Cat Sitter on a Hot Tin Roof: A Dixie Hemingway Mystery Read online

  I knocked on Tom’s door, then used my key to go in. Billy Elliot bounded to meet me in the foyer, and we kissed hello as if we hadn’t just left each other a few hours before. Tom was working on taxes or something at his kitchen table, so I hollered hello to him and took Billy Elliot out to the elevator and downstairs.

  Billy Elliot needs to run hard laps around the parking lot for at least fifteen minutes, and then it takes him another ten minutes to find the right bushes to pee on, the right patch of grass to make a deposit. By the time I’ve collected it in one of my poop bags, and he’s made one final streak around the parking lot, we’ve spent a good thirty minutes outside. When we got back upstairs, Tom was still working and didn’t come out to chat like he usually does. I stuck my head in the kitchen to say hello and saw a strained face and bloodshot eyes.

  I said, “You okay?”

  He waved his hand dismissively. “I’m fine. Stayed up too late.”

  I could tell he didn’t want to talk, so I told him goodbye, gave Billy Elliot another smooch, and left them. But I was suspicious about Tom’s explanation. I would have bet good money that Frannie was the problem, not late hours. I hoped they worked it out, because he had been happier since Frannie came into his life. As much as I didn’t think she was good enough for him, I didn’t want him to lose her.

  By the time I worked my way to Mazie’s house, it was nearing five o’clock. I parked in the driveway behind Pete’s car and rang the doorbell. Mazie was close beside Pete when he answered the door, and they both looked anxious.

  Pete said, “Mazie has been searching all the rooms for Jeffrey. She’s whimpering too, like she thinks she’s lost him.”

  That’s exactly what Mazie probably thought, that somehow she had lost her boy. That would be bad enough for any companion dog, but for a service dog it would be even worse. Her job was to stay close to Jeffrey, so she would think she had failed in her duty.

  I said, “Pete, have you ever brushed a golden retriever?”

  His brow furrowed like Mazie’s. “Excuse me?”

  “Let’s take Mazie to the lanai and I’ll demonstrate.”

  Nothing in the world is as calming as brushing a dog, and dogs like it too. Even though I don’t usually groom pets during an afternoon visit, this day wasn’t an ordinary day for Mazie.

  I led her to the lanai, and Pete followed with two mugs of hot coffee. He put one on the table for me, and said, “Jeffrey’s awfully young to have to fight for his life.”

  I didn’t answer him. I didn’t want to talk about what was happening to Jeffrey. It hit too close to home, made me remember too vividly how small and fragile Christy had looked in death.

  Pete fell silent and watched me pull an undercoat rake through Mazie’s hair.

  Nature gave golden retrievers double coats to keep them warm in winter. That’s an asset up north, but in Florida it’s like wearing thermal underwear in August, so they shed it. You have to keep it raked out or it’ll be all over the house.

  Mazie looked over her shoulder at me and smiled, not because she was glad she wouldn’t be carpeting the house with dog hair, but because getting rid of it made her feel cooler and lighter.

  Pete watched closely and didn’t speak until I’d finished with the undercoat rake and got out my boar-bristle brush.

  I said, “You finish off with the brush to fluff her topcoat and make it shine.”

  He said, “I’ll call you the minute I hear something about Jeffrey.”

  Over Mazie’s head, I met his knowing eyes. I guess I hadn’t fooled anybody. Certainly not Pete, and probably not Mazie. They both knew I was afraid for Jeffrey. I wished I weren’t, but I knew only too well that there are times when the worst happens, and there’s not a damn thing anybody can do to stop it.

  Mazie was calmer once she was brushed, but when I snapped the leash onto her collar and led her outside she didn’t happily swish her tail. I wondered if she had lost trust in me since I had taken her away while Jeffrey and his parents left. More than likely, she was simply confused and unhappy because her people had left her and strangers had taken their place and she didn’t know why.

