The Cat Sitter's Nine Lives (7 page)

“Okay, I get it. Yeah, I would not have enjoyed that. Thanks for sparing me.”

“You’re welcome. And for the record, the truck didn’t hit him. He hit the truck. I was coming down Ocean from my last client, I was on my way to the bookstore, and he was tailgating and weaving in and out of the road. So I pulled over and let him go by.”

Paco said, “That was mature of you. Nothing annoys me more. People don’t understand you shouldn’t be closer than one car length for every ten miles per hour you’re traveling. And they’re not just putting you in danger, they’re putting themselves and everybody else in danger, too.”

I said, “I know, but this guy was in a hurry. I don’t think safety was very high on his priority list at that point.”

Ethan said, “Was he local?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know, but I doubt it. By the time I got to him he was barely conscious, and he didn’t have any ID. They put him in the ambulance, and that’s the last I saw of him.”

Paco sighed. “I wonder if he made it.”

We all sat there in silence for a few moments. I didn’t want to say, but suddenly the way Baldy had looked up at me when he was lying there on the sidewalk made me less than hopeful about his chances—that serene smile on his face, almost as if he were at peace …

Michael was peering at me across the table. “Wait a minute. What happened to your lip?”

I said, “Oh, it’s fine. I bit it when the girl rear-ended me.”

He put his elbows on the table and cradled his head in his hands. “Oh my God. What girl?”

I sighed. “Oops. Yeah, I forgot that part. The head-on caused a pile-up. I slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting the car in front of me, but the girl driving behind was on her phone, so she was a little slow on the uptake. But Michael, she barely tapped me. I mean, the Bronco only flew forward like maybe a foot.”

He let out a little groan.

“And my neck is kind of sore…”

He groaned again and said, “Let’s just change the subject.”

I nodded vigorously. “Okay, okay. Let’s change the subject.”

I looked at Paco and Ethan, but they weren’t any help, so in my most cheerful voice I said, “Oh, while I was waiting for the street to open back up I found a really cool book at the bookstore. You’re gonna love it.”

Still cradling his head in his hands, Michael peered at me through his fingers. “You pulled a bloody man out of a burning car and then went to the bookstore?”

“Well, it was right there, so…”

Paco said, “Umm, didn’t they wonder about the bloodstains all over your clothes?”

Ethan raised a finger in the air. “Yeah, that’s where I come in.”

I said, “Ethan had left one of his old hoodies in the back—”

Ethan interrupted. “Well, it wasn’t
that
old—”

“So I covered up with that before I went in.”

Ella Fitzgerald was curled up on one of the chaise lounges watching us intently. I swiveled around toward her and said, “Oh, and Ella, the man that owns the bookstore has a very handsome orange tabby named Cosmo. Maybe you’ll meet him one day.”

I always like to include Ella in the conversation. She hopped off the chaise and came padding over to the table. I’d prefer to think she was fascinated with my line of conversation and the prospect of making a new friend, but I think she was more interested in the grilled fish than anything else. She hopped up on her appointed chair and said,
“Thrrrip?”

Michael said, “You’re not telling me Mr. Beezy is still there, are you?”

I shook my head. “No, he passed away years ago.”

“That’s too bad. I remember that old guy. He was cool.”

“Michael, you wouldn’t believe it—the store looks exactly the same as it did thirty years ago.”

Ethan reached over and gave Ella a couple of scratches under her chin. “It’s looked the same forever. That whole section of the street does. It’s all still owned by the same family that originally built it.”

Paco said, “You mean the Silverthorns?”

Ethan nodded. “Believe it or not. I know because my grandfather did some work for the Silverthorn family, and we still handle all the business permits and rental agreements for those shops along there.”

I’d never known any of the Silverthorns personally, but I had grown up hearing the name, and I certainly knew the Silverthorn Mansion. It was one of the last remnants of old Siesta Key, when wealthy land barons had bought up most of the beachfront property and built summer homes here.

