Authors: Blaize Clement

The Cat Sitter's Nine Lives (31 page)

BOOK: The Cat Sitter's Nine Lives

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Then there was Mrs. Silverthorn …

When I got to the curve in the lane, I switched off the headlights and rolled the rest of the way down with nothing but the moonlight to guide me. Once inside the carport I cut the ignition and put my seat back. I had a feeling my phone would be ringing any minute, and I didn’t want the guys to hear. The thought of having to explain everything tonight made me shudder to the core. So instead I leaned my head against the window frame and stared at the darkened treetops, breathing in and out.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the side mirror and thought, considering everything, I looked okay. I felt okay, too. In fact, except for the gnarly bump on the back of my head and the feeling I’d been whacked in the trunk with a Louisville Slugger, I felt pretty damn good.

I looked over at the passenger seat, where Cosmo was sitting quietly inside his cat carrier and watching me carefully. I whispered, “Moses Cosmo Thornwall, considering everything, you look pretty damn good, too.”

He squinted his eyes and said,
“Mrow,”
which I took to mean, “I love you too, but get me out of this stupid box, you foolish woman.”

I figured I’d take Cosmo to Dr. Layton for a checkup in the morning. For now, he could stay with me and get a good night’s rest. I just hoped Ella Fitzgerald wouldn’t be too horrified to have him sleep over. Then, just as I predicted, the phone rang.

McKenzie barely waited for me to say hello. “I just received a report that we had a call earlier tonight from the butcher. He said he heard a pop and then saw a car speed out of the alley. He wasn’t sure, but he thought it might have been a gunshot.”

I said, “Yeah, that was Mr. Silverthorn.”

There was a pause. “Dixie, would you care to expound on that statement?”

“Oh, sorry. Yeah, he shot me … but it was dark and he was shaking. He missed.”

“And you’re just telling me this now?”

“I wanted you to get to Mr. Vladim before he did.”

She sighed. “Well, you were right. We arrested Silverthorn in the lobby of the hospital in a white dress, a gray wig, and full makeup. He had a pistol hidden under his arm.”

I said, “He was going to kill Mr. Vladim. He knew what Silverthorn had planned. And that nude drawing I found? It was Mrs. Silverthorn. I’m not sure if it’s true or not, but he took it to mean she’d had an affair with Mr. Hoskins.”

There was a pause. “Dixie, I’m afraid I owe you an apology. You may have been wrong about poison being involved, but you were certainly right about a connection to the Silverthorns.”

I said, “Yeah, well…” but I stopped myself. I knew if I told her I had four chocolate-covered rosary peas in my pocket she’d be banging on my front door in two seconds flat.

She said, “So the old woman in the video, it was Mr. Silverthorn. He hid in the back and then killed Mr. Hoskins after you left.”

I sighed. “No, the man in the store, the man who sold me the book … wasn’t Mr. Hoskins.”

I could almost hear her mind shifting into gear over the phone. She said, “Dixie, I need you to come down to the station.
Now.
”

I thought for a moment. I imagined myself walking into that station again after all these years. I imagined passing through its double glass doors, letting them close behind me with a whispered sweep, walking down the linoleum-floored hallway, the walls lined on either side with framed portraits, color photographs of the head brass and department heroes, and stopping at the front desk to check in … a walk of less than twenty feet, a walk that I’d made so many times before, and yet had seemed so impossible for so long.

I said, “Detective, it’s late, and I’ve had a long day. I was in the middle of something important when Silverthorn called me tonight. I’d like to get back to that.”

She was quiet for a moment. “Alright. Where would you like to meet?”

I said, “How’s nine o’clock at your office?”

There was a pause, and then she said, “Excellent. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine. Thanks.”

“Dixie, I believe it’s me who should be saying thanks.”

