The Cat Sitter’s Pajamas Read online

  Reba is a retired psychology professor with an African grey parrot named Big Bubba that I sometimes take care of. Big Bubba is one of the smartest birds in the world, most likely because his human is one of the smartest women in the world. Bubba is arrogant about it, but Reba hides her smarts under a calm friendliness. You only know she’s way ahead of you when you try to feed her a line of baloney. She’ll nail you every time.

  I found her and Big Bubba on their lanai. Big Bubba was in his cage slinging seed hulls through the bars and muttering to himself, and Reba was on a chaise with her feet up, a book in her lap, and a tall glass of iced tea on the table beside her. When I tapped on the screen door, she and Big Bubba raised their heads as if I were a welcome distraction. Big Bubba flapped his wings and squawked, and Reba put her book aside and offered me iced tea. I declined the tea, went to Big Bubba’s cage to give him a proper greeting, and then took a chair beside Reba.

  She said, “I hear you were at the house where a murder happened.”

  That’s Reba for you, she doesn’t circle around things.

  I said, “I guess it’s all over the news.”

  “Well, not you so much, but the model and the football player.”

  I said, “Briana and Cupcake Trillin. I wanted to talk to you about them.”

  “Yes?”

  That Yes? is how shrinks open the door wide enough for you to drive through with a truckload of stuff you wouldn’t let anybody else see. She tilted her head a bit when she said it, a gesture she’d used with me since I was in high school. I had taken care of Big Bubba then, too, and gradually came to tell Reba every secret I had. She may be the reason I ended up with enough core strength to snap back to sanity after Todd and Christy were killed and I went seriously nuts.

  I didn’t tell her the investigation into the murder had taken a weird turn. That was law enforcement business, a line I wouldn’t cross even with Reba. But the personal stuff was fair game. Personal stuff as in my own confusion about the story Briana had told about her history with Cupcake.

  I said, “Briana’s official story is that she’s from Switzerland, and that her parents were killed in an accident when she was a child. Then a nice American couple adopted her and took her to a remote rural area in Minnesota where they home-schooled her. In other words, no school records, no neighbors to remember. She used to refuse to give her last name to avoid embarrassing those alleged adoptive parents, but now she says they’ve died.”

  Reba listened closely. Big Bubba had stopped muttering to himself, and I felt as if he was listening, too.

  I said, “I won’t go into how it happened, but yesterday I met with Briana at the beach pavilion, and she told an entirely different story. She said she was from the same little Louisiana town as Cupcake Trillin, and that they had been good friends when they were kids. Not ordinary good friends, but kids that broke into houses together and stole things. Petty stuff, but enough to sell for cash. She says she left there when she was sixteen, and that she’s never seen Cupcake again. Except when she stalked him.”

  I leaned back in my chair. That was it. That was all I could tell. And I sounded like an idiot for telling it.

  Reba said, “You don’t like being lied to.”

  For some stupid reason, my eyes smarted as if tears were trying to break through.

  I said, “I’m just trying to understand why a woman who became internationally famous would be stupid enough to stalk a man and break into his house.”

  “Sounds like the woman is determined to undermine her own success, doesn’t it? She had a hard childhood, escaped privation, became rich and famous, and then ruined it all in a particularly public way. It’s hard to watch somebody self-destruct that way.”

  I wondered if she thought I was guilty of the same self-destruction. Was she implying that I was ruining my life by not moving to New Orleans with Guidry?

  I said, “Why would she do that?”

  She shrugged, as if the answer were obvious. “She’s older now, so she requires more drugs to get the same high.”

  Disappointed, I shook my head. “I don’t think she does drugs.”

  “We all do drugs, Dixie. We’re all drug addicts. Some of us are addicted to prescription drugs or street drugs, the rest of us are addicted to drugs we manufacture inside our own bodies. We like to believe our actions are based on logic or need, but in reality we’re all ruled by our individual addictions.”

  My face must have shown that I didn’t know what the heck she was talking about. She pulled her knees up and hugged them.

