Блейз Клемент - Raining Cat Sitters And Dogs

Michael’s eyes had gone slitty.

“What do you mean, he told you? Did you ask him about it?”

“Not exactly. We just talked a little bit at the Sea Shack.”

Michael sat down and put his elbows on the table. He lowered his head between his hands and squeezed it for a long time while Ella widened her eyes and looked alarmed. When he raised his head, his eyes were considerably less cheery than they’d been when I first came in.

“Anything else?”

“No, that’s it. Harry asked about you, by the way. Said you were a good fisherman.”

“Hell, Dixie.”

“I’m not involved in anything, Michael. It’s just that I know all these people.”

Michael sighed. “Let me get this straight. You’ve delivered ransom money to kidnappers. You’ve talked to a man who might have killed Maureen’s husband. And you’ve spent time with a girl who’s on the run from a murdering gang from L.A.”

“It’s not as bad as you make it sound.”

“Stay away from Harry Henry.”

“Aw, Harry’s all right, he’s just weird. He has a new dog, named him Hugh Hefner.”

“Figures. Hugh Hefner’s probably Harry’s hero.”

I got up and rinsed my bowl and cup and put them in the dishwasher. I went around the bar and kissed Ella’s nose. Then I kissed Michael’s cheek.

“Thanks for the chili. Don’t worry about me. I’m cool.”

When I closed the kitchen door, I could see them through the window. Michael was letting Ella lick crumbs from his fingertips. Ella looked blissful. Michael looked worried. On top of his concern about Paco, I had just given him another load to carry.

As for me, I didn’t feel half as cool as I’d pretended. Laying it all out for Michael had made me feel like I was in the middle of a hurricane’s eye. It was calm there for the time being, but hurricanes move on. When they do, you get slammed by winds from an entirely different direction than the one you’ve been facing.

I still had some time before I had to make afternoon rounds so I ran upstairs and got my car keys. I needed to talk to Cora Mathers.

23

Cora Mathers is an eighty-something-year-old friend whose granddaughter was once a client of mine. The granddaughter was murdered in a most brutal way, and I had been immensely impressed by Cora’s strength when it happened. Afterward, she and I had sort of adopted each other.

Cora lives on the mainland in a lovely condo in Bayfront Village, a posh retirement tower on Tamiami Trail overlooking the bay. Her granddaughter bought the condo for her with money made in ways Cora has never suspected. As far as Cora knows, her granddaughter was a smart woman who made wise investments, and because she had a good heart she provided well for her cat and for her grandmother. The good heart part is true.

Driving north on the way to Bayfront Village, I swung off the Trail for a few blocks to Whole Foods. Leaving the Bronco in the parking garage, I hotfooted it inside and bought a dozen pink roses and a carton of frozen soup. As I loped back to the garage, a motorcycle arced around me and pulled into a parking spot. The driver’s head was covered by a black helmet and he wore so much denim that I couldn’t see his body, but I kept a hawk eye on his hands in case he flashed Paco’s signal. He pulled off his helmet and turned his head to look at me. He had a broad freckled face, little piggy eyes, and a scowl that looked as if it had been there forever. He definitely wasn’t Paco.

I pretended I hadn’t been staring at him and got in the Bronco and raced off. When I pulled under Bayfront’s portico, the parking attendant sprinted smartly to open the Bronco’s door before I had time to get out. Rich people get service like that.

When he saw it was me, he lost the servile look but kept the grin.

He said, “You here to see Miz Mathers? Nice roses.”

I slid out of the Bronco and looped the bag with the soup over my arm.

I said, “They’re organic.”

“You gonna eat them?”

“No, but I guess if somebody gets stuck by a thorn, it won’t be a poisonous thorn.”

“Ha! Next thing you know, they’ll be selling organic fertilizer.”

I sort of thought they already were, but I just smiled and left him to disappear my car into the bowels of the Bayfront’s parking garage. I like that about ritzy places. They make you feel like royalty.

The front doors sighed open as I approached, and the concierge waved to me from her French Provincial desk. The lobby was busy with enthusiastic seniors making plans for music lessons and bridge parties and opera trips and gourmet dinners. For sure their lives were a lot more socially active than mine. Maybe you have to be old to have the time for quality fun. Gives me something else to look forward to.

As I moved toward the bank of elevators, the concierge picked up her phone to warn Cora that I was coming. She used to make me wait until Cora had given permission for me to come up, but now she knows Cora always wants to see me. I like that. It’s good to know somebody always welcomes your presence.

Cora lives on the sixth floor, and when I got off the elevator she was already out in the hall, excited as a child to have company. When she was young, Cora probably stretched herself to an inch or two over five feet, but now that age has condensed her, she’d have to stand on tiptoe to reach five feet. She has wispy white hair like a baby chick and a skinny frame that moves on slow freckled legs. To make up for her slow feet, her brain moves at warp speed. When she looks at me with her pale blue eyes, I feel like I’m being examined by an eagle.

She said, “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? I’d of made some fresh chocolate bread. All I’ve got is left over.”

I said, “It’s still good left over.”

She said, “Oh my, what beautiful flowers. What else have you got there?”

“Some of that shrimp and corn chowder you like. The roses are organic, so you can stick your nose in them and not get poisoned. I guess the soup is too.”

She laughed and began ministepping into her apartment so slowly that I had to march in place to keep from barreling into her. Cora’s apartment is pale pink and soft turquoise everywhere you look, from the marble floors to the skirt on the round table between the galley kitchen and the living room. Glass doors open to a sun porch overlooking the bay, so she has an ever-changing view of water and clouds and sailboats.

An odor of chocolate always hangs in the air from the decadent chocolate bread Cora makes in an old bread-making machine—another gift from her granddaughter. She won’t divulge the recipe, but at some point in the process she throws in bittersweet chocolate chips that never completely melt but make soft oozy blobs in the bread. She serves it in torn chunks, and when it’s hot and slathered with butter Cora’s chocolate bread would make hardened criminals break down and confess just to get a taste.

Her kitchen wasn’t big enough for both of us, so she sat at her table and watched me work behind the open kitchen bar. She said, “Leave the soup out to thaw. I’ll have it for supper.”

While water heated in her teakettle, I put the roses in a clear glass pitcher and set them on the bar. I got a tray for our tea things and found half a loaf of chocolate bread.

Cora said, “Don’t put it in the microwave, it’ll get tough. Just tear off some hunks.”

“I know.”

She watched me get butter from the refrigerator, teacups from the cupboard, and pour hot water over tea bags in a pot. I brought the tray to the table and sat down across from her. She waited until I’d poured our tea and distributed our hunks of chocolate bread.

She said, “What’s wrong?”

Cora is like Michael. One look at me and they both know what I’m feeling.