The Cat Sitter's Nine Lives

7

I have a morning routine that I’ve worked out over the years, and I stick to it with an almost military dedication. I roll out of bed, stumble into the bathroom, splash cold water on my face, and pull my hair back into a tight ponytail. Then I pad into the closet and paw through the shelves for my standard uniform: khaki cargo shorts, white sleeveless tee, and a fresh pair of white tennis shoes. Anybody who knows me knows I can’t stand old, smelly shoes, so I keep a steady supply of brand-new Keds lined up on the rack in my closet. As soon as one of them gets even the slightest bit ragged, out they go, right to the Salvation Army.

I’m out the door and on the road by the time the sun’s coming up, and when my morning rounds are done, usually around nine or so, I head straight over to the Village Diner, where I have the same exact breakfast every single day. Then it’s home for a shower and a nap, and then on to my afternoon rounds, and then dinner and then bed. It’s the same every day, seven days a week.

In other words, I don’t like surprises.

Then again, as I cruised down Ocean Boulevard on my way to the bookstore, whistling happily along like one of Snow White’s seven dwarves, I had to admit: Breakfast on a silver platter was a nice change, especially when it was served by a beautiful man. I chuckled at myself for still thinking about it, but I couldn’t stop. Even though I felt like my schedule was still a little out of whack, it had put me in a good mood, not to mention the fact that my neck felt worlds better.

I wondered how I could convince Ethan to make sure that both nightly massages and breakfast service became standard additions to my daily routine.

I was looking forward to seeing Mr. Hoskins again. I had instantly liked him, as befuddled as he was, and I think I was kind of hoping that maybe we’d become friends. He was a little more disheveled than I remembered Mr. Beezy being, but there was definitely something similar about them. Of course, I couldn’t hope to re-create the bond I’d felt with Mr. Beezy, but it certainly couldn’t hurt to try. I think those bonds we form as children are almost impossible to find again, especially after we grow up and see the world for what it really is.

I pulled the Bronco into a spot just in front of Amber Jack’s, a local hangout with an open-air patio and a little stage in the corner for live music. During the day it’s deserted save for a few sparrows and snowy egrets foraging around under the tables for bits of french fries or burger buns from the night before, but in the evening it’s PTB—the Place to Be. In fact, they even have a live webcam so people can check out the crowd from the comfort of their own home anywhere in the world. The beer is cheap and the music is good, and it’s the kind of establishment where tourists can rub elbows with us locals and pretend they live in paradise all year long, too.

I grabbed my book and had just opened the car door when my cell phone rang. One look at the caller ID and I laughed out loud. It read SARA MEM HO.

I was pretty sure this was the same “Sara Somebody” who had already called a couple of times, but I knew right away it wasn’t the Sara who works the hot dog stand down at the beach pavilion, and it wasn’t a new client either. Sara Mem Ho was caller ID shorthand for Sarasota Memorial Hospital.

I’d been friends with a girl in high school named Christine Ho, but I’d certainly never heard of anybody named Mem. I grinned thinking about how I’d tease Ethan about it later, except then I remembered with a jolt that my friend Cora had recently had a little heart trouble, and my first thought was that she was back in the hospital.

Hoping with all my might that I was wrong, I flipped it open and said, “Hello?”

A young woman said in a rushed half-whisper, “Hi. You don’t know me, and I shouldn’t be doing this, but I just thought you should know.”

I said, “Who is this?”

“I’m a night nurse at Sarasota Memorial Hospital. We’re not supposed to get involved in our patients’ private affairs, but…”

I took a deep breath and braced myself for bad news. “Okay. What happened?”

“He’s been asking for you.”

I frowned. “Huh?”

“Mr. Vladek. He made me promise not to call you, but then he asks for you in his sleep.”

She was talking so quietly I wasn’t even sure I’d heard her right. “Mr. Vladek?”

“Yes, Anton Vladek.”

I let out a sigh of relief. “Oh my gosh. I think you have the wrong number. I don’t know anyone named Vladek.”

There was a quick intake of breath and then silence.

I said, “Hello?”

She blurted, “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I have the wrong number. Please don’t tell anyone I called you.”

I started to ask her who the heck I would tell, but then the line went dead. I sat there staring at the phone for a second and wondering what in the world that could have been about. Anton Vladek sounded exactly like the kind of person I’d get a mysterious call from if I was an international spy. For a second I fantasized about hitting redial, disguising my voice, and asking the mystery nurse to deliver a top secret, coded message to Anton Vladek: The microfilm is in a black valise at the front desk of the Russian embassy, and the eagle flies at midnight.

Instead, I slipped the phone down in my pocket and grabbed my new book. The last thing I needed right now was more drama in my life. Anton Vladek would just have to carry out whatever international spy-ring undercover sting operation he was working on without me.

As I came around the front of the Bronco and stepped up on the sidewalk, I saw a little crowd up the street in front of Beezy’s Bookstore. The first thing that came to mind was that they were having some kind of sale, or maybe a book signing. There are lots of writers around here, so often you’ll see somebody with a table set up, signing their new book at the library or the farmer’s market downtown. But then I realized they were all wearing the same thing: spruce green trousers, black boots, and short-sleeved, green polo shirts.

I stopped dead in my tracks. There were about six sheriff’s deputies in all, standing in a circle behind a line of yellow-and-black police tape. There were two department cruisers parked across the street, and two policemen were stringing more tape around the two shops on either side of the bookstore. They’d also cordoned off the parking spaces directly in front of the shop, which were vacant except for a dusty maroon minivan parked right in front. On the side of the van was a black circle of lettering that read BEEZY’S BOOKSTORE, and inside the circle was an image of an open book.

The door to the bookshop swung open, and two policemen stepped out, followed by a tall woman with sorrel hair and pale, freckled skin. She wore a knee-length skirt the color of a baked potato, with a gray blouse and dull black mules. I recognized her immediately.

Samantha McKenzie. When Guidry had moved to New Orleans, it was McKenzie who’d taken over as lead homicide detective for the Sarasota County Sheriff’s Department. I had met her a couple of times before. She wasn’t much older than me, but I always felt like a little child in her presence, and I must have looked like a fool standing there with my arms dangling at my sides and my mouth hanging wide open. When she saw me, our eyes locked for a second. She had a look on her face that I had seen before—intense alertness and concentration, but with a vague, resolute sadness.

She stepped forward and held out her hand. “Ah, Miss Hemingway, we were just talking about you.”