Блейз Клемент - The Cat Sitter And The Canary

“Sure. I take care of all kinds of pets. What kind of bird is it?”

He tipped his chin up. “An intense yellow lipochrome.”

I said, “An intense yellow who?”

“Lipochrome. Nonfrosted.”

His demeanor was all business, and I got the distinct impression that Elba Kramer took her bird very seriously. He glanced over his shoulder and then lowered his voice. “Perhaps you could follow me now. Ms. Kramer can give you the details.”

I glanced down at my wrist, which was ridiculous since I haven’t worn a watch in years. I said, “You know, I wish I could, but I didn’t realize how late it is. I need to take Charlie home before his owners start wondering where he is. I’d be more than happy to come back any time.”

“Perhaps tomorrow afternoon then? Ms. Kramer is available after five.”

“That’s perfect. I can be here by five thirty.”

“Excellent. Let me give you the house number.”

I opened the screen door, and he handed me a small business card, charcoal gray with fine white lettering. It read, RAJINDER LUXFORD, MANAGER followed by a telephone number.

He said, “That’s the main house line. If there should be a change in your plans, you will please let me know?”

I nodded. “Of course.”

He headed for the bushes but then stopped and looked back. “One more thing. Ms. Kramer requires the utmost discretion. I must ask that you not speak of her personal affairs to anyone, and she will require that you sign a nondisclosure agreement.”

I gulped. “Oh.”

“Will that be a problem?”

I felt a little jolt of guilty pleasure, the way you feel when someone starts to tell you a particularly juicy piece of gossip—some secret that’s none of your business that they really shouldn’t be sharing—and yet you find yourself completely incapable of telling them to stop.

I shook my head. “No. Not a problem at all.”

Rajinder bowed politely and then disappeared back through the bushes. I looked down at Charlie, who was grinning at me and wagging his tail.

I’d always wondered what life was like for the infamous Scarlet Woman of Siesta Key. Now, apparently, I was going to find out.

3

When my radio alarm went off the next morning, I didn’t get a chance to find out what song was playing. Instead, my arm shot out as if it had a mind of its own and slapped the snooze button. I was all tangled up in the sheets, and for a second I thought I’d use that as an excuse to sleep the morning away, but then I remembered I had a full day ahead of me. Normally I wouldn’t have had to worry about traffic, but with all the tourists coming into town I knew if I didn’t get a move on I’d never get to all my clients … which in my line of work would be a very bad thing.

I wriggled out of bed and padded naked down the hall. I can’t sleep with clothes on, not even a T-shirt. I don’t know why, but even a pair of ankle socks can keep me awake all night. If I’m ever forced to rush outside in the middle of the night, it’ll be scandalous, but luckily the place is pretty secluded. It’s above the detached four-slot carport next to the weathered two-story house I grew up in—the house where my brother, Michael, lives now with his partner, Paco.

We’re right on the beach at the southern end of the Key, but the house is barely visible from the road. There’s a crushed-shell driveway that meanders through a jungle of Australian pines, sea grape, mossy oaks, and palm trees, then it makes a turn to the left and edges along the beach. There’s a rusty old sign at the entrance to let people know it’s not for public access, but people nose down it anyway.

The property sits on a little blip of sandy shore that wanes and waxes with the tide, alternately eroding and rebuilding from year to year. That wavering property line makes our land just a tad less valuable than a lot of other properties on the Gulf (and keeps the property taxes hovering just above preposterous). But still, even though the house and my apartment aren’t worth a hill of beans, the land they sit on is worth millions.

My place is tiny, which suits me just fine. There’s a galley kitchen with a breakfast bar separating the living room in the front, and then there’s a small bedroom at the end of a short hallway with a bathroom on one side, a laundry alcove on the other, and a big walk-in closet. A row of windows overlooks the balcony and the courtyard below, with metal storm shutters that I can close with a remote if there’s a hurricane looming or if I just feel like having a little extra security.

I pulled open the french doors to the balcony and stepped out into the cool morning air. The sun was just beginning to peek over the treetops to the east, sending long rays of pale lemon light through the mist off the beach down below. I’d recently put a couple of gigantic staghorn ferns up on the wood-paneled walls flanking the door, and their long fronds were reaching out to catch the dew.

I leaned against the railing and closed my eyes, listening to the waves and letting the salty air fill my lungs, feeling it move all the way down to my toes. I love it out here. It’s my favorite place in the world. There’s a yellow wrought-iron ice cream table with two matching chairs just by the door, and then in the corner facing the ocean is a big hammock filled with pillows of every conceivable size, shape, and color. At the start of each day I try to take a moment and just breathe it all in. It helps me remember to enjoy life as it comes, to live in what the “woo-woo” folk call the here and now … to just be happy where I am.

Also, it helps me forget how I got here.

There were a couple of seagulls ambling around on the deck down below where we eat dinner most nights. They were probably hunting for crumbs or leftovers, but they looked more like mall guards doing an early-morning security check. I still wasn’t completely awake, so at first I didn’t notice that the white hush of the ocean had taken on another familiar sound, sort of like distant radio static. I thought maybe I’d forgotten to turn the radio alarm off, but then I realized it wasn’t static at all: there was a car coming up the crushed-shell lane from the main road.

Tourist season doesn’t officially begin until November, but the most eager snowbirds start arriving now, around mid-October, when it’s just starting to get seriously cold up north. But it was far too early for tourists to be snooping about, and I knew Michael and Paco were both at work.

“No way,” I whispered out loud.

But then, sure enough, there was a flash of chrome through the leaves and what looked like a giant green station wagon slowly making its way around the curve in the drive. I felt like a deer in the headlights.

Or, more precisely, like a butt-naked woman on her balcony.

I don’t exactly make a habit of traipsing around outside in my birthday suit, but with Michael and Paco both gone I hadn’t given it a second thought. Now, whoever was coming up the driveway had a clear view of my front door, and it was far too late to slip back inside without being spotted.

If it was Michael or Paco, I might have been a little embarrassed, but it certainly wouldn’t have been the end of the world. Then the thought flashed across my mind: What if it was a client? Or maybe an old colleague from the sheriff’s department? Or the meter man? All of those possibilities seemed unlikely given the hour, but there was no time to think, so I did what any reasonable person would have done in the same situation.

I dove for the hammock.

It wasn’t really a station wagon. More like a tank. One of those huge suburban SUVs that people ferry kids and bags of groceries around in. Fixed to the hood just above the shiny chrome grill was a silvery logo: the letter B, with gleaming feathered wings sprouting from its sides.