The Cat Sitter and the Canary

26

When I was little, lots of my girlfriends fantasized about their wedding day. They’d drape long white sheets over their heads and two-step around their bedrooms, hugging a wilted bouquet of wildflowers to their budding chests and beaming at their imaginary husbands. I never really understood it. Sure, I saw myself married with a husband and kids, but I never put a whole lot of stock in the actual marriage ceremony, which is why, after I pulled into the parking lot of the Kitty Haven, I was somewhat surprised at myself. I wasn’t thinking about Albert Greco or Elba Kramer. I wasn’t thinking about Sara Potts or Edith Reed. And I wasn’t thinking about the hired assassin that had been waiting in my car with a butcher knife … I was thinking about Guidry’s wedding.

I’d left Cora’s apartment with the intention of going home for a shower and a change of clothes, but on the way there I’d gotten word the investigation crew was done with Caroline’s house, which meant I could finally take Franklin and Gigi home. I knew it would make me feel better to put at least one thing back to normal, but just as I was about to get out of the car, I glanced at the time. Guidry’s wedding was happening right that very minute.

I leaned back in the seat and closed my eyes, thinking I’d just sit there and rest for a bit, but almost immediately I saw him.

Guidry.

Waiting at the altar.

Surrounded by friends and family … beaming.

I could see him as clearly as if I was standing there myself. He was dressed in a sharp black tuxedo and bow tie, gazing at the doorway from which his soon-to-be wife would emerge, his steady eyes dark gray, edging toward blue. In my mind, I turned and gazed at the doorway too, practically holding my breath, waiting to see who was about to come through it—Monacle or Monochrome or whatever her name is.

In the front room of the Kitty Haven, Jaz was sitting on her knees in the middle of the carpet, waving two bamboo sticks in the air like a deranged traffic controller. Each stick had a string with a tuft of peacock feathers tied to the end, and there were about a dozen cats leaping after them like kernels of corn in a hot skillet. I’ve never heard anyone say it out loud, but a group of cats is called a clowder, which sounds more like something you’d eat with a spoon and some saltine crackers. In this case, though, the cats were making such a spectacle of themselves that it actually seemed appropriate. Meanwhile, Gigi was nestled in Jaz’s lap, watching the complicated cat choreography with rapt attention, as perfectly still as only a bunny can be.

I found Franklin in his kitty suite down the hall, watching a movie about mice running through a maze, and despite the fact that he didn’t seem particularly happy to see me, he purred in my arms all the way out to the Bronco. I think he was looking forward to getting back home where he belonged, and while Gigi didn’t say as much, I knew he felt the same way.

Driving to Caroline’s, I tried not to think about anything other than getting back to my regular routine. Thanks to Cora and her “secret ingredient,” I’d slept like a drunken baby, and that—combined with a cup of coffee and a slice or five of Cora’s mouth-watering chocolate bread—was starting to make me feel a little more energized.

Plus, I could acknowledge it now: I wasn’t afraid. For the first time in days, I wasn’t looking over my shoulder to see who was following me. I wasn’t calculating my every move, expecting a homicidal maniac to jump out from every corner. I felt like myself again.

Well … almost.

Something was still nagging at me, like a thorn lodged in the back of my brain, and, try as I might, I couldn’t shake it loose. For one, I kept thinking about Elba Kramer. I couldn’t imagine what she must have been going through. To have lost her husband, and in such a violent, horrible way. And to have discovered his body …

That poor woman, I thought to myself.

Elba seemed to enjoy her reputation for being wild and independent, but there was an unmistakable fragility about her, something unsteady at her core. I had a feeling she might be utterly lost without her husband to help keep her grounded.

Caroline’s house was completely back to normal, as if nothing had ever happened, but Elba’s house was a different story. There was an unmarked sedan parked in the front, with two deputy cruisers and a mobile forensics van, and the entire property was surrounded with police tape. On the front gate, gleaming like yellow butterflies in the sunlight, were half a dozen evidence markers flapping in the breeze.

I pulled into Caroline’s driveway and tried not to look at the house across the street where Mr. Scotland had set up camp. I think I was hoping I might be able to get inside without talking to anybody. I balanced Franklin and Gigi in their matching cat carriers, one in each hand, and kept my head down all the way to the house.

As soon as I unlocked the door, I remembered Charlie racing down the hallway with his leash trailing behind him. I’d forgotten to call a painter about having that door repaired, but I doubted Caroline would give a hoot about a few scratches when she found out everything else that had happened while she’d been away.