  We took a long walk, following a meandering sidewalk past houses almost invisible behind palms, oaks, and thick shrubbery, all the way to the far side of the lagoon. Occasionally through the hibiscus hedge screening the jogging path on the other side of the street, I saw a dark shape running on the track. Mazie and I didn’t run until we made a U-turn and retraced our walk. Then, as if by tacit agreement, we both broke into an easy trot that gradually turned into a hard run. By the time we got to Mazie’s driveway, we were flying.

  A car rolled up behind us in the street, and a voice yelled, “Hey!”

  It was Laura Halston, waving to us from a red Jaguar convertible. In big dark sunglasses that hid her eyebrows, and a blue Dallas Cowboys cap pulled low over her hair. I wouldn’t have recognized her if I’d seen her on the street.

  She nodded to grocery bags piled in the backseat. “Had to go stock up on essentials. Coffee, wine, Pepperidge Farm cookies.”

  “No ice cream?”

  “Well, hell, sure. Ice cream’s a given.”

  Then she turned her attention to Mazie, who was looking up at her with anxious eyes. “Oh, sweet Mazie, don’t worry about Jeffrey. He’ll come home all better.”

  To me, she said, “I know about Jeffrey’s surgery. Poor little guy.”

  Relieved that I didn’t have to keep it a secret, I said, “Pete Madeira will be staying in the house with Mazie. He’s a clown, so if you see him wearing a red nose, don’t be alarmed. He also plays saxophone, so if you hear music, that’ll be Pete playing for Mazie.”

  She said, “I dated a saxophone player once. Sweet guy. Great kisser.”

  We chatted for a few minutes more about nothing, the way women do when they like each other and don’t much care what they’re talking about. I didn’t divulge any more information about Mazie’s family, and she seemed to understand that I wouldn’t, that I was a professional, and that it would be unprofessional to talk about my employers.

  I hadn’t had a close woman friend since high school, when Maureen Rhinegold and I used to go to Turtle Beach and sit behind a sand dune and try to get high smoking marijuana. We were abject failures at it—we mostly just coughed and gagged—but we kept at it until my brother caught us and told me he would kick my butt clear to Cuba if I ever smoked weed again. We had drifted apart after Maureen married a rich man and I became a deputy married to a deputy. Talking to Laura stirred up a nostalgic wish for the kind of closeness I’d had with Maureen. There had been an easy trust in that closeness that I missed.

  Laura must have wanted to prolong the chat too, because she said, “Say, do you have time for a glass of wine?”

  I felt a bubble of excitement, as if one of the girls at the popular table in the high school cafeteria had invited me to sit with her. Trying not to sound like a lonely soul grateful for an invitation, I said a glass of wine sounded fine, and that I would take Mazie home and be at her house in a flash.

  She said, “I’ll be in the kitchen, so just come in through the garage door.”

  Every time I met the woman, I liked her even more. Except for being gorgeous, she seemed refreshingly uncomplicated. Straight-forward, friendly, generous, and a pet lover. How could I not like her?

  Back in Mazie’s house, Pete was puttering around in the kitchen.

  “Hal called while you were gone. He said the surgery is scheduled for tomorrow morning at seven. Gillis will spend the night in the hospital with Jeffrey, and then she and Hal will take turns sleeping in a recliner by his bed. He left his cell phone number and their hotel number in case we need to get in touch. He said he would call after it’s over.”

  He gave me the numbers and I wrote them down, even though Hal had already left his cell number and hotel number and the hospital’s number several times. We were all repeating ourselves, doing an overkill of efficiency to make ourselves feel organized e
nough to keep Jeffrey safe.

  Pete said, “Is it okay if I give Mazie a treat? So she’ll associate me with good things?”

  I shook my head. “Sorry. The rules for service dogs are that only their trainer can give them treats. But she’s a smart dog, she knows you’re a good person.”

  “I guess all we can do now is pray for the boy. For all of them, really.”

  I went over and kissed his cheek. Mazie wasn’t the only one who knew Pete Madeira was a good man.

  I said, “I’m going to leave my Bronco in the driveway here, but I’m going to have a glass of wine with Laura Halston. She lives next door. Have you met her?”

  Pete’s face took on a guarded look. “I met her this morning. Mazie and I went out to get some air and she came over. Said she was doing some gardening.”

