Блейз Клемент - The Cat Sitter's Whiskers

I think it was possible that, in an indirect way, it was Levi’s fault I got conked on the head in the first place. After my attacker found what they were looking for, they must have planned on slipping out before I even knew they were there. But something had stopped them, and I’d be willing to wager ten bucks it was the sight of Levi driving by, delivering papers.

They probably figured the risk of a witness was much worse than contending with a 135-pound cat sitter, so they donned one of Mrs. Keller’s masks and took me out of the picture with whatever they happened to have handy … like a stone earth goddess. I cringed at the idea of me lying there in the laundry room, unconscious, while they waited for the right time to make their escape. Of course, the big question was: If Levi had been there when they finally came out, had he confronted them?

Or worse, had they followed him home?

* * *

Once Billy and I were back upstairs, both of us panting like crazy, I hung his leash on the hook by the door and then followed him back into the dining room to say a quick good-bye to Tom. He had laid out a few documents with pink Post-its running down the right-hand side.

Turning to me with a somber look on his face, he said, “Before you go, we need to talk.”

I knew by the sound of his voice it had something to do with money. I threw my backpack over my shoulder and whined, “Can it wait till tomorrow?”

“Dixie, sooner or later we have to come up with a plan.”

I said, “How about later?”

“Can you at least sign a couple of things?”

“Ugh. Do I have to read them first?”

He slid his glasses down his nose and gave me a disapproving frown. “Of course you do. Does that mean you will?”

“No.”

He handed me a pen. “I didn’t think so.”

There were three separate documents. As I signed one he’d slide it away and replace it with another. “Dixie, you really can’t avoid this much longer.”

“I know, I know. It’s just hard.”

“That may be, but the longer you put it off, the harder it’s going to get.”

I handed his pen back. “Okay, I promise we’ll talk next week.”

He stared at me as I hurried down the hall.

“I promise!”

* * *

One of my very first jobs as a pet sitter was for a cat named Ghost. Awful name, sweet cat. He was a silver-blue Abyssinian, as stunningly beautiful as his owner, Marilee Doerring. Unfortunately, that beauty had drawn a very bad man to her, and she ended up getting killed.

We weren’t exactly close friends, but Marilee and I had a kind of unspoken bond, and her grandmother, Cora Mathers, is still a big part of my life. I go over at least once a week to visit her. These days, she’s the closest thing I have to a mother.

Marilee was rich, and when she died, her will stipulated that a sizable amount of her estate go to Cora, enough that she’d never have to worry about who would take care of her in her old age. The rest, to everyone’s surprise, went to Ghost. And even more surprising, at least for me, yours truly was named as Ghost’s guardian and sole manager of his inheritance, which, to put it mildly, was a boatload of money.

I knew I was the last person on earth to be trusted with that kind of responsibility. For example, I have no idea how much money I have in my bank account, and the last time I balanced my checkbook Ronald Reagan was president. Math is not my strong suit. It’s not even my weak suit, plus it just made me sad to think about Marilee, so I asked Tom for help managing everything. He’s taken care of all the financial details ever since, and I try to have as little to do with it as possible.

Ghost, on the other hand, I knew exactly how to handle. I found him a good home with a family that runs an orchard just north of Sarasota. They have tons of land, with rows and rows of orange trees teeming with birds and butterflies, and all it took was one visit to know it would be the perfect home for a cat like Ghost. The Griswolds love him and take excellent care of him, and they send me letters and photos every once in a while to keep me up to date on his adventures. In return, they’re given a monthly stipend from Marilee’s estate to help keep Ghost living in the luxurious style he was accustomed to when she was still alive.

Unfortunately, time goes by and Ghost is only getting older, and now there’s the question of what happens to Marilee’s estate going forward. You’d think eventually all that money would just dwindle away and I’d never have to think about it again, but the problem is … well, the real problem is Tom Hale: He’s a financial wizard. Early on, he took a portion of the estate and invested it, and now it’s grown into a small fortune. All of it, every last penny, becomes mine when Ghost passes away.

It’s a secret. Nobody knows but you, me, and Tom, so please—try not to blab it all over town.

20

I read an article in the paper recently about all the unrest in the Middle East, and how one of the lesser-known consequences is that museums have become increasingly vulnerable to looting. Thieves break in and take whatever they can get their hands on, like ancient tools, pottery, jewelry, and, most notably, small statues and figurines. Priceless treasures have disappeared across the entire region, from Sudan and Egypt all the way to the northernmost cities in Afghanistan.

I was thinking about that as I made my way across the parking lot at the Sea Breeze. You’d think it would be impossible to get away with selling a hot artifact pilfered right out of a public museum, but when riches are at stake there’s always a buyer willing to hazard the risk, plus it can always be passed off to a less knowledgeable (or less virtuous) dealer, then along comes an unsuspecting customer, completely innocent of its questionable provenance. The black market for art and antiquities is a multibillion-dollar business. It extends its long, greedy fingers into every corner of the world … even as far as, say, a charming little gallery on the outskirts of Tampa.

As soon as I got back in the Bronco, I reached for my phone and navigated to my saved voice mails. I wanted to hear Mrs. Keller’s message again. There was one thing she’d said that had stuck in my mind: “ I promised Buster I wouldn’t buy any more masks—but this was different, and I just couldn’t stop myself. ”

I played that part a few more times. There was definitely something about the way she paused slightly when she said “different,” like there was something else … something unspoken. Of course, they always say it’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind, and I couldn’t agree more (I think), but I was beginning to wonder if maybe Mrs. Keller had actually kept her word, at least technically. Just because she’d promised her husband she wouldn’t buy any more masks didn’t mean she couldn’t have turned her attention to some other collectible item … say, ancient figurines?

The entire way to the Kellers’ house, my head was buzzing with everything I’d figured out so far, but somewhere in the back of my mind was the lurking suspicion that my whole theory—that there was a connection between what had taken place at the Kellers’ and what had happened to Levi—was as flimsy as a house of cards, as if the slightest breeze or tiny tremor in the earth’s surface could bring it all crashing down.

But I didn’t care. My day hadn’t started out so great, and even if there was no connection between the two, just the action of trying to solve the riddle of it made me feel better. There was one more thing, though …

Ethan.

It was what he’d said the day before, after I’d told him everything and he was about to leave. I couldn’t even remember it exactly, just that it had started with two simple words: “Our kids.”