The Cat Sitter's Whiskers

20

I read an article in the paper recently about all the unrest in the Middle East, and how one of the lesser-known consequences is that museums have become increasingly vulnerable to looting. Thieves break in and take whatever they can get their hands on, like ancient tools, pottery, jewelry, and, most notably, small statues and figurines. Priceless treasures have disappeared across the entire region, from Sudan and Egypt all the way to the northernmost cities in Afghanistan.

I was thinking about that as I made my way across the parking lot at the Sea Breeze. You’d think it would be impossible to get away with selling a hot artifact pilfered right out of a public museum, but when riches are at stake there’s always a buyer willing to hazard the risk, plus it can always be passed off to a less knowledgeable (or less virtuous) dealer, then along comes an unsuspecting customer, completely innocent of its questionable provenance. The black market for art and antiquities is a multibillion-dollar business. It extends its long, greedy fingers into every corner of the world … even as far as, say, a charming little gallery on the outskirts of Tampa.

As soon as I got back in the Bronco, I reached for my phone and navigated to my saved voice mails. I wanted to hear Mrs. Keller’s message again. There was one thing she’d said that had stuck in my mind: “I promised Buster I wouldn’t buy any more masks—but this was different, and I just couldn’t stop myself.”

I played that part a few more times. There was definitely something about the way she paused slightly when she said “different,” like there was something else … something unspoken. Of course, they always say it’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind, and I couldn’t agree more (I think), but I was beginning to wonder if maybe Mrs. Keller had actually kept her word, at least technically. Just because she’d promised her husband she wouldn’t buy any more masks didn’t mean she couldn’t have turned her attention to some other collectible item … say, ancient figurines?

The entire way to the Kellers’ house, my head was buzzing with everything I’d figured out so far, but somewhere in the back of my mind was the lurking suspicion that my whole theory—that there was a connection between what had taken place at the Kellers’ and what had happened to Levi—was as flimsy as a house of cards, as if the slightest breeze or tiny tremor in the earth’s surface could bring it all crashing down.

But I didn’t care. My day hadn’t started out so great, and even if there was no connection between the two, just the action of trying to solve the riddle of it made me feel better. There was one more thing, though …

Ethan.

It was what he’d said the day before, after I’d told him everything and he was about to leave. I couldn’t even remember it exactly, just that it had started with two simple words: “Our kids.”

At the time I hadn’t noticed, at least I don’t think I had, but now I realized it was still moving through me—slowly, deliberately—like a virus spreading to every cell in my body.

It’s hard to explain without sounding overly theatrical. Trust me, I’m the kind of girl who likes things as drama-free as possible, but there’s just no way around it … the moment I lost Todd and Christy, a funny thing happened.

I say “funny” because it’s hard to come up with a better word. It was as if I broke apart, like Humpty Dumpty, except there were only three pieces. One piece of me collapsed in a heap, like a bird that’s hit a plate-glass window—completely gone, still, hopeless. Another piece of me split away and flailed like a cat caught in a trap. It hissed and cried and fought.

I know now that all of it, the tears and the darkness and the histrionics, it was all for show. I think I knew it even then. It was just a smokescreen, a clever way of diverting the world’s attention from the third piece, the piece of me that survived, the piece that looked into the eyes of the emergency room surgeon on duty the night Todd and Christy were brought in. The piece that knew. The piece that immediately set about building a wall.

By the time the crying and the fighting, the darkness and the denial and the pain of it all had finally quieted down, that wall was complete. It was layers and layers thick, solid concrete with steel reinforcements, wrapped several times over with razor ribbon and barbed wire. It surrounded my heart, and for all practical purposes it was one hundred percent impenetrable. It was the only thing I knew how to do. I did it because I never wanted to feel that pain again.

Ever.

When I heard the words “our kids” tumble out of Ethan’s mouth, it felt like a little piece of that wall had dislodged itself and fallen somewhere inside me. The unsettling thing was, at least so far, I hadn’t bothered to put it back in place.

* * *

I don’t know what the heck I was expecting when I inserted my key in the Kellers’ front door. I knew it was safe, and I knew there was no one inside, plus I knew Lizette had already been there. If I’d thought there was even the slightest risk of danger I would never have allowed her to come and take care of Barney Feldman the night before. But as I stepped in, I took a couple of quick glances up and down the road just in case, and then after I closed the door behind me I locked and bolted it.

The house was quiet. All I could hear was the gentle hum of the air conditioner and the quickening thump of my heartbeat. As much as I dreaded breaking the news to the Kellers that they might have been robbed, the prospect of finally getting some answers to what the hell had happened to me sent a surge of adrenaline through my veins.

I pulled my phone out and took a deep breath. Dialing the Kellers’ number, I could feel Dick Cheney glaring down at me from his perch on the wall, but I ignored him. The first thing I heard was a couple of electronic clicks, and then silence. I started thinking maybe I’d dialed the number incorrectly, but then there was a short high-pitched buzz, and then a noise that sounded more like a couple of bleating sheep than a telephone ring.

“Baaaaaaa. Baaaaaaa.”

They came in pairs, with about a three second pause in between, repeating about five times. Then there was another click and a low hollow hissing.

I said, “Hello?”

The line went dead.

Mrs. Keller hadn’t given me a different number to use while they were in Europe, and I had just assumed she’d bought some kind of international plan for her cell phone, but now I wasn’t so sure. I carefully dialed the number again and got the same thing, except this time there was no hissing at the end, just dead space.

