The Cat Sitter's Nine Lives (15 page)

I looked up and down the alley. There were potholes here and there, still filled with rainwater from the day before, and I figured I might be able to see some paw prints around one of them, and perhaps even compare them to my memory of what the bloody prints across the counter had looked like. It was a long shot, but it couldn’t hurt to try.

Just then there was a quiet click somewhere behind me. I jerked my head toward the sound and saw something move in the small window in the back door of the butcher shop. Then the door swung open and filled the alley with light, and framed in the doorway was the silhouette of a man, tall and bulky, wearing an apron and boots with a bulging bag slung over his shoulder. The tip of his cigarette glowed red as he took a drag, and then he flicked it into the alley, where it landed in a shallow puddle and fizzled out with a hiss just a few feet away from me.

I don’t know why, but my first instinct was to scream. Luckily I gulped it back down my throat and slinked around to the dark side of the Dumpsters as the man lumbered down the steps off the back door. He raised the lid of the one I’d just been poking through. Then there was silence.

My heart bumped around in my chest like a raccoon trying to get out of a pillowcase. It felt like an eternity, but it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. I considered revealing myself and tried to come up with a reasonable explanation as to why I was out here rifling through his garbage in the dark. It’s not like I was doing anything illegal, at least I didn’t think I was, but I’d already hidden and now it was too late. I couldn’t very well just poke my head over the back of the Dumpster and chirp, “Top of the mornin’ to ya!”

Luckily I didn’t need to. He mumbled something under his breath and then heaved the trash bag onto the pile and let the lid fall back. Then his footsteps went back up the stairs to the door. There was another clicking sound, and then the door closed and the alley went dark again.

I took a deep breath and let out a long, quivering sigh that ended with a quiet “Oh my God.” Sometimes I open my eyes and look around and think to myself,
How in the hell did I end up here?
This was one of those moments, but I didn’t care. I was determined to find that cat.

I checked up and down the alley to see if the coast was clear and then clicked my penlight back on and stepped around the Dumpsters toward one of the water-filled potholes.

“What the f—”

This time I did scream. Well, not really a scream. It was more like a high-pitched
whaaack!
—a cross between a newborn’s first cry and the mating call of a pterodactyl. It surprised me even as it came out of my own throat. The man was standing on the landing outside the door, with a freshly lit cigarette in one hand, his feet shoulder width apart, like a man about to start a bar fight.

“Jesus Christ, lady, you nearly gave me a heart attack!”

I backed away from him with both hands over my chest. “I am so sorry, I didn’t see you.”

“You didn’t see me? What the hell are you doing back here?”

I pointed up and down the alley. “I’m looking for a lost cat. I thought he might be rummaging around back here.”

He glanced at the Dumpsters and then came down the steps toward me.

The sky was getting a little lighter, and now I could see the man more clearly. He was at least six feet tall, with unruly ringlets of black hair on his head that made him seem even taller. He was wearing jeans tucked into black rubber boots, with a tank top stretched over his rounded shoulders, and a white apron smeared with grease and bloodstains. He had puffy cheeks and a mustache, which I figured he grew to help hide his baby face.

“Hey, ain’t you the lady that helped that guy in the car crash the other day?”

I nodded.

“Yeah, I seen you gettin’ in your car with all that blood on your clothes. I told those cops you probably murdered that old guy from the bookstore. I guess I owe you an apology or something.”

I managed a smile and stuck my hand out. “I’m Dixie.”

He just waved at me. “Yeah, you don’t wanna shake my hand. I’m Butch. This is my shop. Well, my old man’s shop, but now it’s mine.”

I said, “So … you’re Butch the Butcher?”

He grinned. “In the flesh. Nice to meet you.” He made little quotation marks with his fingers. “
Meat
you. Get it?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry I scared you.”

“Hey, we scared each other. No problemo!”

I cringed. In my experience, whenever people say “no problemo” and they’re not speaking Spanish, it usually means they’re speaking another language: Blowhard. He folded his arms over his chest, which by the way looked like two big slabs of meat.

“Hey, I seen a cat a little while ago.”

“You did? What kind of cat?”

“Too dark to tell, but big. Light color. He went running off that way.” He tipped his chin toward the bookstore.