  “I don’t know her well, but she seems like a very nice person.”

  “Can’t always tell about people by the way they look, Dixie. She’s pretty, but pretty is as pretty does. We had a woman in the circus with the ugliest face you ever saw, but she had a beautiful soul. That woman next door has a beautiful face, but don’t let that fool you.”

  That was the first time I’d ever heard Pete say something mean or cynical, and I was disappointed in him. On the other hand, Laura was so outstandingly beautiful that she might have made him uncomfortably aware that he was no longer a man who might attract her.

  I said, “Don’t worry, I’m just having a glass of wine.”

  I didn’t stay to debate the wisdom of spending time with Laura, just blew kisses at Pete and Mazie. As I hotfooted it over to Laura’s house, I could feel Pete and Mazie watching from the doorway, both of them with worried faces.

  5

  Once I got past the greenery that hid Laura’s house, I was surprised at how modest it was. An L-shaped frame bungalow, it had a covered carport on the long side and a multi-glass-paned front door on the protruding side. The former deputy in me made me think how those square panes of glass in her front door made the house easy to break into, but I certainly didn’t intend to mention it.

  I skirted the red Jag, rapped twice on the door to the kitchen, and turned the knob. But before I pushed the door all the way open, I stuck my head in to announce myself.

  I heard Laura say, “Don’t come here, Martin. And don’t call me again. Not ever.” Her voice was hard and angry, full of bitter animosity.

  I froze with my head inside the kitchen and the rest of me outside. Laura stood at a bar on the far side of the kitchen, cell phone at her ear, her face drawn tight. She had taken off the dark shades but still wore the Cowboys cap.

  Motioning me in, she said, “Goodbye, Martin.”

  Hesitantly, I pushed the door open and got my whole self inside. But the instant I was completely in, a banshee scream sounded at my feet and caused me to leap like a kangaroo. Leo streaked to Laura’s side and glared at me.

  I said, “Oh, I’m so sorry! Did I step on him?”

  In a heartbeat, Laura’s face went from savage fury to wry humor. As if stepping on a cat were a trifling thing, she said, “It’s his own fault. He has this awful habit of sitting beside a door and stretching his tail across the opening. Gets his tail stepped on all the time, but he keeps doing it. I don’t know if he’s too dumb or too stubborn to give it up.”

  Waving her cell phone for emphasis, she said, “He’s a lot like my soon-to-be ex. Either too dumb or too stubborn to know when it’s time to let something go. That was him on the phone, being a complete ass, as usual.”

  I said, “If this is a bad time—”

  “Oh, no! This is a perfect time. I have much more need of a friend than I do to talk to my ex!”

  I liked being called a friend.

  Putting the cell phone on the bar where a bulky black land phone squatted, she took off her cap and shook her hair. She wore a long skirt with a brief ribbed cotton sweater and high-heeled espadrilles. Even with her Cowboys cap and dark glasses, she would have been the glamorous one at the supermarket.

  She said, “I have to get out of these clothes. There’s a bottle of Chablis in the fridge. If you’d rather have red, there’s some in the rack. Wineglasses in the far right cabinet.”

  She scooted down a hallway, and Leo trotted after her. In a minute or two, I heard two screeches, one from her and one from Leo.

  She hollered, “Leo! You’ve got to stop doing that!”

  In a softer voice, she said something else I couldn’t make out. Whatever it was that Leo had done seemed to be forgiven.

  Left alone, I considered the wine options. I actually prefer red, but I didn’t want to risk staining my teeth before the evening with Guidry, so I got out two wineglasses and poured Chablis in both of them. Men wouldn’t do that. Men eat garlic and onions without worrying about their breath and they drink whatever they damn well please no matter what kind of stains it may leave on their teeth. Women are dopes. But I was a woman, so I would drink white wine.

  Searching for napkins, I opened several drawers that held flat-ware and cooking stuff, then pulled out a drawer that turned out to be a deep pull-out storage cabinet. It held all kinds of cat supplies—cat vitamins, packets of kitty treats, bottles of food additives to make coats shiny, and two twenty-pound bags of organic dry cat food. I grinned at the generous oversupply, sort of a sure sign that Leo was Laura’s first cat.

