Блейз Клемент - The Cat Sitter's Nine Lives

Now, having eight cats is mostly eight times the wonderful of having one cat, but there are a few disadvantages. For one, I can’t even imagine what Betty and Grace must spend on cat food—not to mention kitty litter—and then there’s the boundless supply of cat hair. They go through a package of vacuum cleaner bags at least once a week. Of course, none of that outweighs the one big advantage: There’s a lot of joy in the Piker house, and the cats couldn’t be happier. There’s never a lack of playmates, so they never get bored, and the backyard is completely screened in, so they have free run of the garden. There’s even a small pond in the back, so sometimes I’ll find all eight cats lined up at the pond’s edge, watching in utter rapture as the goldfish and koi swim around in slow, wary circles.

I served breakfast in eight identical bowls, conducted eight beauty makeovers with a fine-bristled cat brush, and then did a quick walk-through of the house for any kitty damage. Surprisingly, everything was in order. I wondered if perhaps Stevie wasn’t patrolling the house when Betty and Grace were away, making sure everyone behaved in a respectable manner. When I left, they were all in a pile on the sofa in the screened-in front porch and sound asleep, all except Stevie, who winked slowly at me as if to say, “Thanks, I’ll take it from here.”

I’m always in a good mood when I leave the Piker house, but as I opened the door to the Bronco I made the mistake of glancing at my watch. It was 11:45 A.M.

I slumped into the driver’s seat and put my forehead down on top of the steering wheel. McKenzie was expecting me at the sheriff’s station at noon. I’d almost forgotten, and now I really didn’t want to go. The thought of being back in that station made my stomach ball up in a knot. Why in the world had I agreed to meet her there? What could she possibly have to tell me that required a face-to-face meeting?

I put the car in gear and rolled out of the driveway and down the street, remembering the very first time I’d met Detective McKenzie. It was at a crime scene, another one of those times when I managed to situate myself in the wrong place at the wrong time, right after she’d taken over as lead homicide detective. She’d been hammering me with questions about what had happened and what I’d seen, and then out of the blue she looked me squarely in the eye and said, “I was with the FBI for twenty-five years. My husband was murdered nine years ago. I have a sixteen-year-old daughter. Her name is Eva.”

Just like that.

Of course, I knew right away that somebody must have told her my whole story, probably somebody at the station, about how I’d lost my family and my badge and my career. She was trying to say that she understood me, that she knew where I was coming from, that she felt my pain. At that point, if people even hinted at the idea that they felt my pain, I had two responses: one, I curled up into a ball, or two, I started throwing punches. Still, something in the way she’d said it so matter-of-factly, as if it were just the most normal thing in the world, had kind of broken my heart a little bit.

In the years since Todd and Christy died, one thing I’ve learned is that losing a loved one makes you an instant member of this strange, underground club, a club that only people who’ve lost someone they truly, deeply love can join. Once you’re a member, all you have to do is let your guard down a little bit to see that there are fellow members everywhere you go. At the gym, at the grocery store, in the line for the dressing room at Marshalls, and like it or not, you can never unjoin.

In that moment, when McKenzie had laid her pain out for me so plainly, a bond had been established between us, an unspoken bond, but a true bond nonetheless.

By the time I rolled to a stop at the end of Treasure Boat Way, I half wondered if McKenzie wasn’t trying to ease me back into the station. Maybe she thought it would help me move on, or help me get over the painful memories of the last time I’d been there. If that was her plan, I wanted nothing to do with it.

Suddenly I had a flash of brilliance. I remembered my mystery caller from the night before. I was supposed to be at 9500 Blind Pass Road at two o’clock, but I figured a little white lie wouldn’t hurt anybody.

McKenzie answered the phone with a short “Ready when you are.”

“Yeah, about that, is there another place we can meet? Maybe somewhere closer to me? I have to meet a new client down at the end of the Key, and I’m worried I’ll be late.”

There was a pause. I could tell she was thinking it over.

“Dixie, the problem is I’ve got too much going on here. I want you to see something, but I can’t leave the station for long. I suppose we could meet at Payne Park, but that’s not exactly in your neighborhood.”

“No, that’s perfect,” I lied. “I’m near there now. I’m just finishing up with a client that lives right behind the high school. I can be there in no time at all.”

“Okay, then. I’ll meet you at the park in ten minutes.”

“Great,” I blurted out. “No problemo!”

As I flipped the phone closed, I caught a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror, with a smile as fake as a three-dollar bill still pasted on my face.

“Really?” I said out loud. “No problemo?”

I decided right then and there that if I ever said “no problemo” again I’d go directly to the nearest Treatment Center for Blowhards and check myself in.

It wasn’t until I pulled back out on the road that I realized—Payne Park is basically a two-minute walk from the sheriff’s building. Why it was better to meet there instead of McKenzie’s office made absolutely no sense at all.

She was onto me.

15

As I headed out for Payne Park, I had to force myself to drive north instead of down to the beach pavilion, mainly due to the fact that I was starving. Normally I can’t go anywhere near Siesta Key Beach without grabbing at least one hot dog at the food stand, and by “at least one” I mean two, but there wasn’t enough time, never mind the fact that technically it was still morning and it just seems wrong to eat a hot dog before noon.

So I took Higel at a respectable speed all the way up to the top of the Key, and then once I was on Siesta I stepped on the gas and sped across the north bridge onto the mainland. Normally I drive as slowly as possible so I can gawk at all the waterfront mansions on San Remo Terrace as I come off the bridge, but this time I cruised on by and turned right on Tamiami Trail.

On our little island there’s not a single fast-food joint, but Sarasota is a whole different story. First I drove by Crusty’s Pizza and the Chicken Shack. Then I drove by them again, except this time in reverse order because I’d gone the wrong way and had to make a U-turn. Then I passed Beethoven’s Steakhouse, Big Top Burgers, Aztec Grill, Vito’s Subs, China Palace, and Taco Depot. After sitting through a green light next to the Waffle House I decided I’d better keep my eyes on the road, but my stomach was whining like a hungry dog.

When I pulled into the lot at Payne Park, McKenzie was already there, sitting at one of the wooden benches that overlook the tennis courts. She wore a plain beige blouse tucked into a faded blue-jean skirt with big round sunglasses and an oversized straw hat to keep the sun off her pale skin. When she saw me, she wrapped something up in a piece of shiny foil and put it down in her briefcase. I wondered if it would be rude to ask what she’d just been eating.

“Thanks for coming, Dixie.”

I sat down while she pulled out a laptop computer and opened it on the bench between us. She wasted no time in clicking a couple of keys, and then a video popped up and started playing.