I said, “It’s actually Mr. Hoskins’s cat I’m looking for.”

He looked me up and down. “Oh yeah? Hey, you wanna give me your number or something? I mean, you know, just in case I see your cat?”

I probably should have, but something told me it wasn’t a good idea. Maybe it was the blood on his apron, or the way he was leering at me as if I were a cow that needed processing.

I stammered, “Well, I’m in the neighborhood a lot, so…”

“Oh, you live around here?”

“Yeah, I mean, I work around here, so I’ll just check in with you again. I’m sure he’s around here somewhere.”

He shrugged. “Yeah, sure. I’ll ask around. What’s he look like?”

I said, “I’m sure you’ve seen him. He likes to sleep in the window of the bookstore.”

“Yeah, you probably can’t tell from lookin’ at me, but I don’t spend a lot of time hangin’ around bookstores.”

“Oh. Well, he’s orange and fluffy, with a patch of white at the tip of his tail, and he’s kind of big.”

“Well, he was definitely a big fella. I’ll keep my eyes open.”

He gave a little wave with one of his meaty hands and said, “Good luck,” and then lumbered back toward the shop. When he got to the top of the stairs he lit another cigarette and then disappeared inside.

I made my way down the rest of the alley, inspecting each rain puddle as I went, but there were no cat prints, at least none that I could make out. There were a couple of barrel-sized trash cans behind the bookstore, but I didn’t even look inside them. They both had metal lids, and I knew even a cat as big as Cosmo couldn’t lift them up. I doubted he’d have been able to find anything worth eating in them anyway.

It was getting late, so I figured I’d better get on with my day, but at least now there was hope. As I made my way back to the car I had a pretty good feeling about my chances. If the cat that Butch the Butcher had seen actually was Cosmo, then that meant he was hanging around the bookstore—hoping like everybody else that Mr. Hoskins would come home soon. I hoped he didn’t have too long a wait.

Morning was in full force now, and there was a little more activity on the street as I put the Bronco in gear and rolled out onto Ocean. The sparrows and snowy egrets were out again, pecking around in the gutters and under the tables at Amber Jack’s, and a couple of young, skinny girls in tank tops and short shorts were jogging up the sidewalk. It wasn’t until they went by that I realized they weren’t young, skinny girls at all. They were old, skinny girls with kick-ass bodies.

It made me smile. Just like there was hope for Cosmo, there was hope for me. I figured if I stopped lying around in a hammock eating frozen pizza, maybe one day I could be an old, skinny girl with a kick-ass body, too.

14

One of the perks of getting out early every morning is that I get to see the sun come up. A gobsmackingly glorious sunrise at the start of the day is practically a daily event around here, and every one of them is absolutely free of charge. Some of the full-timers, folks who don’t retreat to the North in the dead of summer, barely even notice them anymore, but I always stop whatever I’m doing and take them in. I’d hate to think I’d gotten so jaded that I didn’t recognize a gift from heaven when it was staring me right in the face.

As I turned off Ocean Boulevard and made my way toward the east side of the Key, the sun had finally come over the horizon, and the sky was ablaze with undulating streaks of deep rose and amber. It was the kind of sunrise that needs to be photographed, the kind that practically begs you to pull out your cell phone and capture its magnificent beauty for the benefit of generations to come—but it didn’t fool me. I’ve learned the hard way that it’s only when you take a picture and look at it later that you realize it’s all an elaborate trick. The true glory of a sunrise is that it’s fleeting. Try to freeze it in time, and the very core of its beauty is lost.

I wondered if Butch the Butcher was still standing at the back door of his shop and admiring the same sunrise. I doubted it. He didn’t seem the type to goonily wonder at the morning sky and wax poetic about beauty. The image of his bloodstained apron sprang into view, and a cold shudder went down my spine. The thought of having to wake up at the crack of dawn and hack away at slabs of raw meat all day long …
Ick,
I thought to myself. No thanks. I’ll take dirty litter boxes and fur balls over that bloody job any day of the week.

