The Cat Sitter's Nine Lives (4 page)

“Well,” I said to myself, “I’ve done crazier things.”

I reached in the backseat and grabbed Ethan’s black hoodie. It fit me like a king-sized mattress cover, but it did a nice job of concealing my bloodied clothing, and I planned on whipping into the store as quickly as possible and picking out the first book that caught my eye.

In a small town like this, you always have to consider the possibility that you’ll bump into somebody you know, but if I was lucky I could be in and out in five minutes and no one would ever see what a whack-job I looked like. With one more check of my reflection in the car window, I zipped up the hoodie, smoothed my hair back, and headed off for Beezy’s Bookstore.

If I’d known better, I would have gotten right back in the car. In fact, if I’d known better, I would have gotten right back in the car, calmly backed out of the parking space, shifted into gear, crashed through the police barricades, sped out of town like a bat out of hell, and never looked back.

Instead, I went shopping.

3

The front window of Beezy’s Bookstore was one of those big rounded affairs that the old shops used to have, with thick iron muntins framing glass panes so old they look like they’re melting. There were all kinds of books in the display, some old, some new, all artfully arranged and lit by two hanging lamps with milky glass shades. In one corner was a small terra-cotta urn with an impossibly vigorous devil’s ivy spilling out in every direction. It weaved in and around all the books, climbing up both sides of the window and intertwining again across the top. In the window pane just next to the door was one of those old
OPEN
signs with a little clock face and movable hands.

In the other corner, the one farthest from the door, was a stack of old dictionaries about two and a half feet tall, on top of which was a fluffy coating of fur, as if the books had sprouted a thick head of orange hair. I knew right away that hiding somewhere inside was a very lucky, very furry tabby cat.

When I pushed the door open I heard a little tinkling bell over my head and immediately felt a rush, as if I’d just gone down a slide. It had to be the same bell that was there when I was a child, because all kinds of memories came rushing into my head, memories of being sprawled out under a big claw-foot table in the middle of the store, my head resting on a stack of books-to-read, holding whatever was my current favorite aloft over my head, lost in its world.

I felt like I’d stepped out of a time machine. The place was virtually unchanged from how I remembered it. Just inside the door to the left was an antique cash register, sitting on top of a dark, glossy wood counter with burled edges and brass corners. There was an old metal-backed stool with a well-worn cushion behind the counter, surrounded by stacks and stacks of books, old ledgers, boxes of receipts, and paper bags brimming over with magazines and comics.

A narrow aisle led down the middle of the store, lined on either side with antique bookshelves reaching almost to the ceiling and overflowing with books of every size, shape, and color. It had that intoxicating bookstore smell you’ll never find surfing around one of those online megabook Web sites: a delicious mixture of vanilla, stale popcorn, dust, cedar, and coffee.

Immediately I felt like I was home, and then just as fast I felt a twinge of guilt for staying away so long. Mr. Beezy had probably passed away years ago, and here I hadn’t even bothered to notice. I’d grown up and moved on, gone to school, joined the sheriff’s department, started my own life … and then things got very busy and very complicated. Life does that to you sometimes.

One thing was new, though: On the ends of all the shelves were pictures, framed in glass and hung one on top of the other in a vertical row. At first I thought they were just copies or pictures torn out of a magazine, but looking closer I realized they were originals—pen-and-ink drawings—and absolutely exquisite. I leaned in to inspect one particularly nice portrait of a young woman holding a tiny kitten in her lap. She was wearing a ring with a diamond the size of a ten-cent gum ball. In the corner of the drawing was a signature:
L. Hoskins.

I paused in the middle of the store. There, just as I remembered it, was a large, round claw-foot table. It was piled high with all kinds of books: romances, poetry, nature journals, science fiction, reference volumes, graphic novels, mysteries—every type of book imaginable—all tumbled together in a great big wonderful mess.

When I was a little girl, it never occurred to me that all those books weren’t there for my own personal pleasure. That was thanks to Mr. Beezy. He never once complained to my grandmother that I needed to either buy a book or get out. He’d let me lie there on the floor for hours, only occasionally sneaking up to quietly lay down another book he’d picked out for me.

