The Cat Sitter's Nine Lives (23 page)

He turned his head to the window but watched me out of the corner of his eye. “Right.”

I took a deep breath. “Anyway, let’s change the subject. Are we still on for tonight?”

“I’m on if you’re on, but you’ve had a rough couple of days. Maybe it would be better if we stayed home tonight?”

It actually seemed like a good idea, but I didn’t want to be a party pooper.

I shook my head. “No, no, I’ll be fine. But Ethan, listen…”

He raised an eyebrow.

I said, “I have an admission to make. I didn’t open that letter yet. I know I said I would, but I was so beat when I got in last night. I didn’t even brush my teeth. I just went straight to bed.”

I started to pull it out of my back pocket, but he shook his head. “No, it’s not my place to say whether you should open that letter or not. That’s between you and Guidry. Believe me, I totally get it. All I want to do tonight is have dinner and hang out and stuff.”

“Stuff?”

He grinned. “Yeah, you know … fun stuff.”

As I looked into his dreamy brown eyes, I took a bite of Tanisha’s bacon. It really was a toss-up. The bacon was mighty tasty, but …

He looked around and then leaned closer to me. “Hey, I shouldn’t tell you this, but I was talking to a guy I know in the DA’s office. The cops ID’d your friend.”

“What friend?”

“That guy in the car accident.”

“Mr. Vladim?”

He shushed me. “Yeah. They took fingerprints and ran them through the national database. He’s a bank robber.”

I gasped. “A what!”

“Yep. A Russian bank robber. He and his wife have been on the run for more than a year. They came here a couple of years ago and then found out their kid had cancer. Apparently they didn’t have money or health insurance, so they went on a tear from one end of Florida to the other, holding up small-town banks to pay for the treatments.”

I shook my head. “That is truly, truly terrible.”

“I know. Can you imagine? Sick kid, no insurance, no money, no friends…”

“That poor man. So where’s his wife?”

“Nobody knows. And he’s not talking.”

I shook my head. “Who knew people still robbed banks? I thought that just happened in the movies.”

He reached for a piece of bacon, but I swatted his hand away. “It happens more than you’d think. Banks get robbed all the time. I think it’s mostly small stuff, but your friend and his wife racked up a ton of cash, which I guess they just handed right over to the doctors—they’re like the Russian Bonnie and Clyde. But look, don’t tell anybody. They’re keeping it under wraps until they find his wife. They figure she has to be somewhere nearby.”

I shook my head. “Ugh. I hope they never find her.”

“Yeah. You and me both. But hey, look on the bright side. You saved the guy’s life. And maybe you’ll get a big reward for catching him.” He picked up his briefcase and winked at me. “You’re … I mean, we’re rich.”

I rolled my eyes. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

He bent down and kissed my forehead. “I’ll work on it.”

As he strolled out, all the other women in the diner, Judy included, craned their necks and practically sighed out loud as he walked by. I probably would have done the same thing except that with what he’d just told me about Baldy, I felt like I’d been hit over the head with a rolling pin.

I looked down and thought,
Really? A Russian bank robber?

There was a tiny crumb of bacon left on my plate, sitting all by itself. I picked it up between my thumb and forefinger, and right before I popped it in my mouth, I said, “Huh.”

*   *   *

When I was done with my afternoon rounds, I pulled into the parking lot at Siesta Key Beach. I figured I had avoided calling Mrs. Silverthorn long enough and it was time to bite the bullet. I sat there with the engine idling quietly and watched the gulls play in the waves while I tried to figure out what to say to her.

I had decided that it wasn’t my responsibility to tell her about Mr. Hoskins. If she didn’t already know about it, I would keep that part to myself. Anyway, I knew Detective McKenzie was probably planning on talking to her. She was Mr. Hoskins’s landlord. It was entirely possible that she might know things about Mr. Hoskins that no one else did.

As for Cosmo, I decided I’d just tell her exactly what Butch the Butcher had told me, that someone had found an orange cat in the alley, and that I couldn’t be sure it was him yet. I’d promise her I’d keep asking around and let her know if I learned more.