  “Okay, a quick course in psychochemistry. Every emotion a person has creates a chemical in the brain that is instantly in every cell of the body. Each emotion creates a specific chemical. Opiates, depressants, sedatives, dopamine, we create them all.”

  She peered at me. “You’re with me so far?”

  “I think so, but—”

  “No matter what it is, if we get a continuous supply of a chemical, our bodies will become addicted to it.”

  She stretched her legs out and waited a beat for me to catch up.

  “Now imagine a child who grows up in a situation that causes her constant anxiety. Maybe there’s not enough to eat, or maybe there’s abuse. Whatever it is, constant anxiety means a constant supply of chemicals created by anxiety. The result is a child addicted to those chemicals. As she grows older, her circumstances may change, but the addiction to anxiety drugs will remain. To get the drugs, she will put herself into situations guaranteed to make her uneasy, or she’ll interpret neutral events as threatening. However she does it, it’s to ensure that her anxiety drugs continue.”

  I could imagine that child. I had known people who seemed to stir up unnecessary problems for themselves. Maybe I did it myself.

  Reba said, “If that same child is praised for excelling at something, she’ll also become addicted to the chemical that comes with the feeling of success. With those two addictions, she’ll do everything she can to succeed in life so she can get more of the success drug, but no matter how successful she is, she’ll create ways to feel anxious so she can get the anxiety drug.”

  Her eyes had taken on a new spark. It occurred to me that Reba was probably addicted to the chemicals she created while she was teaching.

  She said, “Skydivers get addicted to the endorphins that come from free-falling, soldiers in combat get addicted to the chemicals created by episodes of intense danger, retirees feel lost without the old adrenaline rush of competition. It isn’t the behavior that’s addictive, it’s the drugs created by the emotions that accompany the behavior.”

  I said, “That’s kind of sad.”

  She laughed. “What’s even sadder is that we can get the same hit of drugs by imagining the feelings that release them. People addicted to the drugs created by anger go around imagining angry confrontations. People addicted to drugs created by great sex spend a lot of time imagining sex. Or, conversely, if they’re addicted to the drugs created by sexual guilt, they may go around thinking of shameful sexual experiences that are purely imaginary.”

  “So you think Briana—”

  “Imagine what it would be like to be a poor kid breaking into houses to steal. Your heart would pound, your eyes and ears would be hyperalert. If you got into a tight spot you’d have to think fast to get out of it, and your only resources would be your wits and an agile body. You’d have to keep quiet about it, too, have a sly secret when you were with your family and friends. You would live with fear, excitement, triumph, relief, arrogance—emotions that would create a host of addictive chemicals.”

  I said, “So if Briana got addicted to those chemicals, she would have to find a way to keep her body supplied with them.”

  “Exactly. And in Briana’s case, the way opened up like magic. She got noticed, she became a model, then a supermodel, and all the time she was lying about her background. The fear of exposure would give her the same old chemicals she got from breaking into houses. But over time, bodies require mo
re of the old addictive drug to get the same satisfaction. So Briana would have had to do something to increase her fear of being caught.”

  “Like stalking Cupcake.”

  “That would be my guess. And since he was her companion when her addictions began, she might have got additional satisfaction just by being near him.”

  “But why wasn’t Cupcake addicted to the same chemicals? He was breaking into houses with her.”

  Dryly, Reba said, “Have I missed something? Isn’t he a famous football player? He has to move fast, be highly alert, be on top all the time, or he’ll lose games and his career. That’s excitement. That’s anxiety. That’s triumph. Those are emotions that create all the old chemicals he knew as a kid breaking into houses. He also got rewarded for doing a good job, so he would have dual addictions. Most people have a lot more than two.”

  As if she sensed that I bristled at the idea of Cupcake being an addict, she leaned over and patted my knee. “As I said, Dixie, we’re all addicts. Every person in the world is addicted to several self-created chemicals. Our addictions can be productive and beneficial, or they can be destructive. In Briana’s case, they seem to be self-destructive.”

