“Of course. The Kellers aren’t home for another week. Which reminds me…” I reached out and snatched my phone from his hands. “I never listened to the rest of that message.”
“Wait a minute, aren’t you a little nervous?”
“No. And even if I was, I’ve got Barney Feldman to protect me. I’m sure if somebody actually did break in, whatever they were after they already got. I don’t think they’ll be coming back anytime soon.”
He nodded firmly. “Yeah, I’ll meet you there.”
“No, you won’t.” I pressed the play button on my phone.
“I will.”
I held one finger up to his lips. “No. Shut up now.”
He kissed the tip of my finger as Mrs. Keller’s message continued.
“… so Dixie, about that package, would you mind delivering it? Apparently the actual owner was quite eager to come pick it up, but I said I wouldn’t be comfortable sharing my home address with a stranger. I told him I’d have my cat sitter deliver it, and—I hope you won’t mind—but I’ve already gone to the liberty of arranging a meeting for you. It’s tomorrow at 3:00 p.m. with a man named Paxton. He’s a collector there in town with a small gallery. Hold on, I have the address here somewhere…”
There were shuffling sounds as I held the phone away from my ear. Ethan had gotten up and was standing in front of the open refrigerator, looking for something to eat, which was a shame since there wasn’t much more than a jar of mayonnaise, a bottle of OJ, and a few carrot sticks in there.
“Here it is. 3535 Pineapple. I gave him your phone number…”
She stopped abruptly and then whispered, “Oh, dear, here’s Buster.”
I heard Mr. Keller say something in the background, and then Mrs. Keller’s voice turned bright and cheerful again.
“Oh, Dixie, Buster just reminded me. My neighbor’s daughter Lizette—I believe you know her. She’ll be stopping by the house every once in a while to keep Barney company, in fact she’s going over this afternoon when she gets home from school. She’s a very nice young lady and absolutely adores Barney to pieces. Oh, my goodness, I’m so glad I remembered to tell you. It would’ve been quite a shock to bump into someone in the house without knowing first! Can you imagine?”
“Yeah,” I mumbled. “I actually can.”
“Please give Mr. Feldman a big kiss from us and thanks so much for taking care of things, and feel free to call if there are any, you know … problems. Arrivederci for now!”
I flipped the phone shut as Ethan took a bite off the tip of a carrot stick and handed the rest to me. “What now?”
“Mrs. Keller … She bought something at a gallery, but I guess they’d already sold it to somebody else. She wanted to know if I could return it tomorrow. She already set it up.”
He picked up his briefcase. “Why can’t she just do it when she gets back?”
I shrugged. “It sounds urgent, plus she doesn’t want her husband to find out. She promised him she’d stop buying stuff.”
He knelt down and kissed the tip of my ear, and a wave of goose bumps rippled across my back. He said, “Well, I’m headed back to work. Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you?”
I bit off a piece of carrot and munched it. “No, I’ll be fine. And anyway one of my clients lives just up the street from the Kellers. Her daughter’s going over to play with Barney after school, so I may be off the hook until morning.”
“Good. I think you should give yourself a break and call it a day.”
As innocently as possible, I said, “Well, if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll give you a call if I have to go back over there.”
“Really? You’d do that for me?” He opened the door with a mischievous grin. “That would be ever so thoughtful of you.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I will ever so thoughtfully throw this carrot at you.”
“Ha. You wouldn’t dare.”
Without even hesitating I chucked it at him, but he caught it midair and grinned. “Wow. Our kids would need some intense therapy.” He waved the carrot at me like a lecturer’s baton. “Oh, and by the way, you should hang out naked in a sheet more often. It’s kinda hot.”
I sat there for a few minutes, happy for some time alone as I listened to the sound of Ethan’s car roll down the driveway. I knew I should probably have called Mrs. Keller right then. I knew if it were my house and the police had been called in to search through all my stuff, looking for evidence that there’d been some kind of burglary, I’d probably want to know—especially if my house was filled with valuable artwork. Other than my guns, which are well hidden, the next most valuable thing in my place is probably a thirty-count case of two-ply jumbo paper towels from the Costco on Tamiami Trail.
