Блейз Клемент - Raining Cat Sitters And Dogs

I sat for a few minutes trying to figure out where Jaz was going, but the answer was as obvious as it was unlikely. She could only be headed toward the resort hotel.

Sarasota has almost as many pricey tourist hotels as it has private homes, but the Key Royale caters to the crème de la crème. The Royale’s guests crave privacy and seclusion above all else, and they’re willing and able to pay top dollar for it. No paparazzi, no nosy reporters, just discreet hotel employees.

Jaz and her stepfather were not wealthy. They were not famous actors seeking a respite from continuous press coverage. They were not politicians or world leaders needing time out of the limelight. But if Jaz was trying to get home before her stepfather found her gone, that home had to be at the Key Royale. Which could only mean that her stepfather was an employee there, and they had been given living quarters.

Okay, it was beginning to come together. The stepfather wore a shoulder holster. If he was an employee at the Key Royale, he must be a security guard there. There was no mother, so he had complete responsibility for Jaz. Since the place was the epitome of exclusive, he practically kept her under house arrest to make sure she didn’t spill any secrets about the famous people staying there. He was a first-class jerk, a mean tyrant with no idea how to raise a teenager, a rent-a-cop in a cheap suit, but not a gang leader.

But then why had young men who were gang members in L.A. come to Siesta Key looking for Jaz? And why had her stepfather been so edgy and nervous at Dr. Layton’s office? Maybe he was a gang leader who had got a job at the Key Royale as a cover while he was in Sarasota. Maybe he didn’t have a record, so his background check hadn’t raised any flags when he was hired.

While I sat thinking, the Hummer passed from the other direction. It had driven to the bay and made a U-turn. It was behind me before it caught my attention, and all I could make out in the rearview mirror was the backs of three heads. They could have been the heads of the guys who had come into Reba’s house looking for Jaz. Or they could have been tourists. Or frustrated reporters denied entry into the resort. Or simply innocent people who were driving around in a dumb muscle car.

I pulled away from the curb and drove to the Key Royale. At the guard house, I pulled to a stop and flashed my most ingratiating smile at a gruff gray-haired man. Gruff gray-haired men are always pushovers for blondes who smile at them. You just have to act like you don’t know they’ll be pushovers.

I said, “Hi, I’m Dixie Hemingway. I’m a pet sitter here on the key, and I got a call this morning from some former clients who asked me to come look the place over and see if I think their Shih Tzu would like the amenities here. Do you think security would let me do that?”

He frowned and tried to look fierce. “Why don’t they just call and talk to the concierge? He’ll even send them pictures of the pet rooms.”

I said, “They had a very bad experience one time at a hotel that promised their dog would get nothing but the best. The best turned out to be top-quality fleas, so now they won’t take anybody’s word unless it’s somebody they know and trust.”

I said it modestly, so he wouldn’t think I was arrogant about being the person these fictional people knew and trusted.

I said, “I’m bonded, you know. Wait, I have an ID card I can show you.”

I dug around in my handbag and handed him my laminated membership card that showed I was in good standing with a major pet-sitting association. He looked at it and handed it back to me. I don’t imagine he’d ever seen one before, but he acted as if he looked at pet sitter association cards every day. Picking up a big black phone with impressive antennas shooting up a foot tall, he mashed some buttons.

As gruffly as possible, he said, “Lady here at the gate wants to look at the pet-friendly area. She has a dog that got fleas at some other hotel, and she’s not taking any chances.”

Squawking noises came from the phone. He nodded at it. “Yeah, I checked her ID.”

More squawking noises, and he turned the phone off and put it down.

“Drive on in and park in the valet area by the front door. Go to the front desk and ask for Gary.”

I gave him a megawatt smile. “Thank you so much!”

About twenty years fell off his face when he smiled. “You’re welcome, hon. Wouldn’t want that dog to go someplace where it’d get fleas again.”

Governments should hire blondes to spy on other governments. We can get into places nobody else in the world can go. The only problem is that once we’re in, we have to be twice as charming as we were when we talked ourselves in.

I obeyed directions and parked in the valet zone. I brushed off as much cat hair as possible and went inside the hotel. The lobby was surprisingly plain. No gilt, no crystal chandeliers, no murals on the ceiling, no pretension at all. Just clean lines and neutral sand colors.

The desk people weren’t snooty either, and if they knew right away that I didn’t belong in that rarefied atmosphere, they were nice enough not to show it. When I asked for Gary, a handsome man who looked as if he would be at home anywhere in the world came forward and shook my hand. I hadn’t expected a handshake. Since I was there to bamboozle him, it made me feel ashamed.

I said, “Gary, it’s so nice of you to let me come in. I’m Dixie Hemingway. I’m a pet sitter here on the key. Some former clients who have moved to Switzerland called me this morning and asked me to look at your hotel for them. They have a Shih Tzu who’s like a child to them, and they want to make sure she’ll be happy if they stay here. Her name is Sally.”

I should have been alarmed at how easily I lied. I almost convinced myself that I had clients who had moved to Switzerland with their Shih Tzu named Sally.

Gary said, “Of course. We take pride in the amenities we have for our pet guests.”

He snapped his fingers and a young man in a crisp white uniform stepped forward and stood at attention. He looked like a cruise ship captain.

Gary said, “Don, please take Ms. Hemingway on a tour of our pet-friendly area. And if one of the pet rooms is vacant, let her look at it.”

Don said, “Yes, sir,” and gave me a respectful smile. These people were all so nice, I wished I really had clients who had asked me to check out the hotel. I would have recommended the Key Royale in a minute.

Don said, “This way, ma’am,” and strode off in a crisp and manly way. I followed him down a hall to double glass doors that slid open when they saw us coming. We stepped through onto what looked like an outside wide bricked pathway, but all the humidity had been sucked out of the air, and it was cool. Overhead, a clear arched ceiling let in filtered light, and we walked between leafy green and flowering plants. There were even little yellow butterflies flitting around, and they looked happy. For butterflies, a lifetime spent in a cool place with no predators and plenty of sweet nectar to drink is probably their idea of heaven. Sounds pretty good to me too.

Don said, “I’m taking you this way because it’s the fastest path to the park area where your dog could exercise. It would have to be on a leash, but it would have plenty of room to run. We provide doggie bags, and our groundskeepers also police the area several times a day.”

I said, “It’s not actually my dog. I’m just a pet sitter checking out the place for some clients.”

Some of the starch went out of his uniform, and he slowed to a less brisk walk.

We left the air-conditioned butterfly garden for a truly outdoor walk toward a parklike area ringed by a curved two-story building that I assumed held rooms and suites.