The Silverthorn Mansion was at the bottom of the Key, at the end of a long, narrow strip of sandy soil that now forms the southern part of Midnight Pass. The story is that it had originally stood in the center of a vast country estate in England, and that Mrs. Silverthorn, heir to her family’s vast railroad empire, had it dismantled, shipped across the Atlantic, and put back together like a jigsaw puzzle. It was a surprise for her new husband, a third cousin from a not so wealthy limb of the family tree whose last name was also Silverthorn, which of course only served to make the whole Silverthorn family all the more exotic and mysterious.

By the time I came around, the mansion had already become a landmark for us kids. The railroad industry had taken a dive, and the family’s fortune had been divided among its heirs and then divided again, so the Silverthorns barely had enough money to keep the mansion from crumbling down around them. Most of us believed it was haunted, and the fact that it had fallen into such disrepair strengthened that notion. We made up stories about missing children locked away inside to scare each other, and at least once a year one of us would declare that we planned to sneak in that very night and explore every inch of it. Of course, we never did.

I remembered playing along the beach down below the house, in the days when we were free to roam around the island without having to worry about crossing onto private beaches. There was rarely more than one light on in the entire place, and we always said it was because they could only afford one lightbulb.

Ethan said, “I probably shouldn’t say, but it’s actually a huge tragedy. Just about every penny they make from their rental properties goes to pay their land taxes, and Mrs. Silverthorn refuses to sell off any of it. She’s pretty eccentric. People call her the ‘cat lady.’ I’ve heard that mansion is filled with hundreds of cats. And all our business is either through the mail or over the phone. If I need something signed, I have to mail it to her. She won’t let anybody on the property.”

Just then Ella perked up and said,
“Mrrrap!”
She was probably reminding us that fish is a well-known favorite among many feline species, but she knows not to push it. If she sits quietly, paws off the table, she can stay in her seat and watch. If she’s really good, there might be a reward in her bowl later.

I was just about to tell Michael more about the gardening book when I heard my cell phone ringing upstairs. I’d left the French doors to my apartment open, and I could hear its familiar ring mixed with the chorus of crickets that had risen up since we’d started eating.

Michael raised an eyebrow as he refilled my wineglass. “Don’t you dare.”

We all sat and ignored the ringing, even Ella. I’d like to say that we have an unspoken rule about not answering phone calls during dinner, but since my cell phone is constantly ringing with new jobs or traveling clients calling to see how their pets are doing, the rule has to be spoken just about every time we sit down at the table. It’s mostly because of Michael that we still follow it, a remnant of one of the few domestic rules our mother established. I pretend to be against it, but I’m really not. It helps keep dinnertime sacred and reminds us that family, no matter what shape it takes, always comes first.

*   *   *

Later that evening, I was sitting in bed with Ethan. He was leaning back on a couple of fluffy pillows, and I was leaning back on his chest. He was gently massaging my neck with one hand while flipping through one of the manly, outdoorsy-type magazines he subscribes to with the other. This one was
Backpacker Magazine.
As far as I’m concerned, it’s a miracle they can even fill one issue, but apparently he gets them every month.

I’d always just had one bedside table and lamp, but now I’d added another one on the side closest to the door. That was Ethan’s side. I need to sleep nearest the wall—don’t ask why. I wasn’t sure if he was spending the night yet, and probably he wasn’t sure either. Our cohabitation schedule was still evolving. We were at that tricky point in a relationship where it feels dangerous to spell things out clearly, where doing or saying anything to acknowledge the fact that you’re spending every free minute together might somehow jinx it.

For the time being, things just kind of happened on their own. Sometimes Ethan would stay the night with me, and sometimes he’d go home, especially if he needed to be at work early. He’s an attorney. His practice is in the same sand-softened stucco building his grandfather’s practice was in, which is just a ten-minute walk from his apartment near the center of town.

I had just unwrapped my new book and was about to open it up when Ethan said, “So…” and then fell silent.

I waited, but it didn’t seem like there was more. I said, “So … what?”

His eyes still on the magazine, he said, “So … J. P. Guidry. What did his letter say?”

