The Cat Sitter's Nine Lives

14

One of the perks of getting out early every morning is that I get to see the sun come up. A gobsmackingly glorious sunrise at the start of the day is practically a daily event around here, and every one of them is absolutely free of charge. Some of the full-timers, folks who don’t retreat to the North in the dead of summer, barely even notice them anymore, but I always stop whatever I’m doing and take them in. I’d hate to think I’d gotten so jaded that I didn’t recognize a gift from heaven when it was staring me right in the face.

As I turned off Ocean Boulevard and made my way toward the east side of the Key, the sun had finally come over the horizon, and the sky was ablaze with undulating streaks of deep rose and amber. It was the kind of sunrise that needs to be photographed, the kind that practically begs you to pull out your cell phone and capture its magnificent beauty for the benefit of generations to come—but it didn’t fool me. I’ve learned the hard way that it’s only when you take a picture and look at it later that you realize it’s all an elaborate trick. The true glory of a sunrise is that it’s fleeting. Try to freeze it in time, and the very core of its beauty is lost.

I wondered if Butch the Butcher was still standing at the back door of his shop and admiring the same sunrise. I doubted it. He didn’t seem the type to goonily wonder at the morning sky and wax poetic about beauty. The image of his bloodstained apron sprang into view, and a cold shudder went down my spine. The thought of having to wake up at the crack of dawn and hack away at slabs of raw meat all day long … Ick, I thought to myself. No thanks. I’ll take dirty litter boxes and fur balls over that bloody job any day of the week.

My last stop of the morning was Betty and Grace Piker, two retired sisters who live alone on Treasure Boat Way in a neatly appointed, low-slung bungalow with stucco walls painted the palest shade of turquoise and a sloping roof covered in terra-cotta barrel tiles, laid out in neat rows and painted pure white to reflect the sun’s heat back up into the sky. There’s not a single blade of grass in sight. Instead, the yard is a sea of tiny white pebbles, with little islands of arcing palms and broad-leaf philodendrons poking up here and there. Making my way up the driveway, the combined glare off the roof and the white-pebbled lawn was so bright I had to put on my sunglasses just to see where I was going.

As I slid my key into the lock I smiled quietly to myself, imagining what was waiting for me on the other side of the door. The Piker sisters have a long-standing agreement with each other. If one finds a stray cat and wants to bring it home, the other must stop her—using whatever means necessary, including physical force. They have eight cats, all rescues.

The latest addition was a petite tuxedo cat that Betty had found shivering in the toolshed just behind their house. She was all black except for a white splash on her chest and four white mittens on her paws. They’d named her Stevie, after Betty’s favorite poet, Stevie Smith, and it wasn’t long before they felt like she’d been a central part of their lives for years.

When I opened the door there was a soft-pawed stampede that came from somewhere in the back of the house and straight down the front hall, and then I was so busy giving out kisses and scratching ears that at first I didn’t even notice there were only seven cats vying for my attention instead of eight. I looked up to find Stevie waiting patiently just beyond the fray, with a look on her face that said, “I’ll say hello when you’re done with all the riffraff.”

I’ve heard people say that black-and-white cats are smarter than other cats. I’m not so sure. Every cat I know is smart in its own particular way, but one thing is certain: Betty and Grace were instantly impressed with Stevie’s talents. For one, if you toss a crumpled-up piece of paper across the room, she’ll come trotting back with it in her mouth, dutifully drop it at your feet, and then stand there with her tail twitching, waiting for you to throw it again. Even more impressive, she responds to all kinds of commands: sit, stay, lie down, roll over. Dogs are big show-offs at heart, but most cats wouldn’t be caught dead participating in such vulgar displays of subservience to humans. For a while Betty and Grace even thought she might be a runaway circus cat, but no one at Ringling reported anyone missing, so Stevie had been welcomed into the family with open paws.

Now, having eight cats is mostly eight times the wonderful of having one cat, but there are a few disadvantages. For one, I can’t even imagine what Betty and Grace must spend on cat food—not to mention kitty litter—and then there’s the boundless supply of cat hair. They go through a package of vacuum cleaner bags at least once a week. Of course, none of that outweighs the one big advantage: There’s a lot of joy in the Piker house, and the cats couldn’t be happier. There’s never a lack of playmates, so they never get bored, and the backyard is completely screened in, so they have free run of the garden. There’s even a small pond in the back, so sometimes I’ll find all eight cats lined up at the pond’s edge, watching in utter rapture as the goldfish and koi swim around in slow, wary circles.