  I thought about how Briana’s and Cupcake’s lives had diverged. Cupcake got recognition for his athletic skills. Briana shot the uncle who’d molested her for years. Cupcake had heard cheers and been offered scholarships. Briana had run away and became an anonymous face among other anonymous faces in the French Quarter of New Orleans. Cupcake had followed a trajectory that led to pro ball and an ability to express his innate generosity by helping underprivileged kids escape the same poverty he’d escaped. Briana had followed a trajectory that led to being a famous model, but instead of helping other young women dealing with abuse and poverty, she’d hung out with criminals. Perhaps Briana had only one addiction—to chemicals that came from flirting with the danger of public exposure.

  Without meaning to, I blurted, “I think the investigators know who the murdered woman is, but they’re saying they don’t.”

  “You don’t like people keeping secrets from you.”

  That’s the problem with shrinks, they always bring it back to you, and what you feel. But she was right, I hate it when I know people are holding back something from me.

  “I guess not.”

  “Well, that’s the way law enforcement works, isn’t it?”

  I didn’t even bother agreeing. We both knew why I hated secrets.

  I said, “What do you think I’m addicted to?”

  She smiled. “We all have to figure out our own addictions, Dixie, but I think one of your addictions is to chemicals that come from the satisfaction of seeing wrongs righted, justice done. You’ve been that way as long as I’ve known you. It’s why you became a deputy, and it’s why you’ll always have an interest in criminal cases. Luckily for me and Big Bubba, you’re also addicted to chemicals derived from the satisfaction of doing a good job as a pet sitter.”

  On hearing his name, Big Bubba yelled, “Whatcha doing there?”

  Reba and I laughed, and I felt a ton of weight slide off my shoulders. At least I didn’t have to carry around a false burden of trying to understand things that really didn’t have anything to do with me.

  12

  When I got home, Michael’s car was in the carport, but I didn’t go inside the house to talk to him. I didn’t trust myself not to blurt out all that had gone on. If I did, I’d create worries for Michael. I chuckled a little bit to myself when I thought what Reba would say about the way Michael worried about me and Paco. With our irresponsible mother, Michael had been protecting me all his life. The poor guy was probably addicted to the chemicals his brain cranked out every time he worried about somebody he loved.

  I trudged up the stairs to my apartment, using the remote to raise the electric shutters over my French doors. The sun was directly overhead, but my porch’s roof kept it from being blazing hot. A cardinal couple cooling their feathers on the porch railing watched me open the French doors and go inside. I lowered the shutters over the doors, plunging my apartment back into cavelike dimness. Except for the glass doors, the only light in my apartment comes from a small window over my kitchen sink and a narrow stretch of glass near the ceiling in my bedroom. An AC unit is wedged into an opening cut for it in my bedroom wall.

  Shedding clothes like a cat shedding hair, I went straight to the bathroom and stood under a warm shower. Then I pulled on a terrycloth robe and fell into the rumpled bed I’d left that morning at four o’clock. My day had already lasted eight hours, and it had barely started.

  I was asleep before I’d got my arms and legs arranged for it. I dreamed I was walking up a narrow mountain trail. On one side of me was a rough mountain wall with granite protrusions I had to duck to keep from hitting. On the other side was nothing, just space. I could see clouds below me, and what looked suspiciously like the moon. I turned a corner, and the trail came to an abrupt end. A red door with shiny gold hinges was set in the mountain face. The door had a golden doorknob. I reached for it, but the door flew open before I touched it, and a narrow red carpet unrolled before me. It marked a passageway to a tall throne at the far end of a cavernous room lit by millions of flickering birthday-cake candles set in little rosebud holders. The candles were pink.

