The Cat Sitter and the Canary

20

I pulled into the parking lot of the Kitty Haven and waited for Deputy Morgan to roll in next to me, and as soon as he was situated with his coffee thermos and his newspaper, I gave him a nod and grabbed my backpack. As I walked across the parking lot, I could feel the heat rising off the pavement, and I tried to imagine it burning up all my worries and fears like early morning mist. I didn’t want to bring all that negative energy inside … they don’t call it the Kitty Haven for nothing.

The decor can only be described as early American brothel. Inside, the walls are paneled in dark walnut, lined with a ragtag collection of sofas and overstuffed armchairs. There’s a big picture window in the front facing the street, with brocaded curtains hanging on either side, looped open with thick braided cords and fringed tassels. There are always a few cats stretched out on the windowsill, watching with sleepy eyes as the cars go by, or absentmindedly grooming their paws, waiting for the next treat.

A little bell over the door announced my arrival as a couple of tabbies lolling on one of the sofas looked up and squinted seductively. Marge Preston came bustling in from the back with a trail of at least a dozen cats scampering behind her. She’s plump and white-haired with rosy cheeks and dimples, and her pockets are always fully stocked with goodies to keep her charges happy. If I were a cat, I’d follow Marge around too.

She said, “Dixie, you’re just in time. I’m a little worried about Franklin.” As she spoke, her voice a pleasant soprano, she tossed treats here and there while the cats scattered about like children at a piñata party. “I can’t tell if he’s lonely or nervous, but he doesn’t seem interested in me at all.”

I said, “Oh, that’s just Franklin. Don’t take it personally.”

“Well, either way, I think he’ll be glad to see you.”

Marge never planned on running a cat kennel in her retirement. She took in a few strays after retiring here, and then neighbors started turning up with wild cats they’d found. Before long she was officially the neighborhood “cat lady,” eventually building an addition to the back of her house solely for the purpose of taking in more rescues. There are at least a dozen individual rooms, each about three by six feet, lovingly outfitted with used furniture—all donations from customers or garage sale finds. She led me down the hall to the back, talking all the way.

“Wait ’til you see the improvements!”

I said, “Improvements?”

“Yes, ma’am. I tell you, there’s an angel out there somewhere. I don’t know who it is, but a couple of months ago we got an envelope in the mailbox, no return address, and no stamp either. Inside was a cashier’s check made out to the Kitty Haven!”

My mouth dropped open. “No way.”

“Dixie, as the kids say these days, way!”

“For how much?”

Her eyes widened. “Ten thousand.”

“Ten thousand…”

“Dollars! Yes, ma’am. I was just as surprised as you are.”

“And you have no idea who it’s from?”

She shrugged. “Nope. I thought it was some kind of scam or something, but the bank confirmed it was real. They said I could either cash it or wad it up and use it as the most expensive cat toy in history. Well, I’m no dummy. If some rich kook wants to throw his money at my kitties, who am I to judge?”

She stopped at one of the doors that line the back hallway. “Now I can finally get this old rattletrap fixed up proper. And here’s the first thing…”

She opened the door and pointed inside. All the rooms are furnished exactly the same—a comfy cat bed, a scratching post or two, and a basket of cat toys—but there was something new. Hanging on the wall under the window, at perfect cat’s-eye level, was a flat-screen television. It was playing a video of birds flitting around in the branches of a pine tree. Franklin was perched on a little footstool in front of it, completely transfixed.

Marge said, “I know I shouldn’t encourage it, but cats are hunters after all. It’s in their nature. And I never let them watch the ones with bird feeders—only the birds they could never reach on their own. I’m going out of town for a couple of days, so this’ll help keep ’em company.”

Marge’s assistant, a pretty young girl named Jaz, poked her head in. “She bought one for every room. Apparently, she doesn’t think I’m entertaining enough on my own.”

Marge clucked at her. “Oh, now hush. You know that’s not true. And anyway, wait ’til I’m gone and you’ll find out—it’s no picnic keeping a small army of cats occupied all by yourself. If it was, I wouldn’t need you.”

Jaz winked, her smile flashing white against her mocha skin and long locks of curly dark hair. She said, “This is Marge’s first vacation in who knows how long. She’s a little bit nervous to leave all her babies alone with me.”

I said, “Vacation? Where are you going?”

Marge tilted her head. “Well, if I had a brain cell left I’d take all that money and go down to the Bahamas for a month or twelve, but instead I’m renting a truck and driving over to my sister’s place in Pensacola. There’s a big estate auction nearby, so I’m bringing back all kinds of new furniture for the cats. And also…” She hesitated slightly. “I’m headed for New Orleans.”

“You’re kidding me.”

She said, “I’m not. Guidry’s wedding is tomorrow.”

I took a deep breath and sat down on the carpet next to Franklin. “Yeah. So I’ve heard.”

Marge said, “Dixie, I’m sorry. I should have mentioned it before, but I didn’t think you’d want to hear it. Guidry’s mother and my mother are friends, and my sister went to college with him, so she’s going too, and it’s only an hour or so from her house, so I figured, why not?”

I tried to regain my composure. “Oh, please. I don’t care. I was planning on going myself, but I had to cancel at the last minute.”

“I’m sure it must be a little strange for you…”

“Honestly, it’s no big deal.” I gave Franklin a couple of long strokes down his back and tried to change the subject. “I’m pretty sure this fella’s house is still classified as an active crime scene, but as soon as they’re done I can take him back home. I’m hoping maybe by tomorrow.”

Franklin nuzzled up against my knee.

Marge smiled. “I do believe he’s glad to see you.”

“I wanted to stop by earlier, but things have been a little crazy.” I slipped my backpack off my shoulder and opened it up. “And then there’s this…”

Marge peered inside and gasped. “Oh my gosh. Is that a rabbit?”

“It is. He’s Franklin’s housemate.” I gave her as charming a smile as I could muster. “I know he’s not exactly your usual clientele, but I was wondering…”

“Well, of course! We had rabbits when I was little.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “My daddy bred them for meat, but I promise he’s safe with me.”

“His name’s Gigi. I’m worried he might be getting a little tired of riding around on my back.”

She lifted him out and nuzzled him to her chest, cooing softly. “Well, hello there, Mr. Gigi. Welcome to the Haven!”

If Marge thought the name Gigi was unusual for a boy, she kept it to herself. Over the years, she’s helped me with all kinds of animals that needed safe harbor from a troubled home, and she’s welcomed each and every one of them with open arms. Even Jaz was a bit of a troubled stray when I first introduced them, but Marge took Jaz under her wing with no questions asked. All she cares about is the here and now—a true believer in life, liberty, and the pursuit of treats—and she has zero interest in people’s pasts, no matter how sordid or complicated. As I made my way out to the Bronco, I made a mental note to tell my brother that if he and Paco ever get tired of taking care of me, they should just drop me off at the Kitty Haven.

I found Deputy Morgan slouched down in his seat with the newspaper draped over the steering wheel. I was about to rap on the top of the hood to wake him when he sat up and said, “Where to now, boss?”

I said, “Ever hear of the Scarlet Woman of Siesta Key?”