports Illustrated. Hung out with all the other big-name models. Looks like she’s partied with every rock star in the world, too, not to mention some prime ministers and a few kings. But I don’t find any mention of the name Weiland.”

  He clicked on a link, read some text, and wrinkled his nose.

  “She was tight with a Serbian gangster who was arrested for shipping heroin in a crate of counterfeit Gucci watches. He skipped off before his trial and went to a beach resort. Apparently hid out in plain sight for a long time. Took a false name, threw big parties for people like Briana, generally lived it up. Somebody tipped off the police and got a big reward. The guy got a four-year prison sentence, but another inmate killed him the first we
ek.”

  Tom looked at me over the tops of his glasses. He looked a bit like the caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland. “This babe is a piece of work.”

  Briana hadn’t struck me as a woman who held many ethical values of any kind, so I wasn’t surprised that she had cozied up to a criminal. But my interests were a lot closer to home, like where Briana had grown up, and if she had known Cupcake when she was a kid.

  I said, “I guess Briana’s not from Louisiana, then.”

  “Wait, I’ll check Louisiana birth records.”

  He tapped some more keys, leaned to read the screen, tapped more, wiggled the mouse thing more, and then shook his head.

  I said, “So she lied.”

  “Not necessarily. Maybe her birth was recorded under a different name.”

  “But if she were from Cupcake’s town, wouldn’t the name come up in some way?”

  “Search engines only go to words that are registered somewhere or have been in the news or have a record of previous searches. If she got a reward for something like perfect school attendance in junior high, a search engine wouldn’t catch that.”

  Which meant I didn’t know more than I had before. Briana had said she’d lied about where she’d come from, but maybe she’d lied about lying. The only way I would find out for sure if she’d really known Cupcake when they were kids was to ask him. And since it really wasn’t any of my business, I’d have to decide if there was good reason to tell him what Briana had told me. Good reason other than satisfying my curiosity and giving Cupcake a chance to prove to me that he wasn’t a liar.

  I thanked Tom and left him looking suspicious and puzzled. I felt the same way, just not about myself.

  Back on Midnight Pass Road, I headed north. My next client was about a mile away on the Gulf side, so I got into the left turning lane and waited for a break in traffic. A white Jag convertible with a male driver whizzed by in the southbound lane. The Jag was the same model as the Jag Briana drove.

  Now here’s the thing about having been a law enforcement officer. For the rest of your life, you notice the numbers on license plates. Some area of your brain registers them and retains them even when you don’t consciously intend to. I could see the Jag’s license plate in my rearview mirror, and the plate was the same as Briana’s. The light changed, but instead of turning left, I made a U-turn and followed the Jag.