But then I thought, Would I really?
The problem was, I didn’t know for sure what in the world I would say. It was still anybody’s guess what had actually happened, so the idea of calling the Kellers up and worrying them about it seemed pointless. And even if Paco’s theory was right and I really had been attacked, there wasn’t much they could do about it now … and Mrs. Keller already seemed pretty stressed out as it was.
With everything that had happened since that morning, my mind felt about as mushy as a bowl of cold oatmeal, and now, with Ethan’s news about Levi’s father, a heavy cloud of fog was banking up in my head. All I wanted to do was crawl back under the covers and stay there until nightfall. I hadn’t even started my afternoon rounds yet, and the day already felt like it had lasted a century.
I decided for the time being I’d just leave the Kellers alone and let them enjoy their vacation, at least until I knew for certain what had happened. Plus, I figured what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.
I wish I could have said the same thing for myself.
17
Some folks make the mistake of assuming that because cats in the wild hunt alone, it necessarily follows that all cats are loners, that they couldn’t care less about people, and that the only reason they pretend to be even halfway interested in the human race is because of the warmth, comfort, and kibble we provide. Well, anybody who’s ever shacked up with a cat knows that’s a bunch of baloney. Cats may hunt alone, but in the wild they live in colonies with social hierarchies as complex and intricate as a daytime soap opera. They thrive on attention and love and companionship every bit as much as dogs … they’re just a little more discreet about it.
Fortunately for me, Lizette had been more than happy to hang out with Barney Feldman and serve him dinner. And even though I was in a complete soporific daze after talking to Ethan (in fact, I was lucky I hadn’t walked out of the house with the bedsheet still draped around me like a toga) I managed to move through my afternoon clients at record speed, with a promise to each and every one of them that I’d make it up next time with some special treats and an extra helping of TLC. I was back home and curled up under the covers not long after the sun went down.
When I woke the next morning, I let myself lie there for longer than I normally would and enjoyed a few blissful moments of stupid, watching the stars twinkle in the window. Gradually, though, as the stars faded with the morning light, everything that had happened the day before started trickling back into my consciousness.
I thought of Mona, and the strange look on her face right after she’d woken up outside Levi’s trailer. At first I’d thought it was a look of triumph, that flash in her eyes. It made me think of a panhandler who’s just discovered gold. Then, when she ran screaming across the yard toward the ambulance, I’d thought exactly what Sergeant Owens had later confirmed: That the poor thing was convinced I was responsible for Levi’s death and that she’d caught me red-handed.
But now, seeing her face floating above me, I wondered …
There was something more. It was a darkness, almost as if the pupils of her eyes were fully dilated even in the bright sunlight—two bottomless pits of black. It was a look I’d seen before, and I felt something shift in my chest, as if m
y sternum had collapsed slightly like a house sitting on a sinkhole, and for a split second a wave of unsteadiness washed over me, a kind of hopelessness I hadn’t felt in a very long time.
Without another moment’s thought, I jumped out of bed and rushed into the bathroom. I splashed my face with water so cold it made my heart race. Then I ran into the closet and got dressed as quickly as possible. I wear the same outfit every day: khaki shorts and a white sleeveless tee. I’m thankful for my measly wardrobe on days like this, when I feel a little wonky. It just means getting dressed doesn’t involve a whole lot of thinking. The only decision to make is which shoes to wear, and even that’s completely streamlined.
Everybody who knows me knows I won’t tolerate ratty shoes, so I keep a rotating supply of at least seven identical pairs of white sneakers—all Keds. I’m on my feet all day long, and my shoes get a lot more mileage than most, so I don’t wear a single pair more than a couple of days before I throw them in the washer with a little bleach thrown in. Once they get even the slightest bit ragged around the edges they go straight in the “Old Shoes Bag,” a cleverly named canvas tote that I keep hanging on the doorknob inside the closet.
