I propped the bike up next to the front door and fished around in my backpack for my chatelaine, the big brass ring I keep all my keys on. It seems like every client I’ve ever had wants me to keep a key to their home just in case there’s an emergency. I’ve never sat down and done an official count, but there must be at least a couple hundred keys on it, if not more. It’s about as heavy as a bucket of clams. At first it was hard to keep track of them all, but eventually I worked out a system. Each key is individually numbered with a permanent marker, and then I have a list that matches each key to its owner, which I keep in the same notebook where I write down all my alarm codes and pet instructions.
There was a time when I carried that notebook around with me, but after a while it just seemed too risky. If the wrong person got their hands on both my chatelaine and my notes, they could make off with half the valuables on this island, so I keep it hidden in my apartment for now. I’d tell you where, but then you’d be suspect number one if it ever went missing, so let’s just say it’s in a safe place.
As I was unlocking the door, I thought I heard a car in the street behind me, but by the time I had the door open and looked back, it was gone. I punched in the code for the alarm system, dropped my stuff on the white leather bench next to the front door, and knelt down to untie my sneakers.
The Kellers have a strict no-shoes policy, which I thought was kind of silly until I saw the inside of their house. You wouldn’t think a place so drab and boring on the outside could be so elegantly stunning on the inside, but it is. The furniture is all sleek and modern and covered in soothing shades of sand and fawn and bird’s-egg-blue, with bleached hardwood floors buffed to a shiny gloss and walls painted a soft milky gray. It’s like walking through the dunes at dusk.
As I kicked my sneakers off, hopping around on one foot and then the other, I noticed there was a small box on the floor, tucked back under the bench at the far end. It had a white address label on top, but no postage, and there were some red FRAGILE stickers on both ends. I made a mental note to ask Mrs. Keller if she’d meant to mail it. I knew they’d been in a rush when they left the night before because she’d called to apologize for leaving the house in such a mess.
Of course, for Mrs. Keller, mess probably just meant a couple of unwashed coffee cups in the sink.
“Mr. Feldman?”
I didn’t exactly expect him to come running. Dogs like to greet you at the door and dance around your feet, bouncing this way and that while they tell you how absolutely fabulous you are, how absolutely overwhelmed with excitement they are, and how they absolutely adore you. Cats are a little different. They’re glad you’ve arrived, but they’re certainly not about to embarrass themselves with such demeaning displays of subservience.
Instead, they’ll allow you to give them a few good scritches between the ears while they stretch themselves into a scary-cat shape, and then maybe they’ll circle around your legs, purring loudly to let you know that you are indeed loved. I smiled to myself. Barney has his own particular way of greeting visitors. As I pulled my socks up around my ankles, I gave a little nod to the room.
“Good morning, everybody.”
That wasn’t meant for Barney. That was my customary greeting for what was hanging on the walls all around me—Mrs. Keller’s passion, or, as Mr. Keller refers to it, his “financial ruin.”
Masks. All kinds of masks. Big masks. Small masks. Wooden masks from India, sequined masks from New Orleans, feathered masks from Siberia, healing masks, ceremonial masks, tribal masks, voodoo masks, and dozens of other masks from parts of the world I’ve never even heard of.
They’re all artfully arranged on the walls in every room of the house, including the laundry room, the hallways, the bathrooms—even the walk-in closet off the master bedroom. Some of them are quite simple, like the stone masks with blank oval mouths frozen in a perpetual OH! like a shocked smiley face. Others are more fancy affairs, with seashells for teeth and marbles for eyes, and headdresses adorned with brightly colored feathers and painted beads.
Mrs. Keller’s latest addition was a big wooden mask from the Himalayas, hanging dead center in the middle of the wall facing the front door. I remembered how her voice had dropped to a conspiratorial whisper when she told me where she’d found it—in a “charming little gallery” on the outskirts of Tampa. She’d said the owner of the shop had had no idea how rare it was, and that it was probably worth a small fortune.