Now I had that same old feeling again, like a kid in a candy store, except I was beginning to think I was the only one there. All the lights were on, but the thought crossed my mind that maybe the shop was closed and whoever was in charge had gone home for the day and forgotten to lock up.

“Hello?” I called out. “Anybody home?”

Just beyond the last aisle was a waist-high, carved-wood railing with a swinging door that stopped about a foot above the floor, almost like the doorway to an Old West saloon. Beyond that was a small office space, with a big antique mahogany desk and a polished-brass lawyer’s lamp sitting next to an ancient automatic coffeemaker. The room made an L shape to the left, and I could see part of an overstuffed Victorian sofa jutting out from around the corner. It had dark green velvet upholstery and gold tassels hanging off its arms.

Timidly, I tried again. “Hello?”

I was beginning to think maybe I’d better leave when suddenly an orange blur shot out from under the swinging door and went streaking past my feet toward the front door. Sure enough, it was a big fat tabby with an impossibly fluffy, white-tipped tail. It slid to a stop at the register, took a couple of quick looks around, and then zipped under the front counter. That’s when I heard a dull thud from the back room.

I called out louder this time, “Hello? Anyone here?”

“Yes,” a creaky male voice came from the back. “Be right with you!”

I let out a sigh of relief. “No rush, I just wasn’t sure you were open.”

He mumbled something unintelligible as I looked at my watch. It was 6:04. I hadn’t even thought to see if the shop’s hours were posted in the front window, but of course it was probably closing time. On a weekday, most shopkeepers in town go home at sunset, and it was almost dark outside now.

“Never mind Cosmo!” the man called out. “He’s always racing around like that.”

That should be easy, I thought as I wandered down one of the aisles, tilting my head to the side so I could read the titles. Cosmo had absolutely no interest in me. I was sure by now he’d taken up his spot back on top of those furry dictionaries and settled in for a cozy nap.

I envied him. It must be nice to know exactly where your place in life is.

I heard another thump from the back and figured I’d better get a move on so I wouldn’t keep the poor guy working overtime. I was thinking something fun and trashy would be good, like an epic romance, or maybe a good old-fashioned whodunit—after all, who doesn’t love a good mystery? Then I remembered the whole point of buying a new book was to impress Ethan.

I rolled my eyes with disgust. There was something about having a boyfriend that had me acting like a silly schoolgirl. I reminded myself that I was a grown woman, and that here in the twenty-first century, grown women didn’t go around pretending to be smarter or prettier or nicer just to hold on to a man, even if that man happens to be a pure dreamboat gift from heaven. Myself countered, if that were true, why was I all of a sudden putting on lip gloss and mascara in the morning? Well, I snorted, certainly not because of Ethan. Myself then reminded me that my pet clients don’t care what I look like. All they care about is whether I show up on time and whether I have some tasty treats in my pocket, like little cubes of cheese or carrot slices. They don’t give a rat’s patootie how long and luxurious my eyelashes are.

Well, that shut me up. Myself had a point.

I decided to compromise and get two books, one fun, trashy book for me, and then one literary book for show, something classic like
Anna Karenina
or
Jane Eyre
—two of my favorites when I was little. As I scanned the shelf, I realized I was in the math and science section. I pulled one of the books down and read the title out loud.

“Nonlinear Dynamical Systems and Control: A Lyapunov-Based Approach.”

I giggled to myself as I imagined Ethan discovering me in a hammock with this book propped up on my chest. I flipped it open to a random spot and practiced, stumbling over the weird mathy language. “Oh, hi Ethan. Hey, did you know that if P is a unique positive-definite solution, then the zero solution is globally asymptotically stable?”

“Pardon me?”

I nearly jumped out of my shoes. An elderly man had appeared at the end of the aisle. He was wearing big, square tinted glasses, what I call “helmet” glasses, the kind that practically wrap around your entire head and cover half your face. His cheeks were ruddy and flushed, as though the walk from the back of the store had winded him. He wore a bright red beret, with long strands of gray hair hanging down both sides of his face, and he was slightly stooped over. He looked a little bit like a bridge troll in a fairy tale, or Albert Einstein if he were an aging elf in Santa’s workshop.