I was half hoping she wouldn’t pick up and I could just leave a message, but by the tenth ring I realized she probably didn’t even have an answering machine. For a split second it put a tiny smile on my face. I’ve spent most of my adult life avoiding electronic gadgets like the plague, but Mrs. Silverthorn was clearly way more old-school than I.

I was just about to hang up when a woman answered with a breathless “Good afternoon. The Silverthorn residence.”

I said, “Oh … Mrs. Silverthorn?”

“No, this is Janet. Who may I say is calling?”

I knew it wasn’t Janet. I recognized Mrs. Silverthorn’s voice immediately, even though she seemed completely out of breath. I pictured her running from one end of the mansion to the other to get to the phone in time. Why she was pretending to be Janet I had no idea, but I figured I’d just play along.

I said, “Oh, hi, Janet, this is Dixie Hemingway.”

She said curtly, “Please hold,” and then there was a short pause and a shuffling sound, followed by a whispered “Dixie, I can’t talk to you right now.”

I said, “Oh, I was just calling about Cosmo.”

She said, “My—” and then stopped herself. It suddenly occurred to me that she wasn’t out of breath at all. She was crying.

I said, “Mrs. Silverthorn, are you okay?”

She said, “I’ve just been speaking with an unfortunately bland woman from the sheriff’s department.”

I said, “You mean Detective McKenzie?”

“Yes. Wretched woman. Horribly dull. And oh, my dear, how horrible for you. I just can’t imagine…” Her voice trailed away, and then there was a muffled sob.

“Mrs. Silverthorn, I’m so sorry. Were you close to Mr. Hoskins?”

She took a deep breath. “Oh, darling, it’s too late now. No use crying over spilt milk, as they say, but I’m afraid there’s still the matter of Moses Cosmo Thornwall and your payment. Come to the house this afternoon for tea—four o’clock. I’ll be better by then. And I’ll let Mr. Silverthorn know you’re coming so he can write a check for your efforts so far.”

“Mrs. Silverthorn, I—”

But she’d already hung up.

I sat staring out at the beach. There was a group of girls hitting a volleyball back and forth on one of the courts set up in the sand and a gaggle of boys in board shorts cheering them on. Just beyond the court was an elderly couple in big straw sunhats, pulling an ice chest behind them and making their way down to the water’s edge. I closed my eyes and shook my head.

Poor Mrs. Silverthorn. I hated hearing her cry. She seemed like such a strong woman, but I knew what she was thinking. The thought of Cosmo, scared and alone, guarding the body of his dead owner … it was enough to make me cry, too.

I tried not to think about it. If anything, it made me want to work harder to find Cosmo. I decided I wouldn’t give up no matter what. I’d keep searching the neighborhood and asking questions and putting up signs until I could either deliver him directly into Mrs. Silverthorn’s arms or assure her without a doubt that he had found a good home and was being taken care of.

For the rest of the afternoon, I did my best to stay positive. I thought about Tanisha again and forced myself to smile as I finished up my rounds for the day. It actually worked, at least until I opened the front door at Meg Kerry’s house on Oxford Drive. Sammy, her bluepoint Siamese, was waiting in the hall, paws spread and tail twitching. He took one look at me and hissed.

He wasn’t buying my fake smile for a second.

I didn’t take it personally, though. In fact, that’s one of the best things about cats. They don’t walk around pretending to be something they’re not—they just tell it like it is. A cat will never betray you. It might scratch you, it might bite you, it might pee in your suitcase, but it will never look you straight in the eye and lie to you.

That’s more than I can say for most humans—in fact, if you’ve got a friend as faithful as a cat, you should thank your lucky stars.

22

When I stepped out of the elevator on the sixth floor, Cora was waiting for me down at the end of the hall in front of her apartment door. She held one freckled arm high over her head and waved excitedly. She’s not much taller than five feet, with a little wisp of cottony silver hair that floats on top of her head like an afterthought, and glittery blue eyes that never fail to put me in a good mood. She was wearing a pale pink housedress with a scooping neckline, and white fluffy house shoes with puffballs on the toes.

The way we came to be friends is a long story—her granddaughter was a client—but except for the very negligible genetic factor, she feels more like a sister to me than anything else, and I like to think she feels the same about me. I always stop by Cora’s whenever I feel my batteries need a little recharging, which these days is at least once a week, sometimes more. Plus there was the little matter of Guidry’s letter, and Cora was the best person on earth to give me advice in that department. She may look like a sweet little old lady, but she’s sharp as a tack and doesn’t pussyfoot around.

