Блейз Клемент - Even Cat Sitters Get The Blues

I pulled the door open and almost made it out without opening my mouth again. But I had to give it one last shot.

I turned back and said, “Please, please don’t mutilate that kitten.”

I left them then, looking toward the little girl and the kitten as I fled down the steps. Both child and kitten had fallen asleep in a pool of sunshine on the porch floor, the kitten cuddled in the curve of the child’s body, both innocently unaware of how their lives were about to change.

As abruptly as we had briefly plunged into winter, temperatures had soared into summer again. It was almost 80 degrees when I left Paloma’s house, causing me to regret wearing long pants instead of my usual shorts. I made quick visits to the pets on my list to make sure Joe and Maria had tended to all of them. At the beagle’s house, I scanned the neighborhood for the miniature bulldog and the mystery woman, but I didn’t really expect to see them again. I brushed the beagle, gave her a doggy treat for being such a good sport about staying alone while her owners were gone, and promised I’d be back in the evening. When I backed out of the driveway, I could see her face in the living room window, dolefully watching me leave. People say “It’s a dog’s life” to mean a life of contentment, but dogs frequently live with boredom and loneliness.

Billy Elliot didn’t seem bored when I got to his condo, he seemed nervous and agitated, which meant he hadn’t got a good hard run that morning. He looked highly disappointed when he realized I was there for a social call and not to run with him. I took a bit of nasty pleasure in knowing that Tom’s new girlfriend hadn’t been able to satisfy him—the dog, I mean, not Tom. From the way Tom looked, he was plenty satisfied.

Tom wanted to know all the details about how I’d been conked on the head and what the cops were doing about it.

After I filled him in, he said, “The murder was on the news, but nothing about a fire or about you getting hit.”

“Good. I don’t want reporters nosing around me again.”

“Dixie, you need to take it easy for a few days, give your head a chance to heal. Don’t worry about Billy Elliot, Frannie can walk him.”

The little hard knot of jealousy in my chest nudged. “Tell her she has to run hard with him, two or three times around the parking lot.”

Two little worry lines appeared between Tom’s eyebrows, but Billy Elliot came over to grin and whip my legs with his wagging tail, his way of confirming what I’d just said. I stroked the top of his head and tried hard to believe he loved me more than he loved the unknown Frannie. But in my heart of hearts I knew he loved running, Tom, and anybody who fed him, in that order.

I said, “Tom, would you mind looking up something on the internet for me? I want to know about a company named BiZogen Research.”

In one smooth move, Tom wheeled himself backward and pulled a slim gray case from the kitchen counter behind him. Pushing the tax returns he was working on aside, he laid the case on the table and opened it. He hit some keys while I tried to act like I’d known all along that it was a computer.

He looked intently at the screen for a moment, and said, “There’s a bunch of stuff about BiZogen Research. What exactly do you want to know?”

I moved to peer over his shoulder and read a list of titles and sentences that contained the words BiZogen Research .

“Gosh, that’s a lot.”

“That’s only the first page. There are three more pages. You see anything that looks like what you’re looking for?”

When I hesitated, he clicked on the first thing on the list, and in a few seconds the screen was filled with an article from The New York Times . The article began:

BiZogen Research Labs announced today that it has developed a vaccine against the four viruses that cause dengue fever, a mosquito-borne infection of international concern. Predominantly in tropical and subtropical regions of the world, dengue fever and its potentially lethal complication, dengue hemorrhagic fever, affects most Asian countries and is a leading cause of hospitalization and death among children.

I shook my head. “That doesn’t mean anything to me. Try something else.”

He made the article disappear and clicked on the next thing on the list. It was a similar article from The Wall Street Journal. So were the next three entries. I relaxed. BiZogen Research was exactly what it sounded like, a research company. And it did good things, like creating vaccines to save lives. I couldn’t imagine why it had a shell company that had built a house for Ken Kurtz to live in, but for all I knew Ken Kurtz was the chairman and CEO of BiZogen.

I was about to tell Tom to forget it when he pulled up another article, also from The New York Times.

An intellectual property lawsuit was filed today in federal court against BiZogen Research Labs by Genomics Unlimited of Switzerland. The suit charges that spies from BiZogen infiltrated Genomics’ research department and stole records on their development of a vaccine for dengue fever. BiZogen announced that it patented a vaccine for dengue fever three months ago, but Genomics contends that the patent was obtained fraudulently. The patent is worth billions of dollars over the ten years it will be in effect.

Tom said, “That mean anything to you?”

I didn’t answer. I was too busy reading that 85 percent of espionage crimes were perpetrated by employees.

On suddenly weak knees, I walked around the table and sat down opposite Tom.

I said, “Ken Kurtz must be a scientist wanted for espionage. That’s why he’s hiding out. Maybe that’s what’s wrong with him. Dengue fever, I mean.” I stood up. “I have to tell Guidry about this.”

Tom looked worried. “Dixie, you be careful. Don’t go getting yourself involved in something dangerous again.”

I gave him a grateful smile. Tom really was a good friend, even if he hadn’t told me he had a new girlfriend.

I said, “I’ll be back in a couple of days. If your girlfriend just walks briskly with Billy Elliot, that’ll be good enough.”

Tom looked immensely relieved, and I ducked out before Billy Elliot realized I had sold him out.

SIXTEEN

As I got in the Bronco, I remembered that I hadn’t called Guidry earlier in the morning. A concussion not only makes your brain feel like it’s stuffed with chewed-up paper bags, it makes you forgetful. He didn’t answer his cell, so I left a message saying I was okay, in case he cared, and that I had more information for him.

With their indoor potties, cats are about a million times easier than dogs because they’re more self-sufficient. And since Joe and Maria had fed them, I knew they weren’t hungry. Even so, I went into every cat’s house apologizing for not coming earlier to groom them and play with them.

Most of them gave me a supercilious look that said, Oh, is that you? I’d forgotten you were coming.

Cats never let you forget that they were considered divine by ancient Egyptians. So far as they’re concerned, the Egyptians were right. Even divine Egyptians can’t resist being petted, though, so by the time I got out my grooming equipment, they were rubbing their scent glands on my ankles and vowing to be my best friend forever.

Since the weather had warmed up, I took them out to their lanais for their grooming session, because cats need fresh air the same way humans do. Besides, they like to watch birds and squirrels in the trees. At Muddy Cramer’s house, I found him in the kitchen sitting like a jug facing his food bowl. He looked over his shoulder at me with a CEO’s indignant scowl. Joe and Maria hadn’t known to add chicken livers to his dry organic food, and he was sulking.