Блейз Клемент - The Cat Sitter And The Canary

I said, “Was she expecting you?”

“Uh-oh.” He pulled a piece of paper out of his breast pocket and deftly unfolded it with one hand, holding on to his briefcase with the other. “I think I’ve made a mistake. Is this 17 Old Vineyard Lane?”

“No,” I said, pointing to the house across the street. “Seventeen’s right there. This is fifteen.”

“Ah, then. That explains it. I lost my glasses at the airport. I’m a right blind bat without ’em.” He held the note out to me. “That does say ‘seventeen,’ yeah?”

The address was scrawled in thin blue ink on what looked like a page torn from a doctor’s prescription pad. There was embossed print near the top, but the man’s thumb was in the way so I couldn’t make out what it said. In the lower left corner was a neatly drawn heart around the initials “IK” in the same scratchy handwriting.

“Terrible penmanship, right?”

I smiled. “I’ve got perfect vision and I can barely read it myself, but yes, it does say ‘seventeen.’”

He folded it back into his pocket as his eyes swept down my body. “Sorry about that. Rot gnome bah, rung hoss. ”

Charlie had clambered into the cargo hold and was watching us from the rear window.

The man flashed me another smile. “Cat sitter, eh? I bet that’s an interesting profession.”

“Sometimes.” I tried to look as friendly as possible, but I was beginning to get a weird vibe from the guy, and I think it’s safe to say that Charlie was too. Just then he let loose with a barrage of vicious-sounding barks.

The man said, “Furry boots?”

“Huh?”

He waved one hand in the air like he was erasing a chalkboard. “Sorry. I keep forgetting I’m not in Scotland. Where from?”

“Oh. Right here. Born and raised.”

He leaned over and peered into the back of the Bronco, his nose just inches from the window.

“And who’s your buddy?”

Charlie responded by lunging at the glass and gnashing his teeth. The man barely flinched. He just nodded approvingly and muttered something that sounded like, “ Hats a rot goad bay. ”

I said, “He’s not normally so rude.”

He winked at me. “Well, pretty little thing like you, I don’t blame him. He’s just protectin’ his booty .”

For a split second I tried to figure out what word in the English language sounded the most like “booty,” but then the smirk on the man’s face told me there was no translation needed. Slowly, I put my hands on my hips and took a deep breath. I’ve been known to have a bit of a temper. I don’t take kindly to perfect strangers referring to me as a thing, or, for that matter, as anyone’s booty . In fact, there was a time, and not so long ago, when a remark like that would have resulted in a little lunging and gnashing of my own.

“Rupert Wolff.”

He was holding out one hand and grinning. “With two f ’s. The second f is for frrriendleh .”

I like a man with a firm handshake, but I never found out if Mr. Scotland’s grip was firm or not. I looked down at his black patent-leather shoes, polished to a mirrored perfection, and then I noticed his perfectly manicured nails.

I thrust my hand out and said, “Well, I’ve been cleaning litter boxes all day, so…”

His eyes widened. “Oh, have you then?”

I shrugged, “Yeah. My husband’s a little grossed out by it, but what can you do? Comes with the profession. And anyway, a little cat poop never killed anybody. Not that I know of.”

He withdrew his hand slightly. “Yes, I suppose so. Well, don’t let me keep you. We’ll meet again, yeah?”

Before I could even answer he turned on his heels, grabbed his suitcase, and made a beeline for the house across the street.

I congratulated myself as I pulled Charlie’s leash out of the backseat and snapped it on his collar, but I wasn’t happy about Charlie’s behavior one bit. I considered giving him a lengthy lecture about the dos and don’ts of proper dog etiquette, but given Mr. Scotland’s less-than-stellar behavior, I figured Charlie was probably just trying to protect me.

He looked up and blinked, as if to say, You’re welcome, and then launched another couple of warning woofs! in Mr. Scotland’s direction.

I would normally have gone in Caroline’s front door, but I didn’t want Charlie making any more noise, so we took the quicker route to the side entrance—a small covered portico with two whitewashed benches on either side and a big terra-cotta urn for umbrellas. The key I had only worked the front door, but luckily I remembered Caroline kept a side key hidden on the ledge over the door. I dropped my backpack down on one of the benches and ran my hand along the ledge, and without even thinking I let go of Charlie’s leash. In a flash he took off through the cat door, dragging his leash behind him like the tail of a runaway kite.

I unlocked the door as fast as I could.

Charlie had already raced down the long hallway toward the living room, and I could hear his high-pitched barks and something else that sounded suspiciously like scratching.

I rushed through the house yelling, “Charlie! No!” But it was too late. He was up on his hind legs at the other side of the living room, clawing at the door that opens to the front entry like a harp player on speed. I swooped him up in my arms and looked down at the door with a sigh.

There were scratches all along the bottom where his little nails had dug into the paint. I shook my finger in his face and said, “Bad!” as firmly as possible, but he just blinked and then licked the tip of my finger.

Like I said, he’s a good boy.

I slipped the end of his leash through my belt loop and tied it in a knot, and then I marched him back through the living room. For a split second, I thought about opening that scratched-up door to see what in the world he was so interested in, but I knew it would be pointless. Sometimes, there’s just no rhyme or reason to Charlie’s antics.

That turned out to be a pretty good decision on my part—not opening the hall door—because if I had, I might’ve discovered what was waiting for me on the other side.

Instead, I got to remain blissfully ignorant for just a little while longer …

2

You need one of those kooky, made-up words to describe Caroline’s house … like fantabulous or increderrific. It’s an old Victorian, probably built around 1920. The outside looks like an antique dollhouse, but the inside is a mishmash of modern, antique, and traditional. Somehow, though, it all fits together perfectly. A big grand piano stands court over a leather Barcelona sofa, flanked on either side by two overstuffed armchairs upholstered in brightly colored rugs from India, each accompanied by a gooseneck floor lamp with beaded shades, and then there are sculptures and paintings practically everywhere you look.

There was no sign of Caroline’s cat, though. He’s a mackerel tabby, meaning his coat consists of contrasting colors that run along his shoulders and down his sides like a pinstripe suit—except in Franklin’s case, the stripes are almost invisible. His fur is a light cream, lined with delicate bands of pale beige, like dried seagrass lying across a sand dune. Add to that his luminous avocado-green eyes and you’ve got one very handsome young man. Of course, I mostly know all this from the framed photographs on Caroline’s piano. In the dozen or so times that I’ve taken care of him, I’ve only laid eyes on Franklin about twice.

He’s a loner, which, as anyone with cats can tell you, isn’t all that unusual. Franklin, however, takes it to a whole new level. As long as he’s got fresh water and a full bowl of kibble, he’s perfectly content. His favorite place to spend the day is on the back of the couch in the living room, where he has a view out the window and can watch the activities in the front yard and the street beyond, but by the time I get there he’s already headed for one of his hiding places. If I’m lucky, I catch a glimpse of his tail disappearing around the corner down the hallway.