The Cat Sitter’s Cradle (7 page)

I decided not to tell them about Corina and the baby, at least not for now. Michael
and Paco are both crazily protective of me, and since Paco is part of the Special
Investigative Bureau, illegal immigration falls directly under his jurisdiction, and
I might be telling him something that he might not be able to ignore. Michael has
always felt responsible for me, mainly because he’s my big brother. There’s no changing
that, and I know it. There was a time when it really bothered me, and it still does
sometimes, but I know it’s in his DNA, just like being a fireman is in his DNA. In
his eyes, I will always be the little sister that he has to look out for. So keeping
a few things to myself every once in a while makes it easier.

I also decided not to mention my prospective date with Ethan. Not because I thought
Michael would object to it, but because, being the little sister, I get a delicious
thrill keeping secrets from him every once in a while.

Paco gave Ella Fitzgerald a nibble of cheese twist, and we all watched the sun continue
its slide down the sky. Sunsets on Siesta Key are spectacular, even the ones with
cloud cover. Every day brings different colors, different shapes of streamers in the
sky, different shadows on the water. Even the birds seem to grow silent as the sun
hovers for a moment above the sea, toying with it before giving in completely. It
always seems to disappear into the water too soon, and we continue to watch for it
to show an edge of itself. But it only sends up ribbons of undulating light, cerise,
magenta, aquamarine, like favors from an invisible party to which we’re not invited.
Every day we’re awed and inspired and vaguely disappointed because we want more.

When the lights had drifted away, Michael waved away some lovebugs and said, “I have
chowder inside.”

I said, “Can I take a shower first?”

“Dixie, if you don’t take a shower, we’ll hose you down on the deck.”

Nobody wants to share a meal with a person covered in cat hair. It’s an occupational
hazard for pet sitters. I handed him my half-f beer bottle and tried to think of
a smart comeback, but I was too tired. I felt like I’d had one of the longest days
in the history of my life, so instead I punched him in the arm before I climbed the
stairs to my apartment.

Behind me, Paco strolled to my car with a big dripping sponge to wipe away the lovebugs.

Dinner was Florida red chowder made with fresh fish Michael had caught the day before
on a fishing trip. With it we had hot buttered French bread, a green salad dressed
with a Florida grapefruit vinaigrette, and a fruity white wine. Ella Fitzgerald sat
on her appointed stool and watched us with the lazy look of disinterest that only
a well-fed cat can manage. The rule for Ella is that she can sit on her stool at the
dinner table as long as she’s polite and doesn’t call attention to herself.

We were just finishing the last crumb of bread when my cell phone rang with the tone
reserved for business calls. It was Kenny Newman.

I said, “I better take this. It’s my overnight dog sitter, and he’s on a job tonight.”

Michael’s left eyebrow quirked in disapproval as I rose quickly to take the call out
on the deck. In our family, it’s a hard and fast rule that phones are not allowed
at the table and dinner shouldn’t be interrupted with business. But Kenny was spending
the night at the Daltons’ house with their two German shepherds, George and McGee,
and I knew he wouldn’t call unless it was something important.

Kenny said, “Hey man, sorry to bother you, but I need a little help here. This girl
just came to the door asking if she could take George and McGee out for a walk. She
said she’s a neighbor and she walks the dogs all the time, but like, nobody told me
anything about a neighbor kid, so I said no. She looked totally pissed off, so I hope
I didn’t do the wrong thing.”

“You were completely right. If anyone has permission to walk them, we’d need it in
writing from the Daltons. They’ll be back in the morning, so I’ll be in touch with
them. If there’s any problem, I’ll take care of it.”

He thanked me, and we rang off before I thought to mention that I was pet sitting
at the Harwicks’ house, where he cleaned the pool. I slipped back into my spot at
the table and took a sip of wine.

Paco said, “Was that your beach drifter guy?”

“That was Kenny. He had a minor problem that we straightened out. And he is not a
drifter.”

“He lives on an old dilapidated boat.”

I sputtered, “Paco, there’s nothing wrong with living on a boat.”

“Yeah, especially if you don’t want to leave behind a trail of those pesky things
called mailing addresses.”

Michael said, “Wait a minute, what does he do if it gets cold at night?”

