Блейз Клемент - The Cat Sitter's Cradle

I put the last of the bags on the counter, and Joyce fished out a pint of ice cream and put it in the freezer. “The rest of this can wait. I’ll go wake her up.”

She disappeared down the hall while I sat down on the couch and braced myself. Henry the VIII jumped into my lap and pawed at my hand, trying to get me to pet him.

From down the hallway, Joyce let out a little laugh and then I heard, “Ay dios mío.”

As I rubbed Henry the VIII behind the ears, I wondered how angry or afraid Corina would be when she heard what we had to say. I didn’t think she was capable of violence, but I also knew that anybody, animal or human, can be pretty unpredictable when backed into a corner. I hoped she would understand that we were only looking out for her best interest, but I wasn’t sure how easy it was going to be to get her to see that.

Joyce said, “Hey, Dixie, why don’t you come back here?”

Henry the VIII jumped off my lap and went scampering down the hall ahead of me. Joyce was leaning in the doorway of Corina’s bedroom with a sad smile on her face.

“She’s gone.”

The room had been meticulously cleaned. The bedspread was completely smooth, its corners neatly tucked in, and the pillows were leaned up against the headboard with their edges perfectly parallel to one another. Lined up on the edge of the bed and organized in neat piles were all of the things I had bought for the baby. The clothes, the diapers, the creams, the bottles, the blankets. Everything.

On the dresser in front of the mirror was Joyce’s antique birdcage. It was as clean as if René had never existed, and inside, leaning against one of the little wooden perches, was a plain white envelope. Joyce opened the cage door and pulled it out. Written in a childish hand on its face were the words I’M SORRY.

We both slumped down on the bed and sat numbly for a minute or so.

Finally Joyce said, “Well, I guess I better open it.”

She slid her fingers across the flap of the envelope and took a deep breath.

There was no letter inside.

Just two slightly wrinkled thousand-dollar bills.

* * *

I have a theory about cats. It’s based on my own ranking system, which I call the Kitty Craziness Factor, or KCF. It measures the level of feline loopiness in a household—like how much racing up and down the stairs there is, or climbing on furniture and pouncing on imaginary mice. The higher the Kitty Craziness Factor, the more loopiness. So in a household where the KCF is high, there might be, for example, spelunking down the living room curtains or skydiving off the refrigerator.

The process of determining the Kitty Craziness Factor is pretty simple. You just count the number of cats. A household with only one cat has a KCF of one. A household with two cats has a KCF of two. A household with three cats has a KCF of seven. I don’t know why a household with three cats has more than three times the loopiness of a household with only two cats, but it’s a scientific fact.

Betty and Grace Piker were two retired sisters who had a long-standing agreement with each other. If one found a cat and wanted to bring it home, the other would stop her—using physical force if necessary. They had seven cats, all rescues. It wasn’t even possible to measure the KCF in their household; it was completely off the charts.

The Piker sisters had gone to Orlando to visit their niece, who had just given birth. They were only staying for the day, so all I needed to do was check on the cats and feed them. The sisters were planning on being back home that evening.

All the cats were napping when I arrived, so things were relatively subdued. I washed out the food bowls and lined them up in a row on the kitchen counter. In each bowl I mixed a cup of dry cat kibble with just a little warm water from the tap. Then I opened the cabinet and pulled out a can of sardines.

Suddenly all seven cats stampeded into the kitchen, circling at my feet and bleating excitedly. I hadn’t even opened the can yet. I could swear they knew the sound it made when it clinked down on the countertop.

As I distributed the bowls around the kitchen to give everybody a little elbow room to dine in private, I felt like Dame Wiggins of Lee, a character from one of the books my grandmother used to read to me when I was a little girl. The book had been a gift to me from my brother on my very first birthday. Dame Wiggins had seven wonderful cats that could all cook and sew. When they weren’t outside ice-skating on the pond or flying kites, they were inside helping Dame Wiggins of Lee with all her daily chores.

I said, “Anybody want to come home and help me with the laundry?”

There were no takers. They were all too busy concentrating on their yummy sardines to pay me any mind.

While they ate, I did a quick run through the house, righting overturned trash baskets and checking for any other accidents. In the guest bathroom, somebody had made confetti of the toilet paper roll, and there was a scattering of kitty litter that had been pawed out of one of the three litter boxes in the laundry room. They might not have been as neat and tidy as Dame Wiggins of Lee’s cats, but they were just as wonderful.

By the time I had cleaned the litter boxes and put everything back in order, everyone was done with dinner and the Kitty Craziness Factor was through the roof. Usually I worry about leaving my pets all alone in their houses—even if I’ve spent a good chunk of time playing with them—but these guys provided each other with so much attention and exercise that I didn’t feel guilty leaving them. In fact, I think if they’d been able to open a can of sardines by themselves, they wouldn’t have needed me at all.

I was headed out to the car when my cell phone rang. It was Detective McKenzie. I imagined Kenny had told her his story by now, and she was probably calling to find out what he’d told me and if our stories matched.

Before I answered, I took a deep breath. I wanted to be ready for whatever tricks she had up her sleeve.

“Dixie, I wanted to let you know our crime units are pulling out of the Harwick house now.”

I said, “Oh, okay. I guess I can bring the cat back?”

“That’s why I’m calling. Mrs. Harwick isn’t coming home yet. She’s afraid to sleep in the house until the killer has been caught. She’s asked if you could continue to feed her fish for a little while longer.”

I could tell by the tone in McKenzie’s voice that Mrs. Harwick was probably still in a state of shock. If it were me, I don’t think I’d ever want to go home again.

The last time we had talked, McKenzie mentioned that a doctor had been called in for Mrs. Harwick, probably to prescribe some sort of sedative to help her sleep. I wanted to know if that had helped at all, but I knew it wasn’t my place to ask.

McKenzie said, “Still no word from Kenny Newman?”

I closed my eyes and silently shook my head. “Oh, no.”

“What? I’m assuming you’ve not heard from him?”

I sighed. “Detective McKenzie, he showed up at my apartment late last night. I’m sorry I didn’t call you. He promised he was turning himself in as soon as he left. I just assumed he was telling the truth.”

There was a slight pause on the line, and then she said, “We need to talk. Where’s convenient for you?”

* * *

We agreed to meet near the pavilion at Siesta Key Beach. We were alone except for a group of teenagers in swimming trunks and bikinis, huddled around their soft drinks and eating hot dogs at one of the picnic tables. They were tearing little pieces of their hot dog buns and tossing them to the sparrows that were pecking around under the tables.

Detective McKenzie was waiting for me at one of the benches that face the beach. In her plain tan skirt and navy blue blazer, she stood out like a sore thumb. I got the feeling she didn’t spend a lot of time on the beach, and she had probably never worn a bikini in her life. She was wearing a pair of big-framed sunglasses, and her frizzy sorrel hair was pulled under a wide-brimmed straw hat, which provided some protection for her pale, freckled skin from the hot afternoon sun.