Franklin slinked out of his cage and wasted no time letting me know what he thought about being locked up in a box. Most cats have a vocabulary of at least a hundred different meows, each with its own particular intonation and meaning, but they rarely meow at each other. Instead, that finely tuned language is reserved almost exclusively for humans. He meowed at me all the way down the hall, making a beeline for Caroline’s bedroom without so much as a “Thanks for the lift!” or “Smell ya later!” I didn’t mind, though. I knew he’d feel better once he got back into his regular routine.

Gigi, on the other hand, was downright giddy. As soon as I plopped him down in his mansion-cage, he went hopping through every room, exploring every corner and dancing a binky on each level, occasionally doubling back to make sure I was watching. Once he was sure everything was in order, he skipped through his raceway and went out to inspect the lanai.

It was a glorious day. The sun was just reaching its peak, and the leaves of the lime trees surrounding the pool were trembling gently in the breeze off the ocean. I sat down next to the pool, and immediately Gigi climbed into my lap. By the hopeful look in his eye, I knew exactly what he was after.

I said, “Gigi, I’ve had a rough week. Do you really think I had time to think about your needs?”

He wiggled his whiskers and took one tiny hop forward.

I reached into my pocket. “Well, you’re right.”

I handed him a carrot stick, which he took with both paws and then settled into the crook of my elbow, nibbling away like a tiny cottontailed wood chipper.

“You’re welcome.”

Just then, the bushes along the side of the house separated, and for a split second my heart sped up by a factor of about a thousand. It was Detective Carthage. He stepped up to the screen door and flipped his bangs away from his eyes. “I imagine Ms. Greaver’s pets are happy to be home, huh?”

I mustered a smile as I put Gigi down and stood up. “Yeah, especially this little guy. He’s got much better digs here.”

Gigi hopped a couple of feet toward Detective Carthage but then changed his mind and headed for his raceway. There were a couple of awkward moments of silence as we watched him scamper off, but then Detective Carthage cleared his throat.

He said, “Miss Hemingway, I’m sure I’m the last person you want to talk to right now, but…”

I held up one hand to stop him. “I know. I owe you an apology for running off the way I did. I’m sorry. I really am. I just felt like I’d run out of options.”

He tipped his head to one side. “Yeah, about that. Did you know it’s considered a crime to flee the scene of a homicide?”

I nodded, although flee seemed like an awfully strong word.

“And did you know it’s considered a crime to elude an officer of the law?”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “Yeah. But did you know it’s considered stupid to wait around and see if a serial killer might murder you?”

He grinned and tossed his hair again. “Yeah. I have to admit you’ve got a point there. Umm … how are you?”

“I’m fine, I think.” I slid my hands down in my pockets. “I’m glad it’s all over. I’m not exactly sure I’ve had time to process the whole thing. How is Ms. Kramer?”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Not good, actually. She’s holed up in the pool house. We’re trying to convince her to leave, to check in to a hotel or something, but she just wants to be left alone. I think she’s in shock, which is understandable, but also … well, I don’t think she has that many friends.”

“Has she eaten anything?”

“I don’t know. Her assistant…” He paused for a moment.

“Rajinder?”

“Yes. He stopped by earlier. He took some food over, but I doubt she’s touched it.”

My stomach tightened. I couldn’t help but imagine the horror of what Elba Kramer must have seen when she ran into that front room. And then out of nowhere I sensed that sickly sweet smell again—very faint, like a distant memory—but enough to make me think I was doomed for the rest of my life to smell perfume whenever the idea of murder came up.

I said, “I wish there was something I could do to help.”

He looked down, and I noticed he was holding a pair of bright blue rubber gloves. “Well, as a matter of fact, I was wondering if you might help me convince Ms. Kramer she should leave the house during the investigation. I think she might listen to you.”

“Why would you think that?”

“She told me the two of you have a long history together…?”

I nodded. “Oh, that.”

“But also, it would help with the investigation if you took a walk through the house with me.”

I said, “What investigation? I mean, they caught the killer … right?”

He said, “Yes, but not the people who hired him. And we think they may have had help from the inside.”

I thought of Rajinder and how sweet he’d been with Charlie. Was it possible Carthage thought he was involved somehow? And then there was the gardener. I’d seen her trimming the hedge when I walked up to the front door, but I hadn’t gotten a good look at her face. I wondered if Carthage had already questioned her.

I took a deep breath and sighed.

I doubted Elba would listen to me, and I definitely didn’t want to see the room where Albert Greco had been killed, and I honestly didn’t think anything I’d seen could help them find whoever it was that had betrayed Elba and her husband.

But, then again, I’ve spent a lot of time with cats, watching their movements, observing their hunting techniques, studying the way they home in on their target with every cell—from the tips of their tails to the point of every quivering whisker …

And if there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s sniff out a rat.