Блейз Клемент - The Cat Sitter’s Pajamas

10

My alarm went off at 4:00 A.M. the next morning, and I swam up from sleep trailing remnants of my dream. On my way to the bathroom, my thoughts shot to Briana on a narrow bunk in a jail cell. Splashing water on my face and twisting my hair into a ponytail, I wondered if Briana was awake, too. I imagined her pacing her cell or huddled on the floor in despair. While I got into cargo shorts and a tank top and fresh Keds, I imagined a cellmate who hated Briana because she was a raving beauty and plotted to scratch her eyes out. Outside on my porch, I decided I suffered from an overactive imagination. Besides, as Paco had pointed out, Briana wasn’t my problem.

I stopped for a minute to fill my lungs with the sea’s salty breath and get my bearings. It was my favorite time of day—that tentative period while the moon and stars negotiate with the sun, and the universe waits to see if the night’s rulers will gracefully exit and let a new day begin. A dull corrugated sea stretched toward a blurred horizon. On its surface, the reflection of retreating stars made winking lights like dying fireflies. Above it, a few desultory seabirds floated on high air currents. On the shore, a sleepy surf pretended to have every intention of getting its act together and making a bigger splash, but not just yet. I felt the same way.

Trailing my fingers on a stair railing damp with predawn dew, I went to the carport, where a trio of snowy egrets slept on the hood of my Bronco and a white pelican dozed on the roof. The pelican stretched his wings and smoothly sailed away when I opened the car door, but the egrets stayed put until I started the engine and their roosting place began to hum and vibrate. Even then they didn’t seem put out about having to move, they just politely flew away. Egrets are friendly optimists.

As always, I stopped first at Tom Hale’s condo, where Billy Elliot was aquiver with excitement in the dark foyer. I used my key, whispered a quick hello to him, got his leash from the foyer closet, and we were out the door in seconds, Billy’s tail like a helicopter rotor of anticipation. He feels about his morning run the way caffeine addicts feel about their first cup of coffee.

At that hour, Billy and I pretty much had the parking lot’s oval track to ourselves. The only other dog was an overweight basset hound leading an equally overweight man who wore pull-on knee supports on each leg and listed side to side like a ship in an uneven sea. Billy and I sped past man and hound. I nodded and smiled at them in a friendly good-morning way, but Billy’s grin had a more disdainful look.

Tom was still asleep when Billy and I went back upstairs. Billy was calm and happy, I was still panting a little bit. I replaced his leash in the foyer closet, smooched the top of his head, and left him looking like a pampered athlete who knew his trainer would soon appear with a postexercise serving of protein.

The rest of my morning calls went smoothly. I walked a fluffy white bichon frise whose human had broken an ankle by stepping in the pool skimmer while she was emptying the basket. The bichon was polite during our walk but eager to return to her human. I fed and walked two miniature dachshunds whose human had gone to Orlando for the day. They were also polite but kept giving each other raised eyebrows because I didn’t do things exactly the way their human did them. I fed and cleaned the cage of a parakeet whose human was out of town for a week. The parakeet was muttering to itself when I left, and I had a feeling it was counting the hours until its human would return. I didn’t take it personally. We all like things to stay the same.

The rest of my calls were to cats, all of whom pretended not to miss their humans one iota. Cats are like that. I think it’s because they give their hearts so completely to their humans that they feel embarrassed about it. To cover the fact that they’re more sentimental than the gooiest Hallmark card, they put on a big show of indifference.

Most of the morning’s cat clients remembered me from earlier times, so they tolerated me without fearing they’d been abandoned by the ones they loved. The new ones accepted my food and my grooming with wary appreciation. It takes a cat a while to trust a new person. I’m that way myself, so I don’t take offense.

Midway through the morning, Sergeant Owens called to give me the go-ahead on having the crime-scene cleaners go to the Trillins’ house.

I said, “Do you have an identification for the murdered woman yet?”

He said, “As I recall you’re usually at the Village Diner around ten o’clock.”

I hate it when people answer a question with another implied question. Besides, I didn’t like him implying that I was the kind of person whose routine was so rigid that the entire sheriff’s department knew it. But like it or not, I had to agree that I could usually be found slurping coffee every morning at the Village Diner around ten.

He said, “An investigator working on the homicide will probably stop by while you’re there. He wants to talk to you about what you saw yesterday.”

“Your new homicide detective?”

Owns cleared his throat, mumbled something to somebody else, and said, “Gotta go, Dixie.”

He clicked off and left me with the uneasy awareness that he had avoided answering both my questions. Owens wasn’t the kind of man to get touchy about a delay in identifying a homicide victim. Furthermore, I doubted that Owens would be uncomfortable talking to me about the detective who had replaced Guidry. Which meant that what I’d suspected was true. The department knew who the woman was, but they had some reason for not releasing the information.

But when I considered all the international attention the murder had attracted, I could understand why the sheriff’s department might be reluctant to share details with the world. Especially if they were afraid their new homicide detective wasn’t up to the job.

I called the crime-scene cleanup guy, who said the timing was great because his team could start work immediately.

I said, “When can the owners come home?”

“Depends on whether we have to replace the tile. If the tile’s not contaminated, they could come back tonight. If it was me, I’d wait until tomorrow morning to let the odor of ozone and germicide spray dissipate.”

“They have cats.”

“Cats for sure will hate the smell. And, like I said, I won’t know until I see it if we’ll have to replace the tile. Check with me this afternoon and I’ll be able to tell you more.”

My next call was to the Ritz-Carlton, where I booked a suite for Cupcake and Jancey. Making hotel reservations for clients isn’t my job as a pet sitter, but in this case I did it for the same reason I’d taken Elvis and Lucy to the Kitty Haven—I knew Cupcake and Jancey were too shocked and stressed to make arrangements for themselves.

At about nine forty-five, I pulled my Bronco into the Village Diner’s parking strip. None of the other cars there looked like the unmarked sedans driven by Sarasota County detectives. Inside the diner, I waved to Judy, the waitress who’s been there forever, and headed for the ladies’ room. I knew Judy would alert Tanisha, the diner’s cook, that I was there, and that Tanisha would get on my regular order and have it ready by the time I took a seat in my regular booth. Like I said, I’m so predictable it’s downright pathetic.

I took a little extra time in the ladies’ room. In addition to washing off all noticeable cat hair, I splashed water on my face, combed my hair, and redid the ponytail. I slicked on lip gloss, too, and eyed myself with extra care to make sure I looked presentable. I looked okay. With my Scandinavian ancestors, I have a kind of blue-eyed, blond, Jennifer-Aniston-girl-next-door-look. Not a raving beauty, but okay.