I’d almost forgotten. The letter. I suddenly felt a wave of sleepiness wash over me. “Yeah … I didn’t open it yet.”

He was quiet for a moment and then said, “Okay.”

“It’s probably nothing…”

“Mmm-hmm.”

Then I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew it was five thirty in the morning, my radio alarm was going off, and Ethan was nowhere to be seen.

6

J. P. Guidry.

Just seeing his name on that envelope had made my heart stumble. There was a time, and not in the very distant past, when just the thought of Guidry would have sent tiny vibrations of pleasure through my entire body, but so much had happened since then that now … Well, I had no idea what it made me feel … except confused.

I opened up my French doors and inhaled the cool, briny air, letting it fill my lungs completely. It was still way before sunrise. There was just a hint of light breaking above the horizon on the bay side, but the moon was so bright the whole beach looked as if it were lit with hidden blue floodlights. The birds were still sleeping, so the only thing I could hear was the sad sound the waves made as they lapped up on the shore down below. I leaned against the railing and looked out over the courtyard.

The story of how Guidry and I met is not exactly the most romantic tale ever told. To make a long story short, I found a dead man in a client’s house, lying facedown in a cat’s water bowl, and Guidry was the lead homicide detective for the sheriff’s department. At the time, the last thing I was looking for was a relationship but, of course, it hadn’t hurt one bit that Guidry was tall, dark, and handsome.

But more than that, he was unlike any man I’d ever known. Quiet. Complex. A mystery, really. Eventually somehow I managed to let my guard down, and we had an on-again, off-again relationship longer than any two normal people ought to have without choosing either
ON
or
OFF
. Then he was offered a job with the police department in his hometown of New Orleans, which is really where his heart was, and I couldn’t very well argue with him, since my heart was here in Siesta Key.

He moved to New Orleans. I stayed here. And that was that.

Except now there was this damn letter. Why was I so afraid to open it? The only thing I could come up with was that, with Guidry at a safe distance, I could finally admit to myself that I’d been in love with him. For me, that’s saying something. Not that I’m some kind of cold-hearted spinster, but I’ve learned the hard way that love can be ugly. Unrestrained, my heart is as strong and fierce as a wild animal, so I’ve gotten really good at building a wall around it, reinforced with nonstop work and general sassiness, which works just as good as coiled razor-ribbon wrapped around concrete. That way, everybody’s safe.

I looked down at the beach. There was one lone seagull by the water. She was clutching something in her beak, probably a clam, and hammering it against one of the rocks that jut out at the water’s edge. It was making a
tap-tap-tap
sound, almost like the drummer in a rock band setting the tempo for a new song.

Well,
I thought,
that letter’s not opening itself.

I stood up and was about to go inside when I saw a dark shape moving around in Michael and Paco’s kitchen. A light was on, which is unusual—normally I’m the only one up that early—and the first thing I thought was
burglar.

I froze. The kitchen door opened slowly, and for a second I felt a scream forming at the bottom of my throat.

Out stepped Ethan, holding a cup of coffee in one hand and balancing a silver tray with the other. He tiptoed across the deck and made his way up the stairs.

“What the hell are you doing?”

He let out a little yelp. “Damn, woman, you scared me!”

I said, “You scared me first! I thought you were robbing us. What are you doing sneaking around at this hour?”

He held out the tray. There was a round tortilla basket overturned on top of one of Michael’s blue dinner plates, with a folded napkin, silverware, and a tiny glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice.

He grinned. “I made you breakfast.”

“Huh?”

“Well, not really. It’s more like I raided Michael and Paco’s kitchen. But I put everything on the tray myself. Well, actually Michael did that. But I held the tray.”

I folded my arms across my chest. “Since when do you serve me breakfast on a silver platter?”

He smiled. “Since you became a local hero and pulled a guy out of a burning vehicle with your own bare hands.”

“Wow,” I said. “I have no words. Just wow.”

I sat down at the little breakfast table on my deck, and Ethan slid the tray in front of me. He was starting to lift the basket off the plate when I stopped him.