Блейз Клемент - The Cat Sitter And The Canary

“Yeah. How’d you know that?”

“And what are your school colors?”

He pointed at his baseball cap. “Green and yellow. Why?”

I nearly stumbled over myself as I backed away, muttering my thanks as I pulled my cell phone out and started dialing. Detective Carthage answered on the first ring.

I said, “Matthew, I mean Detective, I was just talking to the bartender at Colonel Teddy’s. He’s a student at USF, in the English department, and he told me one of his professors has a party every year. It was five nights ago, and guess where it was? Old Vineyard Lane. ”

I paused, waiting to see if he might make the connection, but he didn’t respond. I said, “Old Vineyard Lane is Caroline’s street! And I think that party was just a couple doors down, because I saw a woman taking some balloons down the night before I discovered Sara’s body. And the thing is, it was a costume party. A drag party. And guess what their school colors are?”

“Green and yellow.”

I nodded. “And remember that striped tie Sara Potts was wearing?”

He said, “Green and yellow.”

“Right. And Sara told my brother she’d just started graduate school. I think you’d better go talk to that professor right away.”

He said, “Good idea. I’m with him now.”

Before my brain could catch up, I said, “I think it’s possible they weren’t after Sara Potts at all. She just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong … wait, did you say you’re with him now?”

There was a short pause. “Yes. And you’re exactly right. He lives on Old Vineyard Lane, two doors down from Caroline Greaver. Sara Potts was invited to the party, but she never showed up.”

“And…?”

There was a short pause. “Is that all?”

I blanched. “Oh. Sorry. I don’t mean to tell you how to do your job.”

“Not a problem. But one thing: until we find the person responsible for these murders, I think it’s probably a good idea that you talk to as few strangers as possible.”

I felt a lump form in the base of my throat. “Yeah, of course.”

“But feel free to give me a call if you think of anything else.”

I said, “Okay … uh, keep up the good work.”

He said, “Thanks.”

And the line went dead.

After our meeting at the Pavilion, Detective Carthage had done his best to convince me not to work for the next few days. To stay home. To sit in my apartment, staring at the TV or the blank wall like a vegetable, waiting for everybody else to figure out what was going on and who was after me.

I wouldn’t even consider it. After Todd and Christy died, I’d spent what felt like an entire lifetime holed up in that apartment … endless hours hiding from the world, pretending it didn’t exist, waiting for it to all end … but I’d changed since then. Plus, it was beginning to look like two innocent women had lost their lives because of me, and I knew I’d never be able to live with myself if I just sat by and did nothing. Now was not the time to be afraid.

“No,” I whispered out loud. “No more.”

20

I pulled into the parking lot of the Kitty Haven and waited for Deputy Morgan to roll in next to me, and as soon as he was situated with his coffee thermos and his newspaper, I gave him a nod and grabbed my backpack. As I walked across the parking lot, I could feel the heat rising off the pavement, and I tried to imagine it burning up all my worries and fears like early morning mist. I didn’t want to bring all that negative energy inside … they don’t call it the Kitty Haven for nothing.

The decor can only be described as early American brothel. Inside, the walls are paneled in dark walnut, lined with a ragtag collection of sofas and overstuffed armchairs. There’s a big picture window in the front facing the street, with brocaded curtains hanging on either side, looped open with thick braided cords and fringed tassels. There are always a few cats stretched out on the windowsill, watching with sleepy eyes as the cars go by, or absentmindedly grooming their paws, waiting for the next treat.

A little bell over the door announced my arrival as a couple of tabbies lolling on one of the sofas looked up and squinted seductively. Marge Preston came bustling in from the back with a trail of at least a dozen cats scampering behind her. She’s plump and white-haired with rosy cheeks and dimples, and her pockets are always fully stocked with goodies to keep her charges happy. If I were a cat, I’d follow Marge around too.

She said, “Dixie, you’re just in time. I’m a little worried about Franklin.” As she spoke, her voice a pleasant soprano, she tossed treats here and there while the cats scattered about like children at a piñata party. “I can’t tell if he’s lonely or nervous, but he doesn’t seem interested in me at all.”

I said, “Oh, that’s just Franklin. Don’t take it personally.”

“Well, either way, I think he’ll be glad to see you.”

Marge never planned on running a cat kennel in her retirement. She took in a few strays after retiring here, and then neighbors started turning up with wild cats they’d found. Before long she was officially the neighborhood “cat lady,” eventually building an addition to the back of her house solely for the purpose of taking in more rescues. There are at least a dozen individual rooms, each about three by six feet, lovingly outfitted with used furniture—all donations from customers or garage sale finds. She led me down the hall to the back, talking all the way.

“Wait ’til you see the improvements!”

I said, “Improvements?”

“Yes, ma’am. I tell you, there’s an angel out there somewhere. I don’t know who it is, but a couple of months ago we got an envelope in the mailbox, no return address, and no stamp either. Inside was a cashier’s check made out to the Kitty Haven!”

My mouth dropped open. “No way.”

“Dixie, as the kids say these days, way !”

“For how much?”

Her eyes widened. “Ten thousand.”

“Ten thousand…”

“ Dollars! Yes, ma’am. I was just as surprised as you are.”

“And you have no idea who it’s from?”

She shrugged. “Nope. I thought it was some kind of scam or something, but the bank confirmed it was real. They said I could either cash it or wad it up and use it as the most expensive cat toy in history. Well, I’m no dummy. If some rich kook wants to throw his money at my kitties, who am I to judge?”

She stopped at one of the doors that line the back hallway. “Now I can finally get this old rattletrap fixed up proper. And here’s the first thing…”

She opened the door and pointed inside. All the rooms are furnished exactly the same—a comfy cat bed, a scratching post or two, and a basket of cat toys—but there was something new. Hanging on the wall under the window, at perfect cat’s-eye level, was a flat-screen television. It was playing a video of birds flitting around in the branches of a pine tree. Franklin was perched on a little footstool in front of it, completely transfixed.

Marge said, “I know I shouldn’t encourage it, but cats are hunters after all. It’s in their nature. And I never let them watch the ones with bird feeders—only the birds they could never reach on their own. I’m going out of town for a couple of days, so this’ll help keep ’em company.”

Marge’s assistant, a pretty young girl named Jaz, poked her head in. “She bought one for every room. Apparently, she doesn’t think I’m entertaining enough on my own.”

Marge clucked at her. “Oh, now hush. You know that’s not true. And anyway, wait ’til I’m gone and you’ll find out—it’s no picnic keeping a small army of cats occupied all by yourself. If it was, I wouldn’t need you .”