“It never gets that cold here, plus he has a little wood-burning stove.”

Paco rolled his eyes. “Or he sleeps in his car.”

Michael said, “What? Are you kidding me?”

I waved my hand like I was waving away a fly. “He has a truck for his pool-cleaning
supplies. He may sleep in it occasionally if the weather’s bad or he doesn’t have
a house-sitting job.”

Michael said, “Seems pretty suspicious to me.”

“Maybe he’s just saving up his money. I like that in a person.”

Paco raised one eyebrow. “Or maybe you just like the sexy blond surfer type.”

I said, “Please. He’s a good worker, and he’s honest, and he’s always been fair with
me. People can fall on bad times. That doesn’t make them criminals. Anyway, you should
have seen how much he loved that old cat of his. In my book, anybody that loves a
cat can’t be all bad.”

Michael didn’t look convinced, but I wasn’t worried. I think I’m a pretty good judge
of character, and I knew Kenny was a good guy, even though I had to admit, you could
see how they might think Kenny was a bit sketchy. I chalked it up to one of the many
occupational hazards of being in the line of work they’re in. When you’re in close
contact with danger or criminals on a daily basis, you tend to look for the negative
in everything and everyone.

To change the subject, I said, “I got a new job today. At a house with a mermaid in
a tank in the bathroom.”

Michael grinned and said, “The toilet tank?”

“No, you doofus. I’m talking a
huge
mermaid. Nearly life-sized. The aquarium is so tall you have to climb up a flight
of stairs to feed the fish. Mrs. Harwick said combined the fish are worth hundreds
of thousands of dollars.”

Paco said, “Wait a minute.
The
Harwicks? Roy and Tina Harwick?”

“Yeah, do you know them?”

He shook his head. “Not personally, but Roy Harwick is one of the top executives at
Sonnebrook.”

He had a tone in his voice, as if saying the word “Sonnebrook” explained everything.
Unfortunately, it kind of did. Sonnebrook is the Oklahoma-based company that inevitably
comes up whenever there’s a conversation about war, or oil, or consummate greed. It’s
one of the largest oil-drilling and construction companies in the world, not to mention
one of the biggest private employers in the country. In the last twenty years, they’ve
raked up billions of dollars in no-questions-asked government contracts to maintain
military bases or help rebuild war-torn countries. Along the way, they’ve been exposed
countless times for corruption, illegal practices, and worse.

Michael said, “It’s all over the papers today. He’s giving a speech in Tampa tomorrow
at a conference on earth-friendly energy. Do you believe that? The head of one of
the biggest oil-manufacturing companies talking about how we can make the planet greener!
That guy is hated all over the world. Sonnebrook has probably bumped off more potentates
in those little Middle Eastern countries than the CIA and MI6 combined.”

Paco and I rolled our eyes. Michael’s sense of morality is more highly tuned than
ours, and he has a tendency to see conspiracy and skullduggery around every corner.
It doesn’t take much to get him going about all the underhanded things done by the
world’s biggest corporations and governments, including our own. He can get himself
pretty worked up.

“They’ve been implicated in propping up despots just to make a dime and bribing senators
to get their way in Congress. I mean, you name it, they’ve done it. They’re all cutthroats
and thieves. And of course you can’t touch them with a ten-foot pole because their
money is spread all over Washington. The whole operation smells worse than dog shit.”

Paco chuckled and said, “Alright now, calm down.”

Michael laughed. “Well, I’m sorry, but I can’t help it, and I read they have a world-class
art collection, too, all of it bought with dirty money, of course. I’m guessing they
live in a huge mansion on the water, right?”

I said, “Yep. And they have a gold-plated toilet.”

Michael practically jumped out of his chair. “See? I told you! What kind of person
wants to sit on a gold toilet?”

Paco and I both burst out laughing. Paco has a knack for disarming Michael. No matter
how worked up Michael gets, Paco can flip his mood like tossing a coin, but I’m good
at pushing all his buttons, so together we make a pretty good game of mercilessly
teasing him up and down like a yo-yo.

“Yeah, very funny,” Michael said. “We’ll see if you two get any dessert tonight.”

