The Cat Sitter's Nine Lives (8 page)

“Wait a minute. Is that letter under this basket?”

All innocent, he said, “What letter?”

“You know exactly what letter.”

He smiled. “I thought about it, but no.”

“I promise I’ll open it today. It’s not a big deal.”

“If it’s not a big deal, why didn’t you open it last night?”

I shrugged innocently. “I guess I forgot it was even there.”

He lifted the basket to reveal a bowl of freshly cut fruit. Mango, kiwi, and strawberries sprinkled with pomegranate seeds and topped with a dollop of crème fraîche. Next to that was a scrumptious-looking buttered scone.

He sat down and said, “Fresh out of the oven. Paco’s up early today.”

It hadn’t taken Ethan long to pick up on the subtleties of the secret language that Michael and I have developed over the years for talking about Paco. Working as an agent with the Special Investigative Bureau means Paco rubs elbows with all sorts of interesting characters—mobsters, narcotics dealers, counterfeiters, animal smugglers—so whenever he’s away on a job, both Michael and I walk on eggshells, trying to pretend everything’s just as normal as can be, as if Paco’s gone out on an errand and will be back safe and sound any minute.

The fact that they were up and about this early could only mean one thing—Paco was starting a new assignment today. “Fresh out of the oven” meant Michael was in the kitchen, nervously trying to distract himself.

“Oh my gosh,” I said, biting into the scone. “This is the best breakfast ever.”

He folded his arms over his chest and smiled. “And how’s your neck?”

My mouth was full of scone, so I managed an “Mmmph!” and gave him a thumbs-up.

“Okay, good,” he said, pushing his chair back from the table. “Then my work is done.”

“Wait a minute! Where are you going?”

He stood up and disappeared inside, calling over his shoulder, “Sorry, babe! I’ve got a meeting in Tampa with a new client.”

Just then my cell phone rang from the bedroom, and Ethan called out, “Somebody’s calling you.”

The only people in the world that could possibly be calling at this hour were Michael, Paco, and Ethan, so I decided I’d just enjoy my breakfast and check my voice mail later. Except, if it was a client with an emergency, like a lost cat or …

“Hey, can you see who it is?”

There was a pause, and then he said, “Sara somebody.”

I couldn’t think of any clients named Sara. The only Sara I knew was a girl who worked the hot dog stand at the pavilion on Siesta Key Beach, and I wasn’t even sure she knew my name. “Sara Somebody” was probably a new client. I figured I’d check my voice mail after breakfast and call back at a more godly hour.

Just as I was digging into my fresh fruit, Ethan came back out on the porch in a crisp white dress shirt with a dark gray jacket. He leaned against the railing and draped a pale, silvery-blue tie around his neck.

“Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you…” There was a forced nonchalance to his voice that immediately made me a bit nervous.

“Whaffat?” I said, my mouth full of mango and kiwi.

“So … what’s the EPT for?”

I swallowed, “The huh?”

I knew exactly what he had said, but for some reason I needed a little time to think. He crossed the skinny end of his tie over the fat end and looped it around into a bow. “The early pregnancy test that’s in your medicine cabinet.”

“Oh!” I wiped my mouth with a napkin. “Um … I bought that.”

He nodded slightly, gazing off into the distance as he slipped the tie’s long end through the bow and pulled it into a tight knot. “Okay…”

It took me a couple of seconds to figure out what he was getting at. The vague note of a question in his voice finally tipped me off. I said, “Oh my gosh! You didn’t think…”

He shrugged, “Well, I was kind of wondering.”

“No! It’s not for me. It’s for a girl I know—the daughter of a client. It’s a long story, but basically she thought she was pregnant. It turns out she wasn’t, but I figured she should probably have a way of knowing if it ever happens again. Hopefully she’ll never need it.”

He nodded and straightened his jacket. “Okay. It just got me thinking.”

I put an impossibly large heaping spoonful of fruit in my mouth. I was about to ask what it was he was thinking, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer.

He leaned over and kissed me, and I immediately got a little dizzy-headed. Ethan’s kisses have the ability to make me feel like I’ve had a couple of fine Belgian chocolates, or a shot of very expensive, smooth whiskey.

He whispered, “Your lip looks better.”

I smiled drunkenly. “Thanks.”