It was a man’s face, intricately carved out of wood and painted with bright splashes of red, green, and banana-yellow, with gnashing teeth, arched eyebrows, and a string of tiny bleached-white bird skulls perched on the top of its head like a crown. Mrs. Keller said it was from a region in Tibet called Aroomy Choo Pinky, or something like that, but I just called him “Dick Cheney.”
The expression on his face was either a mischievous grin or a gruesome snarl, depending on the angle, and his sinister eyes seemed to follow me around the room, watching my every move.
I tipped my chin in his direction. “Hey, Mr. Cheney. How’s it hangin’?”
He didn’t answer.
Mrs. Keller had told me that when her husband found out how much she had paid for Dick Cheney, he nearly had a nervous breakdown. He accused her of systematically wasting away their retirement fund, and if she didn’t get ahold of herself they’d end up living in an old refrigerator box down on the beach. To make up with him, she’d made a solemn promise: no more masks, which, I have to say, I was a little sorry to hear.
You’d think it would have been kind of creepy walking around with all those soulless faces staring out from the walls, but over time they’ve grown on me. Every time I take care of Mr. Feldman, I look forward to seeing Mrs. Keller’s latest purchase. Each mask is stunning and beautiful in its own peculiar way, and I can see why she loves them so much. I’m not sure I could live with them 24/7, but they’re wonderful to visit every once in a while.
I padded into the kitchen to get Barney Feldman’s breakfast ready, taking care to steer clear of the credenza in the hallway just in case he was hiding underneath it. Maine Coons are known for their sweet disposition, but Mr. Feldman is not your typical Maine Coon. Don’t get me wrong, he’s an angel most of the time, but just like those Vikings his ancestors used to hang out with, he’s got a mischievous streak of savagery in him.
Occasionally he likes to set up camp under the furniture and take sharp-clawed swipes at innocent passersby, which was why I had pulled my socks up, naively hopeful that they’d protect my ankles. The six-inch space under the hall credenza isn’t exactly Barney’s favorite staging ground, but I wasn’t taking any chances. As I went by, I hugged the wall.
In the kitchen, I cleaned out his water bowl and filled it with fresh water, and as soon as he heard the silverware drawer open and the clunk of the can opener on the countertop, he came running in with a couple of chirps, as innocent as can be, and greeted me with an excited, “Thrrrrrip!”
I said, “Oh, Mr. Feldman! What a coweenky-dink. I was just about to serve your breakfast.”
He trotted over and rubbed his cheek against my ankles, pointing his tail straight up like an exclamation point and wriggling it in anticipation. He’s long and muscular, with thick chocolate fur soft as velvet and ticked with undulating bands of cream and gold. All four of his paws are dipped in pure black, and his wise old-soul eyes sparkle like point-cut aquamarines.
“We’ve got a special treat on the menu today, just so you know.”
I mixed a couple of spoonfuls of tuna in the bowl with his allotted breakfast portion of kibble—about half a cup—and then laid it down on his plastic-coated place mat at the foot of the dishwasher. The place mat is there because Barney Feldman is not a tidy eater. He likes to pull pieces of food out and line them up on the floor around his dish like trophies from a hunting expedition. Then he pounces on them one by one, making a complete mess of everything in the process.
I figured while he ate I’d take a spin around the
house just to make sure nothing was out of order. I always do an inspection of all my clients’ houses, even if I’m just taking care of a bowl of goldfish. You never know what you might find: a leak in the roof or a houseplant that needs a little TLC. Plus, with cats there’s always the very real possibility that they might have woken up in the middle of the night with the best idea ever, like applying a fringed edge to the arms of your favorite love seat, or maybe peeing in the middle of your pillow so you’ll always have a memento of your time away. Barney Feldman is usually on his best behavior, though, so I wasn’t expecting any surprises.