I felt my cheeks turn warm. Whenever I talked to McKenzie, I always had this nagging suspicion that she wondered how in the world I’d managed to become a sheriff’s deputy in the first place—that I was just some silly blonde with an overactive imagination. It felt good to know that maybe, just maybe, I was a silly blonde with an overactive imagination that she respected. I pictured a press conference where she thanked me for solving the case, and then the mayor stepped in to present me with the key to the city …

She interrupted, “But Dixie, there’s one more thing. I’m afraid you may have to testify on this one. Mr. Silverthorn seems to have known what he was doing. There’s no sign of him in the bookstore, and without hard evidence that places him at the scene of the crime, I’m afraid it will be your word against his.”

I nodded quietly to myself, and then the image of Mr. Hoskins appeared in my head, or, I should say, the man I
thought
was Mr. Hoskins—that sweet, bumbling old man I had instantly liked, the man who had reminded me so much of Mr. Beezy, my old childhood friend, when life was simple and the world was such an innocent place.

I could see Mr. Hoskins’s red beret, his funny yellow suspenders and red shirt, and I remembered pointing to his chest and saying, “You forgot a couple of buttons.”

McKenzie said, “Dixie, are you there?”

“I’m here.”

“Was there something else?”

I said, “Yeah. Those brass buttons on Mr. Hoskins’s shirt? You should check them for fingerprints. I think you’ll find they match Mr. Silverthorn’s.”

* * *

After we hung up, I tiptoed across the yard and up the steps, carrying Cosmo with me and preparing the story I’d tell Ethan when I got inside, but he wasn’t there. I took a couple of bowls down out of the cabinet and filled one of them with some of Ella’s kibble—I didn’t think she’d mind too much—and then I filled the other bowl with fresh water from the tap. Cosmo didn’t seem too interested, though. He was already thoroughly exploring every inch of the apartment, so I left him to get acquainted with his temporary lodgings and went back downstairs.

Michael and Paco were still wrapped in each other’s arms and sound asleep in one of the chaise lounges. Sprawled out in the next lounge over was Ethan, perfectly still, his dark, curly hair falling partly across his face and the top button of his pants undone—something he does when he’s eaten too much.

I smiled. There was an empty plate on the deck under his chair with some crumbs of key lime pie, and he was holding one arm over his chest, his fingers splayed delicately across his throat, as if to say, “Why, I do declare!”

Luckily for everyone, there were still a couple of slices of pie left on the table. I took one and sat down quietly next to Ethan. I took a bite. It felt like pure, unadulterated joy on my tongue. Like God was petting me.

Ethan stirred and looked up at me with squinted eyes. “Hey, babe. How’d it go?”

I whispered, “Fine. We found Cosmo. He’s gonna spend the night with us.”

He said, “Nice job,” and then ran his hand up and caressed the back of my head. I felt a jab of pain from the bump there and pulled away.

“Watch the hair! It took me half an hour to get it to look this gorgeous.”

He curled tighter around me and smiled sleepily as he laid his head in my lap. “Wow. You are such a girl.”

I gazed down at the ocean and watched the moonlight bounce and glitter on the waves as they rolled silently up on the beach. I should probably have been sleepy, too—my body felt like it had been hit by a runaway train, and the bump on the back of my head was pounding away as if it had its own pulse, but I didn’t feel the least bit tired. I was wide-awake.

“And also … we found out who murdered Mr. Hoskins.”

I looked down so I could watch Ethan’s reaction, but his eyes were closed and his lips were slightly parted. I could hear his breathing, slow and steady, and every once in a while his eyelids flickered slightly. Michael and Paco were still fast asleep; with their legs and arms all intertwined, it was impossible to tell whose was whose.

I whispered, a little louder now, “Yeah, it was Mr. Silverthorn.”

No one stirred.

“He found a naked drawing of Mrs. Silverthorn, and guess who the artist was?”

Michael snorted softly.

“That’s right, you guessed it. Mr. Hoskins. Silverthorn decided they’d had an affair, so he made some poisoned chocolates and told his footman he had to plant them or he’d turn him in for robbing banks.”

I took a bite of pie and glanced over at Paco. “Yep, his footman was Mr. Vladim, and Silverthorn planned on framing him for the murder, so he dressed up like an old lady and followed Vladim to the bookstore to make sure he did as he was told.”