  Behind me, Laura said, “What are you doing?”

  Her voice had gone hard again, and when I turned to her I saw frost in her green eyes. She had changed into baggy drawstring pants and a sleeveless knit top, but that was the only thing about her at the moment that looked relaxed.

  I said, “Sorry, I’m looking for napkins. It’s an illness I inherited from my grandmother. She got the vapors if anybody used paper towels.”

  She laughed, easy and friendly again, and padded barefoot to pull out a slim drawer full of cocktail napkins. Flapping a couple at me, she said, “Do they have to be cloth, or will paper do?”

  I shoved the drawer of cat stuff closed with my hip. “My grandmother would have preferred cloth, but paper works for me.”

  She smiled, handed me a napkin, and picked up one of the glasses of wine. Raising it toward me, she said, “Cheers, new friend.”

  Again, I was flooded with the warm fuzzy feelings that come with discovering that somebody you like likes you back. The fragrance of some very expensive perfume wafted toward me. I hoped I wasn’t sending off wafts of doggie smell.

  Leo trotted into the kitchen and stopped beside Laura to give me a calculating once-over. Havana Browns are graceful solid-brown hybrids with emerald eyes and big forward tilting ears. As svelte as they are, they’re muscular cats, and it’s always a surprise to pick one up and discover how heavy it is. Males like Leo weigh about ten pounds, and every ounce is strong.

  I didn’t speak to him, just waited for him to deign to speak to me. Cats like for you to acknowledge their superiority right away. Dogs are so happy to have new acquaintances they’ll throw away every shred of dignity and approach you first. I’m afraid I’m more like a dog.

  Laura said, “I know it’s early for dinner, but I’m starving. How about you?”

  “Whenever there’s food, I’m hungry.”

  Putting her wineglass down, she opened the refrigerator, dived into the vegetable bin, and began tossing out plastic bags of mystery things, hurling them more or less accurately into the sink.

  She said, “I hope you’re not on one of those low-carb diets. I was thinking about fettucini Alfredo.”

  I said, “I love Alfredo and everything he stands for.”

  She grinned. “I knew you were a smart girl first time I met you.”

  She got out a wooden salad bowl, and I moved to the sink and began washing romaine while she put water on to boil and chopped garlic. It was nice, very nice, to have that kind of rapport with another person.

  By the time we had dinner ready, we had each stepped on Leo’s long tail several times and done quick da
nces of remorse and annoyance, which Leo ignored.

  We had also crossed over the divide that separates friendly acquaintances from friends. Laura had told me who her hairdresser was—Maurice at the Lyon’s Mane—and I had given her the name of a holistic veterinarian, my gynecologist, and my dentist.

  Women need other women as friends. To giggle at dumb things one minute and go deep into our most secret selves the next. Laura and I had that kind of connection, the kind that allows you to explore any idea without worrying that you’ll be judged.

  We carried our dinner to the living room, a surprisingly impersonal room with oversized white ceramic tile on the floors and louvered shades covering the windows. The furniture was the sell-by-the-roomful type that landlords put in seasonal rentals. No rugs to break the white monotony of the tile. No family heirlooms. No lovingly collected flea-market finds. No photographs, no magazines, no collectibles. The only personal touch was an African violet in a white porcelain pot under a window. I knew that barren look. It was a lot like my own place.

  We ate sitting on the floor around the coffee table. Leo lay between us, blissfully resting his head on Laura’s bare foot, his long tail stretched out for somebody to trip over.

  I confessed that my favorite singer of all time was Patsy Cline, and Laura said hers was Roy Orbison, which we both thought was an amazing coincidence because anybody who’s ever given it any thought knows that Patsy and Roy must have come from the same soul. We also agreed that k.d. lang is most likely Patsy Cline reincarnated, and neither of us was embarrassed to say it.

  Something thumped outside the window, and Leo jerked upright with his ears pointed toward the sound. Laura went still, with her fork poised in midair.