Raining Cat Sitters and Dogs (15 page)

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.

Don said, “This place really is great for pets. It’s not just a hotel come-on.”

I said, “You know, I live here on the key but I’ve never been to the hotel before.”

He shrugged. “Most people haven’t. I mean, unless you work here, you wouldn’t come here.”

“Pretty pricey, isn’t it?”

He grinned. “Some of the rooms go for five thousand a night. Can you believe that? And a suite for a weekend will set you back twenty thousand.”

“Wow. Who has that kind of money?”

“Lots of people. We’re always booked.”

We reached the grassy park and stopped at its edge. It looked like a very well-tended golf course. The groundskeepers probably immediately excised any grass that turned yellow from dog pee.

Don said, “Guests who want their dogs in their rooms stay in this building, but some guests prefer their dogs to stay in their own private room. In either case, all the dogs come here to exercise. We get a lot of rabbits from the woods, so even dogs that are well trained have to be leashed. Not many dogs can resist chasing a rabbit, huh? They’re not allowed on the beach, either, so if guests want to take their dogs to a beach, we give them directions to Brohard Beach in Venice.”

By this time I was so taken with the place that I
couldn’t wait to tell my nonexistent clients in Switzerland that a dog beach was only twelve miles away for Sally’s enjoyment. But Don had just explained the source of the injured rabbit that Jaz had carried into Dr. Layton’s office, which brought me back to the real reason I was there.

I said, “Gee, I’d like to work here. Do they give you guys living quarters?”

“Just the managers. They have apartments on the ground floor.”

“What about the security guards?”

He shook his head. “Nah, they go home when their shift is over. There’s too many of them to give them all an apartment. We’ve got plainclothes detectives all over the place.”

“What if the managers have kids? Do they live here too?”

Some of his earlier stiff ness returned. “You’d have to ask them. I don’t know about their private lives.”

I was impressed. He was willing to give me some insider stuff, but he drew the line at revealing personal information about other employees.

He said, “Let me show you the private rooms for dogs.”

I dutifully went along with him, but all the time my eyes were searching for Jaz. The more I saw, the less I expected to find her. The place sprawled all over the bayfront, with tennis courts and swimming pools and little alfresco dining spots under the trees. The bay itself had speedboats, sailboats, fishing boats, canoes, water skis, and paddleboats for more outgoing guests. But set back from the bay were cottages and villas completely separate from the active areas, and winding all over the place
were meandering brick paths that led between buildings. An occasional ground-level sign politely pointed the way to landmarks in case guests became confused by all the options.

Don took me to the special building where dogs and cats could vacation in air-conditioned splendor, with top-of-the-line beds, climbing posts, scratching posts, private TVs, music, and room service. I was positive the imaginary Shih Tzu named Sally would absolutely love one of those rooms, but I still had an eye out for Jaz.

On the way back toward the main building, a small sign announced
HONEYMOON COTTAGES
, with a female hand sporting a big sparkly wedding ring pointing down a shady path edged with sweet alyssum. The cottages backed up to the nature preserve and their fronts were screened from view by palms and sea grape. Through the foliage, I saw a flight of stairs going up to a narrow porch.

I said, “Ooh! Is this where the honeymoon cottages are? Oh, that would be so terrific, to come to a place like this on a honeymoon!”

I sounded so wistful, I nearly moved myself. For sure I moved Don.

He looked over his shoulder to make sure nobody was watching. “You want to look at them? From the outside, I mean, I can’t take you inside.”

“Ooh, yes!”

I moved forward so fast Don had to double-step to keep up. The honeymoon cottages were brilliantly situated at angles so no cottage faced another, and no window looked out at another. Each was built in old Florida beach style, tall on wooden stilts, with a flight of steps
leading up to a narrow porch. Each had a private single-lane drive. Each was a miniature version of Reba’s house.

I said, “Do those cottages have numbers? Like addresses?”

For the first time, Don looked uneasy. He said, “They have names, not numbers.”

Of course they did. I should have known. They would be called the Flamingo or the Hibiscus. If Jaz actually lived in one of those honeymoon cottages, she wouldn’t know her house number because she wouldn’t have one. But what was she doing in a cottage that cost twenty thousand dollars a weekend?

Don said, “We’d better get back to the front desk. They’ll be wondering why I’m taking so long.”

I said, “Oh, I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have asked you to show me those cottages. It’s just that women dream, you know?”

He said, “Are you married?”

“I’m a widow.”

He colored in embarrassment, and I hated myself. I had never used my widowhood before to get sympathy, and it made me feel cheap. But Don felt so sorry for me now that he’d quit wondering why I’d asked if the managers had children or if the honeymoon cottages had numbers. He probably thought grief had made me weird. He wasn’t far off, but in that particular case I’d been more calculating than nuts.

I walked with him back to the front lobby, thanked Gary profusely for providing an escort, promised to highly recommend the Key Royale to my mythical clients in Switzerland, and got back in the Bronco. At the gate, I
waved a jaunty goodbye to the guard and mouthed,
Thank you!
He waved back like we were old friends. I should have been contrite to have fooled a nice man, but I actually felt quite proud.

I was positive that Jaz and her stepfather were somehow connected to the Key Royale resort hotel, and that she had described one of the honeymoon cottages to somebody in L.A. as her home.

I still didn’t understand why she would do that.

A
t the diner, I picked up a copy of the
Herald-Tribune
from a stack by the cashier’s stand and dropped it on my table to mark my spot while I washed up. My energy boost was draining by then, and it pretty much completely evaporated when I saw Bambi Dirk standing at a sink in the ladies’ room. The fact that her name was Bambi was just another example of how some people’s names don’t fit them. Bambi Dirk was more like a moose than a fawn, and for a second I wondered if there was some kind of karmic high school reunion going on, a cosmic force that had first drawn Maureen to me and now Bambi.

But where Maureen and I had once shared a special closeness, Bambi and I had shared a special dislike. Actually, she’d hated me like poison and the feeling had been mutual. Bambi had never gotten over the fact that her boyfriend had dumped her for me, and I’d never gotten over the fact that she’d branded Maureen the school slut. All that high school stuff should have been put behind us, but
Bambi and I eyed each other like two cats ready to hiss and pounce. She wore a toad-colored blouse and white shorts so tight in the crotch they were giving her a wedgie. She had put on weight since we’d last seen each other, and I hadn’t. That gave me great pleasure.

She said, “Why Dixie, I didn’t know you still lived on the key. I heard you got fired from the sheriff’s department and left town.”

I held my hands under a spray of water and resisted flinging some on her.

I said, “Wrong on both counts, Bambi. I wasn’t fired and I’m still here.”

Her eyebrows drew together to make a deep vertical groove on her forehead. In a few years, that groove would be permanent and she’d look like an elk. Couldn’t happen to a more deserving woman.