I slapped the book shut and slid it back on the shelf. “Oh, sorry, I was just talking to myself.”

He nodded, patting his breast pocket and looking around as though he’d misplaced something. His gray trousers were a couple of sizes too big, held up with yellow suspenders over a red shirt with shiny brass buttons, except that he’d forgotten a couple of buttons in the middle. Either he’d been in a hurry when he got dressed for the day or he was just a wee bit absentminded. I was pretty sure it was the latter.

He said, “Terribly sorry. I didn’t hear you come in. I was doing some cleaning up in the back, trying to move some rather heavy boxes … I actually thought the door was locked.”

I said, “Oh, no, are you closed? Because I can always come back later. I was part of the pileup, so I figured while I was waiting for the police to clear the road I’d just slip in and grab a book or two.”

He stepped back a bit, and I noticed his shoes were black leather, polished to perfection, and both untied. “The pileup?”

“Yes. Just a while ago. There was an accident right down the street from here.”

“Oh my, how dreadful.”

“A man in a convertible was driving like a maniac and hit a big truck head-on. I’m surprised you didn’t hear the sirens.”

“Sirens?”

Sometimes my mouth says things it shouldn’t. Most people have a little trip switch that monitors what travels between their brains and their mouths. It filters out the moronic and tactless thoughts, rating them not suitable for general broadcast, and only lets the reasonable, appropriate thoughts through. I don’t have one of those trip switches. Or if I do, it’s faulty.

This poor old man was probably a little hard of hearing, which would explain why he hadn’t heard me calling for him. He probably hadn’t heard the bell ring when I came in either.

“Oh my,” he mumbled, “I suppose my hearing isn’t exactly what it used to be.”

I immediately thought of my grandmother’s favorite expression, “Getting old sucks.” Luckily my brain-to-mouth filter managed to stop that one in time. Instead I changed the subject. “Well, if you’re closed I don’t want to keep you…”

He nodded, but then suddenly shook his head. The idea of kicking me out seemed to utterly confuse him. “Oh, no, that’s silly. It’s my fault, and you’re already here … How long were you waiting?”

“Not long at all. I used to come here all the time when I was a little girl, so I was having fun just looking around.”

He had started toward the front of the store, but now he stopped. “Oh, you knew Mr. Beezy, then?”

“I did. He was always so nice to me. Is he…?”

“Oh my, no, Mr. Beezy passed away years ago.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that.”

He nodded and looked down at the floor. I couldn’t see his eyes through the big, tinted glasses, but there suddenly washed over him a profound weariness. I wasn’t sure, but I got the distinct impression that he must have been very close to Mr. Beezy.

I pointed at his shirt. “You forgot a couple of buttons.”

He looked down and chuckled. “Oh my! Goodness me, how embarrassing.”

“No, don’t be embarrassed. If it were me I’d want to be told.”

He nodded with a bashful smile as he fumbled with the buttons on his shirt. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I suppose I’d better lock that front door before we get any more stragglers wandering in.”

“No problem,” I said. “I’ll take a quick look around and be right out of your way.”

He shuffled off toward the front of the store. “Not to worry.”

Just then, my eyes fell on a smallish cardboard box on the floor at the head of the very last aisle. Inside was a collection of about ten leather-bound books. They looked well cared for and shiny, as if they’d recently been polished with Lemon Pledge or whatever you use to freshen up leather books. One was particularly pretty. It was a deep, burnished green with gold lettering across the front cover. It read
The Furry Godmother’s Guide to Pet-Friendly Gardening, by V. Tisson-Waugh.

I picked it up out of the box. It felt solid and heavy, the way a good book should. I flipped it open and saw that it was published in 1887. The paper was crisp and creamy yellow, like onion skin, and printed with a floral, antique font. The introduction read:

Above all things, we must endeavor to attach as many persons to the land as possible, as I am convinced that gardening with an animal companion in mind will naturally take the place of many a desire that is much more difficult or impractical to gratify—desires that lie beyond reach of the average man or woman.