When it’s filled up, I take the whole thing over to the charity bin in the parking lot outside the post office and start all over with some brand-new ones.
The sun was just coming up over the treetops to the east, and the air was a good ten degrees cooler, which was a good thing, since it meant the drive to town would be more dappled shade than broiling heat wave. I put the windows down and left my sunglasses tucked in the sun visor over the passenger seat, and as I pulled out on Midnight Pass Road, I breathed a sigh of relief.
I felt like I’d just narrowly avoided lying in bed all day with the covers pulled over my head.
* * *
I always keep my hair tied back when I’m working, mainly because it’s cleaner for mucking out cat boxes or snapping leashes on tongue-wagging dogs, but also because I like to think it makes me look more professional. Usually I tie it up in a ponytail with a scrunchie—that is, if I haven’t used all my scrunchies for cat toys—but driving into town I realized I’d been in such a hurry to get out of the house that I’d forgotten. My hair was whipping around like one of those spinning mops in a drive-through car wash.
I didn’t care.
My eyes were fixed on the road, and with the cooler air I felt a little more clear-headed. In fact, I felt like Ella on the prowl—fully focused on something up ahead and just beyond my reach … something taunting me … teasing me.
I knew it couldn’t be a coincidence—that three weeks ago Levi’s father had committed suicide and now someone had murdered Levi. Even if Levi’s dad had been a penniless beach bum, the proximity of their deaths would have raised all sorts of questions and suspicions.
It gave me a sick, nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach to know that somewhere, maybe in the car passing me now, or in any one of these darkened houses with the curtains drawn, was the person who had killed Levi, the person who had decided that, for whatever reason, Levi’s life wasn’t worth a hill of beans …
And then it hit me: a terrible thought, one that might possibly have been subconsciously percolating in my mind all night long.
When I’d left for work the previous morning, if it had indeed been Levi parked outside my driveway, I wondered what would have happened if I’d gotten to him just a little bit earlier … if I’d been just a little quicker getting my bike out … if I’d caught up with him before he pulled away?
I’ve never been a big believer in the whole idea of fate or destiny. I like to think we all have control of our lives, that we’re more than just puppets, with our every move predetermined by some kind of cosmic string system and our futures all laid out in advance by the powers that be—but unfortunately, if that’s true, there’s a flip side.
It means every action, every thought, every single decision we make has the potential to utterly change the world. If I had caught up with Levi that morning, if we had talked even for just a minute, who knows what would have happened after? Would that have been enough to interrupt the momentum of his day, enough to break up the chain of events that was ahead, the chain of events that led to his death?
I shook my head, like trying to shake the last penny out of a piggy bank. I told myself there was no point dwelling on what had happened. Levi was gone, and nothing could change that. And now, with Ethan’s files and Levi’s father’s will as a guide, I knew it was only a matter of time before Detective McKenzie tracked down whoever was responsible for his death.
I gave myself a little nod in the rearview mirror. I knew it wouldn’t be easy to forget what I’d seen the day before … the image of Levi lying there, his face frozen in alarm like one of Mrs. Keller’s masks, but all I could do was keep my head down and forge ahead.
No problemo, I thought.
If there was an Olympic event for avoiding unpleasant memories I’d have a whole display case chock-full of gold medals.
And the secret to my success?
Routine …
18
Tom Hale lives in an old Art Deco building called the Sea Breeze, which is fitting since it sits right on the edge of the Gulf about a half mile before the center of town. It’s painted a light shade of Florida-pink, and all the outward-facing apartments have balconies with curved stucco roofs over them. From a distance, the whole thing looks like a giant pink honeycomb, or maybe one of those old Pueblo villages built into the side of a desert cliff.
In exchange for his handling my taxes and anything else having to do with finances, I give Tom’s retired racing greyhound, Billy Elliot, a couple of good outings every day. It works out well for both of us, since I’m terrible with money, and Tom uses a wheelchair so walking Billy isn’t easy.