Usually I’m not all that attracted to business types—I’m more of a jeans and T-shirt kind of girl—but the more time I spent with Ethan, the more I realized I was turning into a suit and tie kind of girl. As Ethan went down the stairs and crossed the courtyard to his car I thought to myself,
There goes one sexy, suit-wearing hunk of hotness.
Of course, if Ethan walked around in a burlap sack and a shoe box on his head, I’d probably turn into a burlap sack and shoe box kind of girl in two seconds flat.

*   *   *

My first stop almost every morning is Tom Hale’s condo on Midnight Pass Road. Tom is an accountant. He works out of his home since traveling back and forth to an office is a little difficult for him, to say the least. Ten years ago, he was in one of those sprawling home improvement stores shopping for doorknobs when a wall display collapsed on top of him and crushed his spine. He never walked again. Sometimes I think if that had happened to me I wouldn’t have the strength to go on, but Tom is one of the most cheerful people I’ve ever known. He does my taxes and deals with everything else money-related in my life, and in exchange I go over twice a day and walk his retired greyhound racing dog, Billy Elliot.

I’m pretty sure that most greyhounds who spend their entire lives on a racetrack, work grueling hours, and are treated like slave mules would prefer to lounge around on a velvet pillow in their old age and never see a racetrack again. Not Billy Elliot. Twice a day, we go down to the big circular parking lot outside Tom’s building, and Billy races around like his glory days aren’t yet behind him. He’s one of the lucky ones. Greyhound racing is not for the faint of heart. Broken toes, bone fractures, torn ligaments, and crippling arthritis are par for the course. Most retired greyhounds Billy’s age can’t walk fifty feet without having to stop and take a rest.

Usually I jog along panting like a fool with Billy trotting next to me pretending we’re going at a respectable pace. It’s only when I let him off the leash to run a few laps on his own that his true colors shine through. He zips around the parking lot like greased lightning. Then we admire ourselves in the mirror as we ride back up in the elevator, both of us spent and happy and panting like … well, like a couple of dogs.

Tom was still in his office working when we came in, so I didn’t want to interrupt him. I patted Billy on the head and told him I’d stop by for another round in the afternoon. He gave me a kiss on the nose, blinked twice, and then trotted down the hall to take his place on the dog bed under Tom’s desk. I felt a little smile play across my lips. There’s nothing like a dog at your feet or a cat in your lap to right the wrongs that the world has dealt you.

Riding back down in the elevator, I remembered with a little shock that not only had I forgotten to see who’d called me during breakfast, I’d also forgotten to check for messages after dinner the night before. I immediately blamed Ethan. If he hadn’t so rudely made me breakfast I would have remembered. I have a very well honed routine I follow in the morning, but Ethan had thrown a wrench in the works—a very nice wrench, but still it had me all discombobulated.

I pulled out my cell phone to check my messages, but the display just read
Two missed calls.
I figured maybe Sara Somebody had called again, or perhaps it was a wrong number. Either way, I thought, if it was important they’d call back.

Next on the schedule was Timmy Anthem. Timmy is the coach for our local high school’s hockey team, the Seagulls. You’d think hockey wouldn’t be a big deal in a semitropical beach town. The only time you see ice on the ground around here is if somebody drops a sno-cone in the beach parking lot, but Timmy Anthem is kind of a hockey legend.

He grew up in a small town in Canada, where apparently kids learn how to ice-skate while they’re still in diapers, and he was the star player in his high school. Nobody really knew how good he was, though, not even his own family, until he won a full scholarship to play hockey in college and led his team to the national championships not once but twice. He still holds one of the top records for most goals scored in a single game.

Venturing into Timmy’s apartment is always the same. As soon as I pull my keys out, there comes from deep inside the apartment a string of loud, ferocious-sounding barks. Then there’s a pause, and by the time I’ve turned the lock and am about to open the door, the barking is closer and louder, only now it’s a little muffled.

I braced myself and opened the door. Zoë came running toward me at breakneck speed, her barks muffled by the fleece pull-toy in her mouth, and slid to a perfect sit right at my feet. Zoë is a pit bull, or sometimes Timmy calls her an American Staffordshire terrier. She’s all white except for a few spots splashed across her tummy and a field of black and brown on her rump, which is how she got her nickname: Brindlebutt.

