The Cat Sitter's Whiskers (14 page)

He frowned. “Huh? You never told me that.”

“Well, you never told me you were the executor of his father's estate.”

He got up and came around to my side of the coffee table and sat down on the floor in front of me. “Oh, yeah. Good point.” He rested his head on my knee. “Remind me to have my secretary update you daily on all my clients.”

I flicked the top of his head with my index finger.

“Ouch!”

“Nobody likes a smart-ass.”

He grinned. “Yes, they do. So what do you mean, a
thing?
”

“He's the first guy I ever kissed.”

He looked up at me, genuinely surprised. “For real?”

“For real.”

“Okay, that's kind of heavy.”

“I know, except
not
. It was ninth grade, we were waiting in the hall outside one of our classes. And for the record, I didn't kiss him. He kissed me, and nothing happened after that.”

He put one hand on mine and smiled. “I'm not jealous, if that's what you're thinking.”

“I know.”

“But either way, that just makes it even sadder. It sucks.”

I ran my fingers through his hair and said, “I know,” again, but inside I thought,
This is why I love you.
Ethan has a talent for zeroing in on the heart of the matter, which I guess is what makes him such a good attorney, but it also makes him a damn good
b
-word.

He shook his head slowly. “That poor guy. Do you know if they have any idea who could have done it?”

I said, “Nope.”

He nodded and turned away, but I could still feel his eyes on me.

I said, “I'd like to forget the whole thing as soon as possible.”

“I don't blame you.”

“And I've got tons of clients this week, plus I've had enough drama today to last a lifetime.”

He nodded resolutely. “Oh, for sure. One hundred percent. Yes, ma'am. I couldn't agree more.”

I held my hand over his head, ready to flick it again. “Why do I think you're being sarcastic?”

“I didn't say a thing!”

“Yeah, but you're thinking something, I can hear it.”

He smiled as he reached up and took my hand in his. “I just have a feeling you won't leave it at that. You may be surprised to hear this, but … I know you.”

I rolled my eyes. “Fool, you don't know me. First of all, I'm too busy to get involved, and even if I did there'd be nothing for me to do. I'm sure Detective McKenzie doesn't need my help.”

“Hmm. Where have I heard this before?”

I ignored him. “But you know what? I bet she'd be very interested to hear what you know about Levi's father. And she was trying to locate Levi's next of kin—apparently his fianc
é
e wasn't much help. Do you think you might have his mother's contact information in your files?”

“I know I do, but more importantly … I'd imagine McKenzie would like to see his father's will.”

I nodded slowly. “I think you're right.”

“When I get back to the office this afternoon I'll give her a call. I can make a copy and have it sent over to her.”

I thought for a second. “Or I can take it to her … if you want.”

“Oh, yeah? I thought you weren't getting involved.”

“Delivering a file to Detective McKenzie isn't ‘getting involved.' I just think the sooner she sees that stuff, the better. Plus, I have to go back to the Kellers' anyway. I'll be right around the corner from your office.”

He sat up. “What? You have to go back there?”

“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 my 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.