My last stop of the morning was Betty and Grace Piker, two retired sisters who live alone on Treasure Boat Way in a neatly appointed, low-slung bungalow with stucco walls painted the palest shade of turquoise and a sloping roof covered in terra-cotta barrel tiles, laid out in neat rows and painted pure white to reflect the sun’s heat back up into the sky. There’s not a single blade of grass in sight. Instead, the yard is a sea of tiny white pebbles, with little islands of arcing palms and broad-leaf philodendrons poking up here and there. Making my way up the driveway, the combined glare off the roof and the white-pebbled lawn was so bright I had to put on my sunglasses just to see where I was going.

As I slid my key into the lock I smiled quietly to myself, imagining what was waiting for me on the other side of the door. The Piker sisters have a long-standing agreement with each other. If one finds a stray cat and wants to bring it home, the other must stop her—using whatever means necessary, including physical force. They have eight cats, all rescues.

The latest addition was a petite tuxedo cat that Betty had found shivering in the toolshed just behind their house. She was all black except for a white splash on her chest and four white mittens on her paws. They’d named her Stevie, after Betty’s favorite poet, Stevie Smith, and it wasn’t long before they felt like she’d been a central part of their lives for years.

When I opened the door there was a soft-pawed stampede that came from somewhere in the back of the house and straight down the front hall, and then I was so busy giving out kisses and scratching ears that at first I didn’t even notice there were only seven cats vying for my attention instead of eight. I looked up to find Stevie waiting patiently just beyond the fray, with a look on her face that said, “I’ll say hello when you’re done with all the riffraff.”

I’ve heard people say that black-and-white cats are smarter than other cats. I’m not so sure. Every cat I know is smart in its own particular way, but one thing is certain: Betty and Grace were instantly impressed with Stevie’s talents. For one, if you toss a crumpled-up piece of paper across the room, she’ll come trotting back with it in her mouth, dutifully drop it at your feet, and then stand there with her tail twitching, waiting for you to throw it again. Even more impressive, she responds to all kinds of commands: sit, stay, lie down, roll over. Dogs are big show-offs at heart, but most cats wouldn’t be caught dead participating in such vulgar displays of subservience to humans. For a while Betty and Grace even thought she might be a runaway circus cat, but no one at Ringling reported anyone missing, so Stevie had been welcomed into the family with open paws.

Now, having eight cats is mostly eight times the wonderful of having one cat, but there are a few disadvantages. For one, I can’t even imagine what Betty and Grace must spend on cat food—not to mention kitty litter—and then there’s the boundless supply of cat hair. They go through a package of vacuum cleaner bags at least once a week. Of course, none of that outweighs the one big advantage: There’s a lot of joy in the Piker house, and the cats couldn’t be happier. There’s never a lack of playmates, so they never get bored, and the backyard is completely screened in, so they have free run of the garden. There’s even a small pond in the back, so sometimes I’ll find all eight cats lined up at the pond’s edge, watching in utter rapture as the goldfish and koi swim around in slow, wary circles.

I served breakfast in eight identical bowls, conducted eight beauty makeovers with a fine-bristled cat brush, and then did a quick walk-through of the house for any kitty damage. Surprisingly, everything was in order. I wondered if perhaps Stevie wasn’t patrolling the house when Betty and Grace were away, making sure everyone behaved in a respectable manner. When I left, they were all in a pile on the sofa in the screened-in front porch and sound asleep, all except Stevie, who winked slowly at me as if to say, “Thanks, I’ll take it from here.”

I’m always in a good mood when I leave the Piker house, but as I opened the door to the Bronco I made the mistake of glancing at my watch. It was 11:45
A.M.

I slumped into the driver’s seat and put my forehead down on top of the steering wheel. McKenzie was expecting me at the sheriff’s station at noon. I’d almost forgotten, and now I really didn’t want to go. The thought of being back in that station made my stomach ball up in a knot. Why in the world had I agreed to meet her there? What could she possibly have to tell me that required a face-to-face meeting?

I put the car in gear and rolled out of the driveway and down the street, remembering the very first time I’d met Detective McKenzie. It was at a crime scene, another one of those times when I managed to situate myself in the wrong place at the wrong time, right after she’d taken over as lead homicide detective. She’d been hammering me with questions about what had happened and what I’d seen, and then out of the blue she looked me squarely in the eye and said, “I was with the FBI for twenty-five years. My husband was murdered nine years ago. I have a sixteen-year-old daughter. Her name is Eva.”