Depending on who you talk to, pit bulls and Staffordshire terriers are exactly the same thing. Either that or they’re two totally different, totally unrelated breeds. I still don’t know which is which. All I know is that Zoë is about the sweetest dog I’ve ever laid eyes on.

She swung the pull-toy around seductively and then looked up at me with big brown expectant eyes.

I said, “Oh my goodness, what a big scary pit bull!”

She flicked the pull-toy on the floor in front of me, her wagging tail beating like a metronome on the tile, and nosed it up onto my feet.

“I know, honey,” I said, “but we just have to wait a little while longer.”

About five months earlier, Zoë had torn a ligament in her left hind leg. Surgery was the only solution, after which she was on strict orders from the vet to stay off her paws as much as possible. That meant no walks, no running, no playing, no jumping—basically no fun—for eight long, miserable weeks. For a dog like Zoë, it must have felt like she’d gone to prison, but she soldiered through it like the good little trouper she’s always been. Now that her leg was healing up, she was allowed a little more activity and longer walks, but tug-of-war was definitely not on the menu.

I knelt down and gave her a big hug, and she returned the favor by licking my neck.

I said, “We’re gonna have a good time anyway, don’t you worry.”

She grabbed her pull-toy and trotted along beside me through the apartment to the back door, which leads out to a small pool inside a screened lanai. I grabbed her leash, and we went through the lanai to the running trail that runs along behind the apartments. After a good long walk, we headed back to the pool for our favorite part of the day.

Pit bulls, at least the ones I’ve known, are not exactly champion swimmers. In fact, the first time I met Zoë, she got so excited that she jumped in the pool and promptly sank like a rock. Timmy had to jump in fully clothed and fish her out. As he made his way to the steps with Zoë cradled in his arms like a baby, he said, “Zoë, you can’t swim!” She had given him an exasperated look and sighed, like a kid whose dad won’t let her have any fun.

After Zoë’s surgery, the muscles in her hind legs began to wither away from inactivity, and I was worried she’d never get back to normal if she didn’t get some kind of exercise in. So Timmy and I put our heads together and came up with the perfect solution. It took some time and patience, as well as a floaty vest, but eventually I had Zoë doing laps in the pool. At first she’d just thrash around like a maniac, but once she realized the vest kept her afloat when I let go of her, she would happily motor around the pool like a brindle-butted tugboat.

I sat down on a chaise lounge at the edge of the pool, and as soon as Zoë saw me slide my bag over she started barking excitedly and swimming in circles. I pulled a couple of tennis balls out and tossed them in the pool. She immediately paddled after them, letting out an excited
yip
to let me know she’d take it from there.

Her goal is to get ahold of both balls at the same time, which even for her big maw is a tall order, so she’s busy for at least twenty minutes, sometimes longer. Eventually she’ll climb out of the pool, thoroughly spent, and loll around in the sun panting happily. It’s a good solid workout.

I stretched out on the chaise. When a dog’s happy and well exercised, there’s not much more to do than check the water bowl. Cats, however, are a whole different story. They have a flair for mischief rarely matched in the canine world. A cat can have all sorts of side projects in progress—toilet paper sculptures, potted plant demolition, trash can spelunking—so I consider it part of my job to do a thorough check of the house and right any feline wrongs I find, but with Zoë splashing around in the pool, I figured I could afford to take a break.

I pulled my new book out of my backpack and slipped it out of its crisp wrapping. I knew it was crazy, but I just couldn’t get over how beautiful it was. The cover was a deep forest green, its edges burnished darker by generations of curious readers, the embossed print gleaming like gold, which for all I knew it actually was.

I smiled with anticipation as I opened it up to the title page:
The Furry Godmother’s Guide to Pet-Friendly Gardening, by V. Tisson-Waugh
. The paper was a creamy white, and opposite the title page was a colorful, intricately drawn illustration of a long-tailed Maine Coon cat, perched proudly atop an overturned fruit basket set in the midst of a garden of flowering plants, all aflutter with bumblebees and butterflies.

There was an introduction by the editor, which invited the reader to enjoy the book as it was written, slowly and with loving appreciation for all things living, and not, as it said, “with one’s heel pressed firmly at the horse’s flank.” I ran my finger down the table of contents. The chapters all had Latin titles, which I assumed were all different plants, but they sounded more like fatal diseases you might get from a swamp mosquito, like
Nepeta cataria
and
Dactylis glomerata.