I snapped the phone shut and held it out in front of me, hoping that somewhere on the other side of the planet Mrs. Keller had seen I was trying to reach her and would call me back. But it was no use. After a minute or so I let out a long sigh. I hadn’t considered the possibility that I wouldn’t at least get her voice mail. Now my plans were completely derailed.

I realized I was just standing there with my backpack slung over my shoulder, so I dropped it down on the leather bench by the door and muttered, “Good morning, everybody,” but my heart wasn’t in it.

Dick Cheney was still leering at me, surrounded by his motley crew of mask cronies. His expression had taken on an almost clownlike tone now, and as I dropped my phone down on the bench next to the backpack, I could’ve sworn he made a face at me, the way a little kid makes a face at his mother when he thinks she’s not looking. I decided to take the adult approach (something I do occasionally) and ignore him, but I could totally tell all his little mask friends thought he was the coolest thing ever, so as I went by I flicked the tip of his nose with my finger the way I’d flicked the top of Ethan’s head.

At the end of the hall, I could already see the fluffy tip of Barney Feldman’s tail peeking out from under the antique credenza, so I kept a wide berth.

I said, “I see you, so don’t even think about it.”

Silence. I turned around just shy of the living room and folded my arms over my chest.

“Barney Feldman, I am not in the mood for your shenanigans today, so if you want your breakfast you have to come out and say good morning like a proper gentleman.”

He thought for a moment, but then one black-tipped paw shot out and batted the air tentatively.

I shook my head. “No, sir.”

The paw withdrew and there was silence again.

“Barney…”

One more quick paw swipe.

“All right. I’m counting to three, and if…”

But then he came sliding out, chirping like a chipmunk and waving his tail jerkily, as if to say, Okay, grumpy!

I reached down and gave him a few scritches between the ears, and then he padded after me into the kitchen. I spooned an extra helping of tuna in his bowl and mixed it into his kibble with a little warm water while he caressed my calves with his cheeks. He’s a good boy.

At first I couldn’t find his place mat, but then I found it on the island, spread out to dry on a clean dish towel next to a handwritten message on a piece of paper torn from a spiral notebook:

Hi Mrs. Hemingway!

Barney is SUPER frisky today! He played for an hour with one of his pingpong balls while I did my homework. Then we played some more and when I left he was sound asleep. I’ll come back after school and I can give him his dinner too. I get so much more work done here cuz I don’t have to listen to my two older bothers, I mean brothers, play their lame computer games all afternoon.

PS—Full Disclosure. There was a Teen Wolf marathon on MTV so we watched a little of that too, but don’t tell my mom!

Her name was signed in bright blue ink at the bottom with a big curlicue l and a plump heart over the i instead of a dot, and underneath was a surprisingly skillful drawing of Barney. He had a mischievous twinkle in his eye and bushy whiskers, and his paws sported outrageously long claws that ended in sharp, gleaming points.

I smiled. I knew Lizette, but I hadn’t actually seen her in almost a year. I’d taken care of her four-year-old Lhasa Apso while her mom recovered from surgery for a slipped disk. At the time, Lizette was awkward and shy, still struggling to define what kind of woman she wanted to be, but it was clear from her note that she’d blossomed since then. I couldn’t wait to tell her how impressed I was with her drawing talent.

After I washed out Barney’s bowl and place mat, I took him out back to the garden and gave him a good grooming with a stiff-wired brush. I must have collected a half pound of fur, which helps ward off marauding critters, so I sprinkled it around the garden. While I was doing that, I caught Barney pawing at something near one of the miniature roses. It was a little pile of coarse yellow powder, sort of like cornmeal. I know sometimes people use cornmeal to repel ants, but I didn’t want Barney eating it so I shooed him away.

After that we had a nice time chasing bees. There was also a Cape honeysuckle scrambling over one of the garden walls, and for a while we watched with rapt attention as a pair of tiny ruby-throated hummingbirds pirouetted around its neon-orange blossoms. It was better than a movie.

I left Barney stretched out on his side, his arms and legs all akimbo in a square of sunlight by the folding glass doors in the living room. I gave him a kiss on the nose and told him what Lizette’s note had said—that she’d be back this afternoon to hang out with him. I knew he hadn’t seen it because he’s not allowed on the countertops.

In the foyer, I leaned against the wall and tried to call Mrs. Keller again, but to no avail. I figured I’d just keep trying for the rest of the day until I got her, so I grabbed my backpack and was almost out the door when I remembered: my meeting with the gallery owner was at three o’clock, and since I didn’t think I’d be back before then, I wanted to take Mrs. Keller’s package with me.

I knelt down next to the bench and pulled it out, and then when I was reaching for the doorknob I felt a tingle of excitement, like a tiny army of ants racing up the back of my neck.

“No,” I whispered out loud. “You can’t.”

I paused and looked down. It was a brown cardboard box, roughly ten inches square, sealed with clear wrapping tape and several red FRAGILE stickers. It was addressed to Paxton Fine Art & Antiques in Mrs. Keller’s curly handwriting. I weighed it in my hands and jiggled it slightly. There was something heavy inside.

Well, I thought, you’ve finally gone right off the deep end.

With one quick swipe, I ran my fingernail along the taped edge where the flaps met at the top, and it popped open like a jack-in-the-box.