Блейз Клемент - The Cat Sitter And The Canary

I shuffled things around on my desk and muttered under my breath, “Dammit, when are you going to get this place organized?”

Usually Dammit just rolls her eyes and mutters, “Oh, don’t have a cow. I’ll do it later,” but of course she never does.

I finally found my calendar under a collection of bills and cat-treat coupons and went over the day’s schedule. There were my regular morning clients first and then the rest were all felines. The Webers were volunteering again at the Women’s Exchange, but today they were only working the second shift, so I planned to swing by and pick Charlie up after I started my afternoon rounds. My final appointment of the day was reserved for the Scarlet Woman of Siesta Key.

The plan was to time my arrival at Caroline’s about forty-five minutes early and then, once Gigi was taken care of, I’d stop in next door for a quick meet and greet. The only problem was that I’d forgotten to mention to Ms. Kramer’s assistant that I’d have a deranged Lhasa apso with me. I didn’t like the idea of bringing someone’s dog to an initial meeting, especially a dog as unpredictable as Charlie, but there was nothing to be done about it now.

Downstairs, there was a giant pelican roosting on the handlebars of my bike. I felt bad making him move, especially since I could easily have taken the Bronco, but I wanted to enjoy the cool morning air while I could. I knew within a couple of hours the roads would be more crowded, plus the sun would be out and it would be way too hot for pedaling around all day.

With a little encouragement, the pelican hopped over to the hood of the Bronco and then watched me with an incriminating glare as I backed out and rolled across the courtyard and down the curving driveway. Normally, the sound of the bike’s wheels on the crushed shell sends the parakeets in the treetops into a flutter, but my morning explorers had already woken them up, so everything was eerily still as I made my way down to the main road.

For the rest of the morning and into the afternoon, I felt just slightly off-kilter. Biking around town usually makes me feel free as a country cat, but it wasn’t working this time. I still felt … I don’t know … nervous isn’t exactly the right word, but something close to it. All six of my morning clients had been perfect angels overnight—no accidents to clean up or destroyed houseplants to doctor—but still I felt a tiny bit of foreboding every time I took out my keys and unlocked another front door. Even a quick nap before my afternoon rounds was completely useless.

The temperature had risen as the day went on, plus I couldn’t very well pedal around with Charlie in tow, so after my nap I left my bike at home and switched to the Bronco. Luckily, I’d left all the windows open from the night before so it wasn’t a broiling inferno inside—more like a toasty oven. I cranked up the AC, and it cooled off nicely.

At the Weber’s house, Charlie was waiting for me just inside the gate to the backyard, which was a good thing since it meant I didn’t have to go hunting for him. As soon as he saw me coming up the side driveway, he ran to his little igloo doghouse on the porch and brought back one of the many stuffed toys he keeps there—this time a ragged yellow giraffe—and shook it at me tauntingly.

I unlatched the gate and tried to be firm. “No, sir. We’ve got work to do. I promise we’ll play when we get home later.”

He ignored that and ran around in circles while I pulled his leash off a peg by the back door, and then I ran around in circles trying to hook it onto his collar. Finally, I gave up and let him run ahead to the Bronco, where he waited by the passenger door with his giraffe in his mouth and his tail wagging excitedly.

Just like people, animals are a lot happier when they have a purpose in life, and I was beginning to think Charlie was enjoying his part-time employment. For the rest of my afternoon stops, he kept himself on good behavior (relatively speaking), and it made me smile every time I thought of it. Elba Kramer wasn’t the only one around here with her own personal assistant.

By the time we finally finished up with my afternoon clients and pulled into Caroline’s driveway, I was thoroughly pooped and so was Charlie. He was stretched out on the passenger seat with his chin resting on his giraffe, held in place between his paws. I switched off the ignition and told him to stay put while I got his leash, but he just lifted his head and sniffed the air tentatively.

I gave him a quick shoulder rub. “I know, buddy. Being a cat sitter isn’t as easy as you thought, huh? All we have to do is feed Gigi, then a quick meeting next door, and then we’re done for the day.”

At that he stood up and wagged his tail in agreement, although his expression seemed more curious than eager. As I got out of the car, I glanced across the street to see if there were any signs of Mr. Scotland, and, sure enough, there he was, sitting in one of the wicker rocking chairs on the front porch with a book in his lap. He was wearing tan shorts and a T-shirt now, and even from a distance I could make out the tanned muscles of his arms. With the setting sun streaking the sky pink and amber overhead, the scene looked like something from a sexy postcard or a romantic movie. A baseball cap shaded his eyes, so I wasn’t sure if he was watching me, but as soon as I raised my arm to wave, he immediately waved back.

“Gid evenin’ mess!”

I said, “Hi there. How’s your vacation going so far?”

He flashed a white smile. “Hay rot braw!”

I smiled back and nodded, having no idea what the hell he’d said. Charlie pulled me all the way up the walk to Caroline’s front porch, ignoring my halfhearted commands to heel, and the closer we got to the front door, the more determined he became. The driveway had been baking in the hot sun all day, so I figured it was probably still too hot for his little paws. Either that or he was looking forward to adding a few more scratches to that parlor door.

I said, “Charlie, don’t even think about it. From now on, you’re staying on leash.”

But I don’t think he even heard me. He was too busy sniffing around the doorjamb, holding his tail out straight like an English pointer’s. I shook my head in admiration.

Lhasas aren’t exactly known for their tracking abilities, so it’s easy to forget that even a tiny puffball like Charlie has the same not-very-distant ancestor as every other dog in the world: the gray wolf. And, just like wolves in the wild, dogs have a sense of smell that borders on the supernatural. They can detect microbial disease in beehives, counterfeit DVDs in foreign shipments, elevated blood pressure in humans—even a tablespoon of sugar in an olympic-size swimming pool! It was no wonder Charlie could still sense that Mr. Scotland had been here. I figured that man’s smug, oozing charm could linger for days.

Just then, as if to prove my point, Charlie let out a low, rumbling growl.

“Charlie!” I tugged at his leash to get his attention. “I promise you there’s nothing to worry about.”

I glanced up to see if Mr. Scotland was still watching, but he must have gone inside. I flipped through my keys until I found Caroline’s, which was silver with a red rubber tag attached, and as I slipped it in the lock and turned the handle, Charlie surged forward, ready to rush in ahead of me.

I said, “Hold on there, Speed Racer.”

I pulled him back a few feet and made him sit, and then while I held one hand in front of his snout like a school crossing guard, I reached back and pushed the front door open with my right foot. Just then, Charlie looked down at the floor behind me and ever so slowly began wagging his tail.

I froze.