As I came down the hallway, she was teetering on her toes and grinning from ear to ear, which she always does, but this time I was particularly happy to see it. Just a few weeks before, I’d gotten a call from Vickie, the concierge in the lobby at Cora’s building. She had called to let me know that they’d taken Cora to the hospital for heart palpitations. I was already racing down the stairs when she said Cora was back home and doing fine. At first I considered driving over to Cora’s building and wringing Vickie’s neck for not having called me sooner, but of course it wasn’t her fault. If anyone needed a good neck-wringing it was Cora. If I get so much as a mosquito bite everybody hears about it, but Cora is a card-holding member of the stoic, suffer-in-silence generation.

She told me later she hadn’t called me because she didn’t want anyone to make a fuss or worry about her, which I couldn’t very well argue with since it sounded exactly like something I’d do myself. Even so, I made her promise that in the future, if she didn’t want my wrath raining down on her like a plague of sand fleas, she’d call me right away if anything like that ever happened again.

Most people would think that given the fifty-year difference in our ages we wouldn’t have much in common, but they’d be wrong. I wouldn’t be the relatively sane person standing before you now if it weren’t for her.

She was practically beaming at me. “Oh my goodness, dear, you look pretty as a picture.”

I said, “Ha. You’re just saying that because you know I have goodies for you.”

She held the apartment door open with one skinny arm. “Well, you’re right about that. I’ve got you nicely trained, don’t I? All I have to do is tell you how pretty you are, and you show up with all kinds of treats.”

On the way over I had stopped by the market and grabbed some of Cora’s favorites—chicken noodle soup, a big fat slice of cornbread, and a fruit salad with fresh sliced kiwi, strawberries, and mango, plus other sundry supplies for the week. While Cora shuffled in behind me, I unpacked everything on the kitchen counter and put the soup in the refrigerator.

Cora’s apartment is bright and cheery, with pale pink tile floors and walls a slightly deeper shade of coral. To the left is a small galley kitchen behind a bar with folding louvered doors to close it off, and to the right through an arched doorway is a modest bedroom. The living room has a marble-topped coffee table, with a sofa covered in fern green linen and two pink chintz armchairs that nobody ever sits in. Instead, there’s a little ice cream table with two chairs in front of the sliding glass doors, which open up to a narrow sun porch overlooking the bay and spilling over with potted plants and cooking herbs.

Cora said, “I’m so glad you’re here. There’s hot tea, and I made a little surprise for you.”

The “surprise” was Cora’s world-famous chocolate bread, which I know for a fact she makes every single day whether I show up or not. When I first met her, she only made it about once a week, but demand was so high now with all her friends in the building that she’d been forced to step up production.

The recipe is top secret. All I know is that she makes it in the bread machine her daughter gave her for Christmas one year, and she could probably make it in her sleep. At some point in the middle of the baking process, she opens up the top of the bread machine and pours in a cup of semisweet chocolate chips. The result is a deliciously crusty bread, with chewy rivers of rich, creamy chocolate running through every slice. It’s scrumptious fresh and it’s scrumptious a week later cold from the refrigerator, but Cora serves it the best way possible: Fresh out of the oven, torn off in steaming chunks and slathered with melting butter.

As she laid the tea tray down on the ice cream table, I took one bite and closed my eyes, drifting off into a state of heavenly bliss. I saw a vision of frolicking kittens flying across a star-filled sky, leaving behind a trail of rainbows and unicorns. It was that good.

Cora sat down across from me and said, “Sometimes I wonder if I stopped making that chocolate bread if I’d ever see you again.”

I nodded, my mouth full of buttery chocolate goodness. “You probably wouldn’t. I’d head right over to the Lido Key Bridge and jump right off. I don’t think I could bear a world without your chocolate bread.”

“So, tell me all about that beau of yours.”

“Cora, don’t say ‘beau.’ It makes you sound like an old lady.”

“Well, I am an old lady. What do you want me to say? How is that
dude
of yours?”

I pulled Guidry’s letter out and plopped it down on the table between us.

“What’s that?”