Блейз Клемент - The Cat Sitter's Nine Lives

With a firm handshake, she said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Won’t you come in?”

I wasn’t quite sure how to respond since I was already in, so I just smiled and said, “Oh, thank you.”

She turned toward the mirrored sliding door and caught her own image. “Janet, we’ll take tea in the reading room.” She smoothed the scarf around her waist down with the tips of her fingers and then turned back to me. “I feel a day isn’t worth living without a cup of tea.”

Before I could respond she turned and headed up the stairs. I didn’t know if Janet had heard her or not, nor was I sure it mattered, so I followed mutely, taking care not to step on the scarf trailing behind her. Parts of the stairs were crumbling and separated at the joints, and at one point she said softly, “Keep to the right, my dear.”

The “reading room” turned out to be a massive ballroom, with fully stocked bookshelves lining every wall from the floor all the way up to the arched ceiling, which must have been at least twenty-five feet high at its peak. The perimeter of the room was fitted with an iron track and rolling ladders to reach the books on top, and hugging one wall was what looked like a gigantic Egyptian rug, rolled up and covered with layers of yellowing newspaper and thin plastic dry-cleaner bags.

Mrs. Silverthorn pointed to the far corner of the room where there was a low coffee table and said, “We’ll sit by the window. The light is brilliant this time of day.”

The entire room was crowded with chairs of all sizes, shapes and colors. Dining chairs, club chairs, hassocks, rocking chairs, even an old wheelchair with a woven cane back. There were so many chairs, in fact, that I wasn’t exactly sure how we’d navigate through them to the table in the corner. I thought perhaps they’d been stored here temporarily, maybe from other parts of the house that were being painted, but Mrs. Silverthorn acted as if they were a permanent fixture. I followed as she expertly weaved in and out of them in a predetermined path, like a ballerina in an obstacle course.

Tucked in among the chairs here and there were old buckets and copper pans, each partly filled with dingy gray water. I looked up to find long strips of crumbling paper and green plaster hanging from the ceiling, like dripping stalactites in a cave. I wondered if perhaps all those woody vines on the outside weren’t actually holding everything up and keeping the whole house from collapsing in on itself.

We finally reached the coffee table and sat down opposite each other in a pair of button-tufted armchairs covered in pale lemon silk and a fine layer of dust. I considered discreetly brushing some of it away, but I didn’t want to embarrass anybody, so I ignored it.

Mrs. Silverthorn arranged her long trailing scarf into a little bouquet in her lap and then sighed with a charming smile. “Now. Dixie Hemingway, I do hope you won’t mind my little trick, but I worry that tongues will wag whenever the Silverthorn name is bandied about, so I’m afraid I wasn’t entirely honest when I spoke to you on the telephone.”

I said, “I completely understand. It’s not a problem at all.”

She smiled. “Good, and please pardon the mess. As you can see, the roof is on the fritz. My footman is in charge of repairs, but I’m afraid he’s gone missing.”

I had never once heard anyone say the word “footman” in real life, but I just smiled nonchalantly as if it were the most normal thing in the world and said, “Oh no, not at all. It’s a very beautiful house. I’ve always wondered what it looked like, I mean, on the inside. I grew up here on the Key, so as kids we used to make up all kinds of stories about it.”

She threw her head back and laughed. “Oh, how delightful. What kind of stories?”

Luckily for me Janet came in carrying a tray. I didn’t think Mrs. Silverthorn would be too happy to hear how the whole town thought she was crazy and that her house was filled with hundreds of cats and ghosts and secret torture chambers. She stood up and waved her scarf in Janet’s direction. “We’re over here, darling.”

Janet was wending her way slowly through the chairs, keeping her eyes on the tray so as not to spill anything, and I thought to myself that her name didn’t fit her at all. She didn’t look like a Janet one bit. I would have guessed something darker, like Gerta or Morticia. Without looking up she said glumly, “I see you.”

Mrs. Silverthorn cleared a dirty ashtray and a stack of faded gossip magazines from the coffee table to the floor next to her chair. The cover of the top magazine had a blurry snapshot of a shirtless man on a yacht, with a caption that read, “Burton Finds Liz with Another Girl’s Hubby!!??”

Janet set the tray down on the table. It held a small silver teakettle sitting next to a matching sugar bowl, with a couple of lace napkins, two mismatched porcelain cups filled to the brim with steaming tea, and a tiny plate with two chocolate wafers.

Mrs. Silverthorn handed me one of the cups and said, “Dixie Hemingway, I do hope you won’t take cream in your tea, because I’m afraid we’re all out.”

She had a funny way of saying my name, as though it were all one word— Dixahemingway. I wondered if I shouldn’t correct her, but at that point I was still trying to adjust to my new surroundings and I didn’t quite trust my own judgment. I finally understood what Alice must have felt like in Wonderland. I’d smoked pot a few times in my rebellious teenage years, but I avoided the harder drugs like the plague, so I don’t have firsthand experience of what a bona fide drug trip feels like, but this had to be pretty damn close.

As I took a sip of my tea, I prayed that Janet hadn’t slipped some kind of potion in it, or at the very least had rinsed the cup out first. It was mint, with just a touch of lemon, and actually quite tasty.

Mrs. Silverthorn settled back into her chair and nodded at the back of Janet’s head. She was already halfway across the room. “That will be all for now, Janet darling, thank you.”

I heard Janet say, “I know.”

Mrs. Silverthorn said, “And now, we can finally talk.”

I had set my backpack down on the floor next to my chair, and I was pulling my notebook and pen out of the side pocket. I said, “Mrs. Silverthorn, I think I may already know why you called. And you’re right about those wagging tongues. I stopped in at the vet’s office right before I drove here. They mentioned you were looking for a missing cat.”

She shook her head. “Mr. Peters?”

“What?”

Her eyes widened with alarm. “Janet, where is Mr. Peters?”

Of course, Janet had already gone. Mrs. Silverthorn then raised one hand and solemnly held it in the air, like a student raising her hand to get the teacher’s attention.

She said, “Never mind. Whenever I think a troubling thought, I am to raise my hand in the air and name it. We’ll call that one ‘Oh, bother.’”

I nodded, relieved.

“You see, Mr. Peters is my only cat with outdoor privileges, and I’m afraid I worry about him too much. Hadley tells me I’m going to put myself in an early grave. I’m sure wherever Mr. Peters is, he’s perfectly safe. He’s probably out hunting crickets in the garden.”

I half expected her to tell me that Mr. Peters was a Cheshire cat. I said, “Oh, is Hadley your footman?”

She waved her finger in the air as if to say “no no no” but instead said something completely different. “Dixie Hemingway, you may or may not know there’s been a terrible incident in town. It would appear that one of my tenants has gone missing, and the authorities suspect foul play.”

“You mean Mr. Hoskins?”

She arched one eyebrow and nodded slowly. “So you do know. I want you to help me find him.”