When I got back to the kitchen, he was nowhere in sight, but he’d eaten every bit of his breakfast. I took his bowl and place mat over to the sink and scrubbed them both with a soapy sponge, then I went back over to the antique cupboard and pulled open one of its heavy wooden drawers. Inside was a bundle of plastic grocery bags wrapped in a rubber band. As I loosened one of the bags, there were some lightning-fast paw swipes at the space where my feet should have been.
I said, “Nice try.”
I pictured him wearing a horned Viking helmet and swinging his paws back and forth like two battleaxes, but I was standing a good three feet away and stretching my arms out to reach the drawer, so my ankles were safe.
I dropped the tuna lid down in the bag and wrapped it up. The Kellers wouldn’t be home for a week, so I didn’t want to leave anything smelly in the garbage under the sink. The laundry room is just off the kitchen, and beyond that is a short hallway leading out to the carport where the garbage cans are kept. The side door locks automatically with a spring that pulls it shut, so I always prop it open with an old tin flower bucket that the Kellers keep nearby for umbrellas.
It’s not the best system in the world, mainly because given half a chance Barney will sprint out any open door as if his life depends on it, but also because the flower bucket is pretty top-heavy. It can easily tip over from the weight of the door, and then, click … you’re locked out. I found that out the hard way, so I always leave the front door unlocked when I come in, just in case.
I propped the door open and padded over to the garbage cans, which are enclosed in a cedar-paneled bin to fend off marauding raccoons. Keeping an eye on the door just in case Barney tried to escape, I lifted up the door on top of the bin, dropped the bag down in the garbage, and then hustled back inside, sliding the flower bucket back in place with my foot as the door pulled itself closed.
When I turned around to head back into the kitchen, I came face-to-face with none other than Dick Cheney.
The first thing I thought was, Hey, you’re not supposed to be here. But then I noticed something different. He seemed to have arms and legs. He wore a long-sleeved black sweatshirt and dark track pants. My lips formed into a W with the intention of saying, What the f…? But I never got that far. It was like watching a movie projected onto a screen right in front of me.
He raised one of his arms up over his crown of tiny bird skulls, and I saw he was holding something about the size of a softball in his black-gloved fist. It was a white stone figurine, like a Buddha, except naked, with voluminous breasts and a bald head as smooth as a river stone. It hovered in the air for a moment, and then, as if in slow motion, came down right on top of my head.
Just before it hit me, I noticed its little naked feet. The toes were painted bright crimson red.
After that, the movie screen went completely dark.
3
I could hear a faint ringing in the distance, sort of like a church bell, and the first thing I saw was Barney Feldman’s big fluffy face looming over me. I was lying flat on my stomach with my head turned to the side and my cheek smashed into the floor, and Barney was gazing at me with a slightly worried expression. He seemed to be saying, It’s a good thing you woke up because I have no idea how to use the phone.
My whole head was throbbing, and when I tried to roll over to my side a blistering pain went bouncing through my skull and right down my spine, all the way to the soles of my feet. I let out a low moan, which apparently Barney took to mean everything was fine now, because he licked one black paw and drew it daintily across his long whiskers.
I did a quick inventory up and down my body. My clothes were on, which is always a good thing, and I didn’t see blood anywhere, which is also a good thing, and except for the throbbing pain in my head and a vague ringing in my ears everything seemed okay.
I rolled over on my back and then slowly sat up on my elbows, trying as hard as I could to ignore the pain as I waited for my blurry eyes to focus. There was a shaft of sunlight streaming in through the window illuminating tiny specks of dust floating in the air, and I tried to decipher by the sun’s angle what time it was … until I remembered my cell phone in my back pocket. I pulled it out and looked at the screen.
It was 6:30, which meant I must have been out cold for at least a half hour. I was about to close the phone and lay it on the floor next to me when I noticed something else on the screen. There was one missed call and a new voice mail: It was from Mrs. Keller.
I almost laughed out loud at the irony of it. While I was lying there knocked out cold on the floor of her laundry room, she had left a message. I wondered if she’d called to ask me to mail that box in the foyer, or maybe to warn me about statue-wielding, mask-wearing degenerates sneaking around inside her house looking for unsuspecting cat sitters.