The building was recently given a face-lift. Not only did they put in new revolving glass doors and a security camera, they completely remodeled the lobby. It used to feel a little scruffy around the edges, but now the floor is all polished pebble, and there’s a big chandelier in the center dripping with crystals that sparkle like pink rosé. Giant copper urns with baby palms and arcing ficus trees are grouped here and there in lush arrangements, and the walls are all mirrored from floor to ceiling.
The elevator is mirrored, too, with a thick Chinese-red carpet and strips of tiny amber lights in the corners. It sort of feels like a movie star’s dressing room. As the doors closed with a quiet whoosh, I came face-to-face with myself in the mirror and whispered, “Oh, dear.”
I’m used to being a little surprised. Most days I’m up and out of the house so fast that Tom’s elevator is the first chance I get to see myself. If I’ve taken the time to put on makeup, which I do a little more often now that Ethan’s around, nine times out of ten I do it blindly over my closet desk as I check my notes for the day. Usually I’ll find a little smeared mascara or a smudge of lip gloss riding up my lip like the remains of a burst chewing-gum bubble, but this was different. I couldn’t see the bump on my head at all, but that was because the wind had blown my hair into a complete frenzy. I looked like I’d been given a makeover by a team of juvenile delinquent squirrels with attention deficit disorder.
Just then, the doors slid open to reveal a woman in her late twenties, with beautiful olive skin, brown eyes, and long hair so thick and shiny it looked like a dark river of chocolate spilling over her shoulders. She had an odd look on her face, almost like she was surprised to find anybody else in the elevator, but then I realized she was waiting for me to come out. I was about to tell her this wasn’t my floor when I saw the big pink chandelier hanging in the lobby behind her.
I said, “Oh, no! I was so busy admiring myself in the mirror I forgot what I was doing. I’m going up.”
The woman nodded curtly and stepped in, pressing the button for the ninth floor as the doors closed. We were standing side by side now, and in the reflection of the mirror I noticed her necklace. It was a small Catholic cross, beautifully
carved from luminous sea-green stone, perhaps jade, except it had a soft bluish hue I’d never seen before. It was about an inch tall, set in an exquisitely thin silver bezel and hanging just below her throat on a braided silver chain.
Right about the time I realized I was basically staring at her, she glanced down at her feet and then at me, which I realized was her subtle way of signaling I still hadn’t selected a floor.
“Wow. I’m such a dummy.”
I leaned forward and pressed the twelfth-floor button. The woman stretched her lips into a thin forgiving smile, narrowing her eyes slightly, as if she could barely stand another moment alone in this tiny space next to me.
She was wearing a silk floor-length skirt, dark navy blue, with a high waist, wide belt, and an open-lapeled silk jacket the color of newly fallen snow. I knew right away it was something nice. It had that kind of polished edge that only fancy clothes have, the kind of expensive ensembles they hang in the windows of the tonier shops downtown, the kind I usually walk by with my gaze fixed straight ahead, like a horse with blinders.
I suppressed the urge to ask where she’d bought it. I had the distinct feeling she wasn’t in the mood for small talk. She was standing perfectly erect with her shoulders back and her long neck straight, her cold brown eyes directed forward and focused on nothing, like she was the only person in the universe. I stood up straight and stared at the mirror, copying her icy gaze, and thought, All right. Two can play this game.
I think it’s fair to say, standing there next to her in my work clothes with a wind-teased squirrel’s nest on my head and the occasional cat hair clinging here and there, that I looked not unlike a homeless runaway, or maybe the love child of Donald Trump and a long-haired alpaca.
I reached down into one of the side pockets of my backpack and felt around for a hair band, luckily finding one right away, and forced my hair back in a ponytail. As I snapped it in place, I realized it looked exactly like one of Levi’s green rubber bands, the ones he used to tie around the morning paper.
The Cat Sitter's Whiskers Page 11