Michael’s desserts are nothing to joke about. He makes the most amazing pies and cookies.
You haven’t lived until you’ve had a slice of his key lime pie, which he makes from
actual key limes he collects from a wild tree, the whereabouts of which he won’t tell
a living soul.

I said, “Okay, okay. No more talk about the Harwicks. They do, however, have a beautiful
little Siamese cat named Charlotte that I’m trying to win over. She’s a big grump.”

Michael turned to Ella and smiled. She slitted her eyes and gazed at him with rapt
adoration.

He said, “You’d be a big grump too if you lived with murdering thieves.”

Paco and I exchanged grins, but we didn’t say a word because Michael reached over
and took the key lime pie off the kitchen counter and set it in the middle of the
table.

“Mmmm,” I said. “What were we just talking about?”

Paco said, “I have no idea. Pass the pie!”

All in all, it had been a normal, ordinary end to a long, surreal, and crazy day.
I helped clean up the kitchen, kissed Michael and Paco on their handsome cheeks, nuzzled
the top of Ella Fitzgerald’s head, and staggered up the stairs to my apartment, drunk
on good wine, good company, and good key lime pie.

Just before I drifted off to sleep, I heard a little voice in my head say,
Well, at least tomorrow can’t be any crazier than today!

Sometimes that little voice in my head is dead wrong.

7

My morning routine is pretty much written in stone. I get up, stagger to the bathroom
to splash water on my face, brush my teeth, and twist my hair into a ponytail. I stumble
into the kitchen for a glass of orange juice, and then I’m out the door in my regulation
cargo shorts, white sleeveless tee, and a fresh pair of clean white Keds. The secret
to being a good pet sitter is having good shoes. I’m on my feet about as much as a
big-city mailman, so I have a row of clean Keds drying on a rack at all times. The
minute a pair starts getting even the slightest bit raggy, out they go.

On my porch, I took a minute to inhale the clean salt air and to nod good morning
to the glossy sea. At that hour, only a few early birds are walking along the shore’s
edge picking up the choicest goodies brought in on the overnight tide. There were
a couple of snowy egrets standing perfectly still, watching a small team of piping
plovers that were running back and forth in the sand to the rhythm of the waves rolling
in. Some sleepy chirping sounds came from the trees as other birds opened an eye and
nudged one another awake, but mostly I had the fresh new day to myself. I need that
moment of connection to life, need to pull it into my lungs and feel it climbing from
the soles of my feet up my bones.

When I was fully aware, I clattered down the stairs, shooed away a brown pelican who
had roosted on my Bronco overnight, and turned on my headlights for the drive down
my twisty lane. I went slowly so as not to wake the parakeets, but they’re so sensitive
they rose from the treetops in agitated flutters that made me feel guilty. At Midnight
Pass Road, where a line of mailboxes stand guard, I turned left and headed off to
bring food, fun, and frivolity to all the pets that were home alone and waiting for
my arrival.

As always, morning or afternoon, my first stop is the Sea Breeze, a big pink condo
building on the Gulf where Billy Elliot lives. Billy Elliot is a greyhound that Tom
Hale rescued. Like most race dogs, once Billy Elliot stopped winning races, he wasn’t
much use anymore and his days were numbered. Tom is a CPA, and in exchange for his
handling my taxes and anything else having to do with money, I go over to Tom’s and
let Billy Elliot drag me around the parking lot a couple of times a day. It’s a perfect
arrangement. I’m not good with money, and Tom can’t run because he’s been in a wheelchair
ever since a wall of lumber fell on him in a freak accident at a home-improvement
store.

I rode the mirrored elevator up to Tom’s floor and then used my keys to open the door.
Tom was sitting at the kitchen table with a computer in front of him as usual, probably
working on someone’s taxes. He spends a lot of time in front of a computer, and since
I have no interest in computers at all, he is my sole connection to the Internet.
He looked up and waved, and I waved back. He has a sweet, round face with warm eyes
behind steel-rimmed glasses and a head of curly black hair. He looks like a slightly
pudgy Harry Potter.

Billy Elliot came trotting up to say good morning, his tail wagging like an out-of-control
whirligig. I patted him on his head, and he snuffed and snorted in that way dogs do
when they’re happy to see you. I didn’t want to interrupt Tom’s work, so I snapped
on Billy Elliot’s leash and headed out for our morning session.