Блейз Клемент - The Cat Sitter And The Canary

Jaz winked, her smile flashing white against her mocha skin and long locks of curly dark hair. She said, “This is Marge’s first vacation in who knows how long. She’s a little bit nervous to leave all her babies alone with me.”

I said, “Vacation? Where are you going?”

Marge tilted her head. “Well, if I had a brain cell left I’d take all that money and go down to the Bahamas for a month or twelve, but instead I’m renting a truck and driving over to my sister’s place in Pensacola. There’s a big estate auction nearby, so I’m bringing back all kinds of new furniture for the cats. And also…” She hesitated slightly. “I’m headed for New Orleans.”

“You’re kidding me.”

She said, “I’m not. Guidry’s wedding is tomorrow.”

I took a deep breath and sat down on the carpet next to Franklin. “Yeah. So I’ve heard.”

Marge said, “Dixie, I’m sorry. I should have mentioned it before, but I didn’t think you’d want to hear it. Guidry’s mother and my mother are friends, and my sister went to college with him, so she’s going too, and it’s only an hour or so from her house, so I figured, why not?”

I tried to regain my composure. “Oh, please. I don’t care. I was planning on going myself, but I had to cancel at the last minute.”

“I’m sure it must be a little strange for you…”

“Honestly, it’s no big deal.” I gave Franklin a couple of long strokes down his back and tried to change the subject. “I’m pretty sure this fella’s house is still classified as an active crime scene, but as soon as they’re done I can take him back home. I’m hoping maybe by tomorrow.”

Franklin nuzzled up against my knee.

Marge smiled. “I do believe he’s glad to see you.”

“I wanted to stop by earlier, but things have been a little crazy.” I slipped my backpack off my shoulder and opened it up. “And then there’s this…”

Marge peered inside and gasped. “Oh my gosh. Is that a rabbit?”

“It is. He’s Franklin’s housemate.” I gave her as charming a smile as I could muster. “I know he’s not exactly your usual clientele, but I was wondering…”

“Well, of course! We had rabbits when I was little.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “My daddy bred them for meat, but I promise he’s safe with me.”

“His name’s Gigi. I’m worried he might be getting a little tired of riding around on my back.”

She lifted him out and nuzzled him to her chest, cooing softly. “Well, hello there, Mr. Gigi. Welcome to the Haven!”

If Marge thought the name Gigi was unusual for a boy, she kept it to herself. Over the years, she’s helped me with all kinds of animals that needed safe harbor from a troubled home, and she’s welcomed each and every one of them with open arms. Even Jaz was a bit of a troubled stray when I first introduced them, but Marge took Jaz under her wing with no questions asked. All she cares about is the here and now—a true believer in life, liberty, and the pursuit of treats—and she has zero interest in people’s pasts, no matter how sordid or complicated. As I made my way out to the Bronco, I made a mental note to tell my brother that if he and Paco ever get tired of taking care of me, they should just drop me off at the Kitty Haven.

I found Deputy Morgan slouched down in his seat with the newspaper draped over the steering wheel. I was about to rap on the top of the hood to wake him when he sat up and said, “Where to now, boss?”

I said, “Ever hear of the Scarlet Woman of Siesta Key?”

21

As soon as I turned down Old Vineyard Lane, my heart felt just the tiniest bit lighter. I had expected the front of Caroline’s house to be littered with evidence markers, sheriff’s cruisers, and police tape, but there was just a lone crime cleanup van parked in the driveway, which meant I might be able to get Franklin and Gigi home sooner than I thought.

“Hey, good news for bunnies!”

My backpack was open on the passenger seat next to me, and I almost reached inside to give Gigi a scratch before I remembered he wasn’t there. Now I understood why Caroline liked having him around so much. Life is better with a furry friend in tow—no doubt about it.

Next door, the front of Elba Kramer’s house was hidden from the street by a looming hedge, and across the driveway’s entrance was a tall wrought-iron gate with menacing spikes. There was an intercom pad on a stone pedestal to the left, and just as I was about to roll down my window, I heard two short beeps and the gate swung open. I pulled up and parked in the shade of a giant jacaranda tree as the gate closed behind me.

The landscaping around the house was so perfect it seemed almost artificial. The lush shrubs were all straight lines and right angles, and the thick grass was a flawless emerald green and perfectly manicured. Just then I noticed a woman in a wide-brimmed hat, long black slacks, and a white, long-sleeved blouse at the far side of the yard. She was reaching into the hedge and pulling out individual leaves, which she dropped into a metal bucket at her feet.

I was about to call to her when the front door of the house swung open, and out stepped a woman in a pair of sheer white linen slacks and a low-cut gauzy blouse. She had long dark hair that flowed past her shoulders, with a necklace of chunky turquoise stones hanging around her neck.

I gasped. By then I’d probably seen about a hundred pictures of Elba Kramer, but in person her beauty was astonishing, made all the more surprising by the fact that by conventional standards, she was—there’s no other way to put it—downright ugly. Her eyes were too widely set, her lips off-kilter, and her nose, although narrow, had a decidedly pronounced bump in the middle. It looked awkward and out of place, as if it might have been more at home on the face of a hockey player or a professional boxer. Still, somehow, everything came together as seamlessly as a Picasso: honest, vibrant, and above all, alluring. I could see why a man might be tempted to risk his entire career for her.

That morning all those years ago, when I’d responded to what I thought was just another routine public-disturbance call only to find an enraged, half-naked senator screaming at some tourists, Ms. Kramer had already hidden herself down in the lower level of the yacht. I never talked to her, and if she’d seen me at all it would have been from a pretty good distance, so I didn’t think she’d ever recognize me. But now, when she held out her hand to shake mine, I saw a flash of something in her eyes … a distant glint of recognition.

“Hello, Dixie. I’m Elba Kramer. Welcome to Custom House.”

She stepped back to reveal a wide hallway with dark polished floors and a half-dozen crystal chandeliers hung across the vaulted ceiling. Down the center of the hall was a plush red carpet, and as she motioned me in, I noticed it had been newly vacuumed.

“Please.”

I walked ahead, conscious of her eyes on my back. Midway down the hall were two doors on either side—one closed, but the door on the left was standing open. Ms. Kramer stepped around me and smiled.

She said, “We can talk in the living room. I’ll open the windows and let some fresh air in.”

I was about to follow when she stopped abruptly in the doorway and I almost bumped into her. It was a small, dark room. The one wall I could see was covered from floor to ceiling with shelves of leather-bound books. On the floor was an intricately woven Persian rug with a giant antique desk in the middle, on top of which were about five cardboard boxes, each with labels in various languages. A few read FRAGILE.

The first thing I thought was that the room stuck out from the rest of the house like a sore thumb—completely out of sync with the light, modern decor everywhere else. It was fusty and crowded, so much so that if I had looked away one second earlier I wouldn’t have noticed the elderly man that was slumped in a leather armchair behind the desk. He was jowly faced, with thinning red hair raked over his head and an unlit cigar dangling from his fat lips. He held a remote control in one hand, which he was pointing at an old, boxy television like he was holding it hostage. There was a somber-looking newscaster talking about oil prices as a ticker of stock market figures rolled across the bottom of the screen.