  On each side of the carpet were brown frogs in satin livery—white waistcoats and orange pants, and emerald green cummerbunds around their waists. They were frisky frogs, and as I walked forward they leaped and danced like Baryshnikov, clicking their heels together in midair and doffing white satin top hats while they sang in smooth harmony. I could not make out the words to the song because I didn’t speak frog, and my ignorance of the language bothered me. As I got closer to the throne, I could see that a large black frog sat on it. I knew he was a king because he had a gold crown on his head and he was dressed all in white satin—tight pants, fitted vest, white satin cravat knotted at his neck, little white satin ballet slippers on his feet.

  I walked to the very end of the carpet and looked up at the king.

  He said, “What do you want?”

  I said, “Well, sir—”

  His bulgy eyes swelled and he yelled, “Do I look like a sir? Don’t be calling me sir, I’m a king!”

  So I said, “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I just want to know—”

  He said, “You want to know! You want to know! Always you want to know! You always want to know, don’t you?”

  I said, “Well, I just—”

  “I know,” he said, “you want to know the future. You want to know what’s coming.”

  He leaned forward, and his eyes were like big yellow balloons about to pop.

  “You know what, sister? You waste all your todays wanting to see tomorrow.”

  The other frogs leaped on me, and I shoved at them, struggling to get free.

  I woke up kicking and grunting, with my robe twisted around my legs and one of the sleeve edges caught under my body so my arm couldn’t move. My heart was pounding and I was breathing fast and my skin was still puckered from the clammy feel of frog bellies pressed on me.

  I sat up and shuddered for a minute, then padded to the kitchen and made a cup of tea in the microwave. I stood at the sink and looked out the window while I drank it. That stupid frog king had made a point, and I’d got it.

  Even so, I wondered why Ethan had chosen to meet me that morning. I wondered what he’d been about to ask me when Steven arrived. I felt as if I were on the verge of having to make a huge decision about my personal life, and I wasn’t sure I was ready to make it. I had been a chaste widow for three years, and then I had been in a relationship with Guidry for a brief time. After Guidry moved to New Orleans, the relationship had been strictly via the phone. That wasn’t a situation that could continue forever. The truth was that it was time to either completely sever the relationship with Guidry or change my mind and follow him to New Orleans. And as I had told Ethan, moving to New Orleans wasn’t right for me.


  I didn’t want to think about it. I didn’t want to face what had to be faced. People say that denial doesn’t work, but it worked just fine for me. I could deny all over the place.

  For the next couple of hours, I sat at the desk in my office-closet and took care of the clerical side of a pet-sitting business. When it was time to leave for my afternoon rounds, I got into clean cargo shorts, white tee, and fresh Keds, smoothed on sunscreen, put my hair in a ponytail, and grabbed my big carryall shoulder bag.

  Out on my porch, I saw Michael down on his deck adjusting things on his prized outdoor cooker. Michael is big and broad and blond like a Viking warrior. He’s also persnickety about his cooking equipment. Everything in his kitchen was built for professional chefs, and so is his barbecue stuff. Michael loves it all with a tender devotion. If he ever meets George Foreman, they’ll probably spend a couple of days discussing the relative merits of charcoal and wood chips.

  I clattered down the steps and went and stood beside him.

  He said, “Grilled flank steak for dinner.”

  I said, “Um. With scalloped potatoes?”

  “You bet.”

  Governments who send spies to gather secrets from other governments should send members of the same family. Nobody would be able to break their codes. In our brother-sister speak, Michael had just told me that Paco would not be home for dinner, because Paco doesn’t eat meat and he doesn’t like scalloped potatoes. Which meant that Paco would be at some undercover job that night, which neither Michael nor I would mention.

  I told Michael I’d be home at the usual time and zipped off to see to my afternoon pet clients, beginning with Billy Elliot.

  Tom and Billy Elliot were in the living room watching an old romantic movie on TV. I apologized for intruding, and they both hurried to assure me they were too macho to care about that girlie romantic stuff and that I was a welcome interruption. Billy Elliot did that by kissing my knees, and Tom by clicking off the movie with a very emphatic thumb, as if I’d caught him watching a porn flick.