Suddenly there was a quiet
“thrrreeep!”
and Ella Fitzgerald hopped up and gazed longingly into my eyes, purring like an electric razor.

“You heard me, an old lady! But Vladim didn’t do what he was told. Instead he crashed into a truck—that’s where I came in—so Silverthorn went to the bookstore and knocked Mr. Hoskins out and dressed up in his clothes and sold me that book and then dragged Mr. Hoskins into a crawl space and shot him and then snuck out the back door.”

I covered Ella’s ears for that last part and then looked around. “Am I going too fast?”

Ethan said, “Unhh.”

“Oh, and Mrs. Silverthorn’s maid is Vladim’s wife. She’s the other bank robber they’re looking for. Except I’m the only one that knows that. And I’m going over there in the morning to convince her to turn herself in. Either that or tell her to run away. I’m not sure I want to see her go to prison, but I know that would make me an accomplice to a felon. And I’ve been walking around all week with deadly chocolates in my bag.”

Ella yawned.

“Oh, and I almost forgot, Mr. Silverthorn shot me in the alley tonight.”

I took one last bite of pie and then raised my fork in the air with a flourish. “But he missed!”

I looked around. Nobody said a word. Ella stretched herself into her best scary-cat pose and then curled up in the nook of Ethan’s arm. The rest of them just lay there, snoring quietly.

And that was it. Nobody launched into a lecture about how I’m always getting myself in trouble and how I should be more careful, how I should’ve known better than to snoop around that bookstore late at night, how I should let the sheriff’s department do their job and mind my own business and
blah blah blah …

I figured I could always fill them in on the details later … maybe. For now I just wanted to enjoy the moment, the gentle hush of the waves rolling in, the palm trees and pines swaying gently in the breeze, the night-blooming cereus twining overhead and filling the air with its sweet scent, and all my favorite men and furry beasts and Michael’s world-class key lime pie.

There was one last piece sitting on the pie plate all by its lonesome in the middle of the table. I stretched my arm out as far as I could, but it was too far away, and with Ethan’s head on my lap and Ella curled between us I knew if I got up I’d wake them all and spoil the moment. So instead I just sat there.

My gardening book was at the opposite end of the table, opened halfway and lying facedown at Michael’s spot. There was a scratch pad next to it where he had scribbled a couple of notes. Hopefully, with Silverthorn’s fingerprints on Mr. Hoskins’s buttons, McKenzie wouldn’t need the book as evidence. That way Michael could keep it.

As for the chapter on poisonous plants, I figured maybe I’d keep that for myself—it had definitely turned out to be a pretty good reference tool for solving a mystery—and you never know when something like that might come in handy.

ALSO BY BLAIZE AND JOHN CLEMENT

The Cat Sitter’s Cradle

ALSO BY BLAIZE CLEMENT

The Cat Sitter’s Pajamas

Cat Sitter Among the Pigeons

Raining Cat Sitters and Dogs

Cat Sitter on a Hot Tin Roof

Even Cat Sitters Get the Blues

Duplicity Dogged the Dachshund

Curiosity Killed the Cat Sitter

About the Authors

John Clement is the son of Blaize Clement (1932–2011), who originated the Dixie Hemingway mystery series and collaborated with her son on the plots and characters for forthcoming novels. Blaize is the author of
Curiosity Killed the Cat Sitter, Duplicity Dogged the Dachshund, Even Cat Sitters Get the Blues, Cat Sitter on a Hot Tin Roof, Raining Cat Sitters and Dogs, Cat Sitter Among the Pigeons,
and
The Cat Sitter’s Pajamas
. Visit their Web site at
www.DixieHemingway.com
.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

A THOMAS DUNNE BOOK FOR MINOTAUR BOOKS.

An imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group.

www.thomasdunnebooks.com

www.minotaurbooks.com

Cover designed by David Baldeosingh Rotstein

eBooks may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department by writing to [email protected].

The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

ISBN 978-1-250-00933-3 (hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-4668-4851-1 (e-book)

e-ISBN 9781466848511

First Edition: July 2014

Table of Contents