Блейз Клемент - The Cat Sitter's Nine Lives

I gasped. “Good Lord, you scared me to death! I thought you went back inside.”

She narrowed her gaze. “I came back.”

Something in the way she was staring me down made my palms break out in a sweat. I could probably have freed Mr. Peters right then and there and said my good-byes before she started asking questions, but I just couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t run right back up the tree, and I definitely didn’t feel like climbing that ladder again. Janet stepped forward and held out her hand with an expectant, almost accusing look in her eye. I took a deep breath.

She said, “I take cat.”

I handed Mr. Peters to her. He tried to squirm out of her arms, but she held on to him with a firm grip and then glanced in my general direction.

“Thank you,” she said and then turned back toward the house.

I’m not sure what came over me then—maybe the adrenaline from having stuck my hand down in a potential snake’s lair—but there was something about her voice, her accent, that made something click in my brain.

I said, “You’re welcome … Mrs. Vladim.”

She stopped and turned to me. In that instant I knew. I could see it in her eyes. She was Baldy’s wife, the Bonnie to his Clyde, the woman the police were looking for—and Mrs. Silverthorn’s missing “footman” was none other than Baldy himself.

Her eyes widened, and she smiled politely. “I’m sorry? My name is Henson. Janet Henson.”

Then she turned and continued toward the house, her pace slightly quicker now. Not knowing what else to do, I followed her through the garden and around the corner through the portico, and when we reached the front entrance Janet opened the door and bowed her head. “I will tell Mrs. Silverthorn that you are gone.” Then she closed the door behind her.

I stood there dumbfounded, staring blankly into the eyes of the weathered green elephant door-knocker, my mouth hanging open like a boxer who’s just received a good left hook, followed directly with a heavy jab from the right. My hand fell down to the side pocket of my cargo shorts and closed around the tattered edge of the missing section of my book.

There appeared to be a whole host of things hiding at the Silverthorn Mansion.

25

It felt like I was waking from a dream as I made my way through the labyrinthian maze of hallways and stairwells at Sarasota Memorial. I hadn’t exactly planned on going there, but speeding up Midnight Pass from the Silverthorn Mansion, I found myself turning right onto Stickney Point and crossing over the bridge to Tamiami Trail. Then the next thing I knew I was circling around inside the multilevel garage next to the medical building looking for a parking place, and then suddenly I was headed straight for Baldy’s room.

I told myself I wouldn’t stay long. I was already in deep enough and I had my own life to think about—specifically, my date with Ethan that night. I wanted to keep it short and sweet so I could go home, take a shower, and get ready for a nice evening out with my man. Of course, even as I made my way through the lobby, I had no idea why I was there or what I was planning on being so short and sweet about.

When the elevator doors slid open at Baldy’s floor, it dawned on me that in some strange way I felt responsible for him. Sure, he’d put himself in the hospital with his crazy driving—that was nobody’s fault but his own—but I was the one who had pulled him out of his car, just the way you might free a chick that’s too weak to break out of its own shell. And just as a baby chick forms a never-ending bond with the first thing it lays eyes on, Baldy had taken one look at me and decided I was his dear, loving wife.

As far as I was concerned, it was my duty to see that he at least made it out of the hospital okay. Plus, I had a feeling that where he was headed next, kindness would not be in full supply.

When I rounded the corner to his room, I was surprised to find an armed guard sitting in a chair just outside the door. I should probably have expected that. Baldy was a criminal with probably a very high flight risk. My shoes squeaked on the shiny linoleum floor as I came to a stop. I considered turning right around and heading back for the elevator.

The guard stood up out of his chair and eyed me down the bridge of his nose. He wore black pants with white stripes down the outside seam, with a cop-blue, short-sleeved shirt with pockets on the chest. There was a black leather holster strapped to his waist, with the shiny black handle of a pistol poking out the top. He was big and muscular, the type of man you might find escorting a busty movie star through a crowd of frenzied paparazzi or standing next to a presidential candidate on the campaign trail.

His voice as deep as a bullfrog’s, he said, “Sorry, miss. No visitors.”

I said, “Oh, I’m Dixie Hemingway. Baldy … I mean, Mr. Vladim knows me.”

He held his hand up like a guard directing children at a school crossing. “I’m under strict orders. No one is allowed in this room unless authorized by hospital staff.”

I said, “No, you have to let me in. It’s important. Tell him Dixie Hemingway is here. I’m the one that—”

He interrupted. “I don’t have to do anything. If you want access to this room you’ll have to talk to the doctors.”

Just then I heard a voice over my shoulder. “What’s the problem?”

I turned to see a burly man with short-cropped black hair coming down the hall toward us. He was wearing green surgeon’s scrubs under a white lab coat, and when he saw my face his dour expression brightened.

He stopped in his tracks and held his arms open. “Hey, look! It’s Super Woman.”

I would never have recognized him in his surgeon’s clothes. It was the man from the head-on collision, the doctor who had helped me get Baldy out of his car.

The guard said, “This woman wants to visit Mr. Vladim, but I explained to her there’s no one allowed in this room but medical personnel. She’s leaving now.”

He nodded and then turned to me. From the pained expression on my face, he must have known right away that I wasn’t just there to shoot the breeze, because without missing a beat he thrust his open hand toward mine and said, “Dr. Hemingway, I’m Dr. Dunlop. I believe we’ve met before?”

As we shook hands he gestured toward Mr. Vladim’s door and said, “Shall we?”

The guard stepped back a little as Dr. Dunlop reached past him and opened the door to Baldy’s room. I met the bewildered guard’s suspicious frown with a solemn, doctorly nod. It took every ounce of self-control in my body to keep from sticking my tongue out at him, but I figured I would never have made it through medical school and become an important, world-renowned physician at the Sarasota Memorial Hospital by acting like a spoiled, immature brat, so instead I closed the door behind me with a polite smile and kept my tongue, quite literally, to myself.

Mr. Vladim was asleep on the hospital bed. His breathing was a little raspy, but slow and steady, and his complexion had improved since I’d first visited—it was rosier, and the bruises around his neck and face were almost gone. I was relieved to see that all the wires and IV lines had been taken away. Just a single tube remained, strapped to his left arm and leading to a clear bag of liquid on a hook behind his bed. I assumed it was probably a morphine drip.

I turned to Dr. Dunlop and whispered, “Thank you so much for that. I just wanted to see how he’s doing.”

He smiled and whispered back, “My pleasure. The guard is just a precaution. This guy’s not gonna hurt anybody. He might steal your wallet, but he’s on enough drugs to put an elephant to sleep. Anyway, he probably wouldn’t even be alive if it weren’t for you.”