I served breakfast in eight identical bowls, conducted eight beauty makeovers with a fine-bristled cat brush, and then did a quick walk-through of the house for any kitty damage. Surprisingly, everything was in order. I wondered if perhaps Stevie wasn’t patrolling the house when Betty and Grace were away, making sure everyone behaved in a respectable manner. When I left, they were all in a pile on the sofa in the screened-in front porch and sound asleep, all except Stevie, who winked slowly at me as if to say, “Thanks, I’ll take it from here.”

I’m always in a good mood when I leave the Piker house, but as I opened the door to the Bronco I made the mistake of glancing at my watch. It was 11:45 A.M.

I slumped into the driver’s seat and put my forehead down on top of the steering wheel. McKenzie was expecting me at the sheriff’s station at noon. I’d almost forgotten, and now I really didn’t want to go. The thought of being back in that station made my stomach ball up in a knot. Why in the world had I agreed to meet her there? What could she possibly have to tell me that required a face-to-face meeting?

I put the car in gear and rolled out of the driveway and down the street, remembering the very first time I’d met Detective McKenzie. It was at a crime scene, another one of those times when I managed to situate myself in the wrong place at the wrong time, right after she’d taken over as lead homicide detective. She’d been hammering me with questions about what had happened and what I’d seen, and then out of the blue she looked me squarely in the eye and said, “I was with the FBI for twenty-five years. My husband was murdered nine years ago. I have a sixteen-year-old daughter. Her name is Eva.”

Just like that.

Of course, I knew right away that somebody must have told her my whole story, probably somebody at the station, about how I’d lost my family and my badge and my career. She was trying to say that she understood me, that she knew where I was coming from, that she felt my pain. At that point, if people even hinted at the idea that they felt my pain, I had two responses: one, I curled up into a ball, or two, I started throwing punches. Still, something in the way she’d said it so matter-of-factly, as if it were just the most normal thing in the world, had kind of broken my heart a little bit.

In the years since Todd and Christy died, one thing I’ve learned is that losing a loved one makes you an instant member of this strange, underground club, a club that only people who’ve lost someone they truly, deeply love can join. Once you’re a member, all you have to do is let your guard down a little bit to see that there are fellow members everywhere you go. At the gym, at the grocery store, in the line for the dressing room at Marshalls, and like it or not, you can never unjoin.

In that moment, when McKenzie had laid her pain out for me so plainly, a bond had been established between us, an unspoken bond, but a true bond nonetheless.

By the time I rolled to a stop at the end of Treasure Boat Way, I half wondered if McKenzie wasn’t trying to ease me back into the station. Maybe she thought it would help me move on, or help me get over the painful memories of the last time I’d been there. If that was her plan, I wanted nothing to do with it.

Suddenly I had a flash of brilliance. I remembered my mystery caller from the night before. I was supposed to be at 9500 Blind Pass Road at two o’clock, but I figured a little white lie wouldn’t hurt anybody.

McKenzie answered the phone with a short “Ready when you are.”

“Yeah, about that, is there another place we can meet? Maybe somewhere closer to me? I have to meet a new client down at the end of the Key, and I’m worried I’ll be late.”

There was a pause. I could tell she was thinking it over.

“Dixie, the problem is I’ve got too much going on here. I want you to see something, but I can’t leave the station for long. I suppose we could meet at Payne Park, but that’s not exactly in your neighborhood.”

“No, that’s perfect,” I lied. “I’m near there now. I’m just finishing up with a client that lives right behind the high school. I can be there in no time at all.”

“Okay, then. I’ll meet you at the park in ten minutes.”

“Great,” I blurted out. “No problemo!”

As I flipped the phone closed, I caught a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror, with a smile as fake as a three-dollar bill still pasted on my face.

“Really?” I said out loud. “No problemo?”

I decided right then and there that if I ever said “no problemo” again I’d go directly to the nearest Treatment Center for Blowhards and check myself in.

It wasn’t until I pulled back out on the road that I realized—Payne Park is basically a two-minute walk from the sheriff’s building. Why it was better to meet there instead of McKenzie’s office made absolutely no sense at all.

She was onto me.