I had a view through the laundry room into the kitchen, which opened up into the living room beyond, and at first everything seemed perfectly normal, but then the gauzy curtains behind the couch billowed out slightly and I realized with a jolt that the folding glass doors leading to the back garden were standing wide open. In front of the couch was a marble-topped coffee table, and when I saw what was sitting on top of it, I froze.
There were two tapered candles. One red, the other black, and they were both lit. Their yellow-white flames were flickering gently in the breeze from the open doors.
I flipped my phone open and punched in the numbers as fast as I could.
“911. What is your emergency?”
I whispered, “This is Dixie Hemingway, I have a code 11-99. Somebody just hit me over the head with a statue and I think it’s possible they’re still in the house.”
The operator’s voice was thin and nasal. He said, “They hit you with a statue?”
“Yeah, a little statue made of stone or marble or something.”
“Are you bleeding?”
“No, but it knocked me out and I just woke up.”
“What’s your location, ma’am?”
“I’m … in the laundry room.”
“Okay … I’m showing an address of 22 Island Circle, is that correct?”
Close enough, I thought. “Yes, that’s it.”
“Are you able to get out of the house safely?”
I looked around for Barney but he had disappeared. “Um, I don’t know.”
“I’m sending help now. Stay where you are.”
I slid my hand down my hip and felt for my holster. “Okay. I’ll search the house.”
His voice rose. “Excuse me? No, you need to stay right where you are. You need to—”
I interrupted as I felt my fingers close around the handle of my pistol. “It’s okay, I’m a sheriff’s dep—”
But before I could finish I looked down at my hand. I was holding my little flashlight out in front of me, absentmindedly fluttering my thumb around its base looking for the safety release.
The operator’s voice cut through. “Ma’am? You need to stay put, do you hear me?”
Just then the room started spinning.
“Yeah,” I whispered as I let my head touch the floor with a gentle thud. “I hear you.”
* * *
I’m not completely sure how long I lay there before they arrived, but it felt like an eternity. I spent the entire time straining to hear any sounds from inside the house, which wasn’t easy since the ringing in my ears wouldn’t stop and I felt like
I’d been injected with a dose of morphine big enough to take down the Jolly Green Giant. There were literally waves of sleepiness washing over me.
I tried not to think about the fact that I’d just mistaken my flashlight for a pistol, or that I even thought I was carrying a pistol in the first place. Instead, I concentrated on what I’d learned in law enforcement training about concussions and ran down the symptoms: Trauma to the head? Yep. Extreme Lethargy? Yep. Mental confusion? Well, I’d come back to that one, but it wasn’t looking good.
I closed my eyes and sighed.
It was bad enough some low-life punk had snuck up on me, and worse still that he’d hammered me to the ground with a big-bosomed Buddha, or that he’d taken the time to light a couple of candles, which was super creepy, but the worst part was the possibility that he might still be lurking around inside the house somewhere. You’d think the thought of that would have sent me into a total panic, but it didn’t. I just kept telling myself everything would be fine as long as I stayed calm and alert.
Barney Feldman had taken up his post again, purring loudly and watching over me with a serene expression on his face. That made me feel better, too. I figured if there actually was somebody in the house Barney wouldn’t have been so relaxed. Just as I was congratulating myself for staying awake in spite of the overwhelming urge to sleep, I felt something press my hand gently. I opened my eyes to find, not Barney Feldman looking down at me, but Deputy Jesse Morgan. He was kneeling at my side.
“Dixie? You okay?”
I thought for a moment. I’ve known Morgan for years. He’s one of the Key’s few sworn deputies, which basically means he’s licensed to carry a gun. He’s about as fun as a barrel of monkeys, minus the monkeys, but he’s tall and lean, with sharp cheekbones, broad shoulders, and a buzzed, military-style haircut—exactly the type of guy you want around if there’s any trouble.
The Cat Sitter's Whiskers Page 2
