Блейз Клемент - The Cat Sitter’s Pajamas

I said, “Let’s start at the beginning. How did you get into the Trillins’ house?”

She waved a languid hand. “Oh, that was easy. I have a little handheld electronic gizmo that can disengage selected zones of the security system without alerting the security company. I blocked the zone that regulates the scanners outside the back sliding patio door. All I had to do was pick the lock. Took about ten seconds.”

Her voice had gone brisk and sure of itself. I didn’t know if what she described was possible, but she sure sounded like she knew what she was talking about.

“What about the entrance gate? What about the walls around the whole place?”

She smiled. “Parked my Jag out of sight on the other side of the wall, climbed up and clipped the razor ribbon hidden under the vines, pushed it aside, tossed a plastic ladder over, and came over. I hid the ladder behind the vines so I could climb back up. The wall where I cut the wire is behind some trees, and nobody pays any attention to a woman jogging early in the morning.”

My hand holding my sandwich sank to the table. This woman was not a dithery nut. She was an accomplished break-in artist, a calculating scaler of razor-topped walls, a woman with wire clippers and experience at slipping into places impassible to everybody else.

“I take it this isn’t your first breaking-and-entering job.”

That smile again, cool and sure of itself. “Hardly.”

“You supplement your modeling income with a little theft on the side?”

This time she actually chuckled, as if she found me drolly amusing. “I go in people’s houses, but I don’t steal anything. I just like to get a look at other people’s private lives. You might say it’s a hobby, like stamp collecting or softball.”

“Okay, so you didn’t break into Cupcake’s house to steal. What was your reason? Why were you stalking him?”

Her smug smile died. “Is that what he thinks? That I was stalking him?”

I couldn’t keep my mouth from saying it anymore. “Are you nuts ? Of course that’s what he thinks!”

Her red mouth turned down at the corners. It trembled. She raised her fingers to her lips to comfort them. A tear trickled down her cheek from behind the dark shades. Her shoulders sagged as if a great weight had been laid on them.

“I thought he would understand. Of all the people in the world, I trusted Cupcake to understand.”

My own shoulders went a few inches lower, too. Whatever the woman carried around in her disturbed head sent out heavy, oppressive waves.

I said, “Here’s the deal, Briana. A woman was murdered inside the home of Cupcake and Jancey Trillin. You were in the house at the time the woman was killed. Now you say you have a history of breaking and entering. If you think I’m going to be moved by some sentimental crap about your mystical connection with Cupcake, you underestimate my intelligence. Unless you have a credible explanation for what happened—other than ‘she was already dead when I walked in on her’—I’m out of here and you’re on your own.”

Her head raised, and I could feel anger in the eyes behind the sunshades. But she must have heard reality in what I’d said, because she sighed and pushed her sandwich aside as if she were clearing the deck to get down to business.

“I’ve known Cupcake Trillin practically all my life. We lived in a little parish in Louisiana where half the population is below the poverty line. Women marry in their teens, have a passel of babies by the time they’re twenty, fry up fish their men catch in the bayous, grow old fast from worry and work. Men, especially black men, work in sugarcane fields the same way Appalachian men work in coal mines. It’s what their fathers and grandfathers have always done, and unless they’re extra smart or extra talented, it’s what they’ll do, too.”

Her voice trembled, and she took a sip of coffee.

“I make it sound as if it was all grim, but I have good memories, too. Like the man who came to our back door twice a week selling fresh fish from an ice-filled box on the back of his truck. He sold shrimp, too, right off the boats. At certain times of the year, he had crawfish, and my folks would order fifty pounds and have a party. They boiled the crawfish in huge pots with lots of cayenne pepper thrown in to make the crayfish spit out the sand. All their friends would gather in the backyard, and we’d suck meat from crawfish tails and drink cold beer.”

I made a get-on-with-it motion, and her pale skin flushed pink.

“Cupcake and I were the odd ones in our families. We didn’t fit in, didn’t want the same things they wanted for us. It was the same way in school. We were smarter than most everybody else, including the teachers. And we laughed at things the other kids thought were holy and important. Nobody else wanted us, so we sort of drifted together.”

“You were friends?”

“More than friends.”

“Lovers?”

That faint blush again. “We weren’t like that. We just sort of dared each other to go beyond what the world expected and then supported each other while we did it.”

She let a beat go by as if she were watching images float by inside her head.

She said, “I would have followed the devil himself if he’d offered me a chance to get out of that little town.” She stopped and flashed an ironic smile. “Perhaps I did.”

I looked at the eyeball-sized emerald on her hand and thought that the devil was certainly generous.

She said, “Cupcake escaped because he was an outstanding athlete. I escaped by leaving my family and everything I knew, and I’ve never been back.”

“You just left? Just like that?”

Her lips tightened. “Sorry. The truth doesn’t come easily. I’ve lied so much about my family I’ve almost come to believe my own lies. My official bio says I was orphaned in a little village in Switzerland when my parents were killed in an avalanche, but a kind couple adopted me and brought me to the United States. Minnesota, to be exact. I say I grew up on a remote farm and that my adoptive parents home-schooled me until I was eighteen and then I left home with their blessings. The truth is I was born in Louisiana on the fork of the Mississippi River to a couple who never went beyond grade school and had about six teeth between them. My white-trash uncle molested me from the time I was six. I killed him when I was sixteen. Shot him through the head with a double-barreled shotgun my father used for killing rattlesnakes. Then I took off. Worked as a maid for a while, turned some tricks, and then got discovered by a modeling agency.”

Her voice had the gritty underpinning of harsh truth.

I said, “You left out the part about breaking into people’s houses.”

She took a deep breath. “That’s how Cupcake and I got the money for books and shoes, clothes, haircuts, things we couldn’t have had otherwise.” With a sly smile, she said, “Cupcake mostly did it so he could buy a pair of Nikes.”

My jaw dropped. Cupcake was the most honest man I knew.

She grinned. “We were very young then. And we never took anything truly valuable. We wouldn’t have recognized anything valuable anyway, and the fence we took things to insisted that we stick to small things that he could sell easily.”

“That’s how you learned to break through security systems?”

“No, that came later. Cupcake didn’t have anything to do with that. I learned all that on my own.”

I could feel my cheeks firm up, the way a face does when it’s trying not to show shock or disgust.

She said, “After I left the parish, I never had any contact with Cupcake, but I followed his career. He was the only person in my life I could depend on to always be kind to me.”