The Cat Sitter's Whiskers

21

When we were little, Michael and I would wake up around four a.m. on Christmas morning, our alarms set to “sneak mode”—a special feature of any child’s internal clock—and tiptoe downstairs to inspect all the goods our grandparents had laid out under the tree after we’d gone to bed the night before. I remembered on at least two different occasions Michael went into the kitchen and came back with a spool of wrapping tape and a sharp kitchen knife—a definite violation of my grandmother’s strict kitchen rules.

I can still feel the terrible thrill of it. He would already have selected the best present, either the biggest or the heaviest, and with the calm dexterity of a gourmet chef he’d set upon it with confident ease, skillfully carving his way in, taking extra care not to cause any irreparable damage.

I, on the other hand, followed the rules. I never said a word in protest, though, and I never ratted him out. I just sat there and watched, part appalled, part delighted, while he inspected whatever gift was inside and then expertly wrapped it back up good as new. Then he’d put it back in its place under the tree and we’d slink back upstairs to lie in our beds for a few more restless hours.

Not once did it ever occur to me that I could easily have done the same thing with one of my presents, and strangely enough, I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to spoil the surprise. When Michael and I finally did come downstairs, sleepy-eyed and innocent as can be, that look of delight on my grandparents’ faces was well worth the wait. It’s still one of my most treasured memories.

Now, sitting there on the bench just inside the Kellers’ front door with Mrs. Keller’s package sitting on my lap, I was reminded of that rush of guilty excitement. I also wondered if I might need to call Michael for a little help wrapping it back up.

The box was packed with soft, crumpled tissue paper printed with red and black block-cut shapes, sort of like stylized cave drawings. As gently as possible, I removed some of the tissue from the top and laid it on the bench next to me. Underneath was a shiny silver dome that at first appeared to be some kind of mirror, but after I removed more of the surrounding tissue I realized it was the lid to a squat, glazed clay jar about the size of a cocoa tin and held in place with a piece of thin red twine.

“Dammit,” I whispered as I pulled it out of the box and turned it on its side.

It was heavy, probably about ten pounds or so. I removed the twine and lifted the lid, and inside was nothing but sand—except it was bright yellow. The same bright yellow, in fact, as the cornmeal that Barney had found in the garden.

I whispered under my breath. “No way…”

As eccentric as Mrs. Keller was, I seriously doubted she would ever have paid, as she put it, a “small fortune” for a jar of cornmeal. It had to be something else. I don’t know what frankincense looks like, or myrrh, for that matter, but I figured it had to be something like that, or some kind of ancient incense … maybe Cleopatra’s eye shadow? Nefertiti’s talcum powder?

I shook my head as I tied the lid back down and lowered the jar into the box with a sigh. It didn’t much matter anymore, because one thing was certain—it wasn’t a stone statue. I looked up to find Barney Feldman sitting like a sphinx in the doorway to the hall and watching me with his eyes narrowed to tiny accusing slits.

I said, “It’s not what it looks like.”

I doubt he believed me, and I couldn’t blame him. It was exactly what it looked like: I had opened Mrs. Keller’s package and snooped through it. I’d been so certain there was a statue inside. For a split second, I imagined Lizette opening the front door and finding me sitting there like a common thief. I imagined her saying she’d have to report my illicit activities to the Kellers … and then I stopped myself.

At that very moment, I realized it was high time I gave myself a good talking-to.

As quickly as possible, I stuffed the tissue paper back in, muttering under my breath the whole time. “Are you out of your cotton-picking mind? This is the about the silliest thing you’ve ever done in your entire life. Seriously? You’re sneaking around in people’s houses opening up their things?”

Myself replied, “What was I supposed to do? I needed to know what was inside.”

I stood up and marched the box into the kitchen. “And now you know. Feel better?”

Myself shook her head. “Not really.”

“Well, let that be a lesson to you.”

I frowned. I had no idea what I meant by that or exactly what lesson I thought I was trying to teach myself. All I knew was that I felt like a complete fool.

I found a roll of tape in one of the kitchen drawers and sealed the box back up, and as I passed back through the living room I noticed Barney had returned to his patch of sunlight and was sound asleep. I didn’t want to wake him up with another kiss good-bye, so instead I gave Dick Cheney a contrite nod as I set the alarm.

Back in the Bronco, I put the package in the passenger seat next to me and announced out loud, “No more.”

I was done trying to figure out what had happened. If I’d found an ancient figurine inside that box, then maybe I would have had a different attitude, but failing that, there was nothing to prove I hadn’t fainted and dreamt the whole thing. I told myself I was lucky I hadn’t gotten through to Mrs. Keller, because if I’d told her my whole cockamamie story she’d think I was nuts.

At the stop sign, I turned right on Calle Florida and took it all the way to Beach Road. Then I headed north along the coast to my next client. Just as I passed the turnoff to Ocean Boulevard, my phone rang and I nearly jumped out of my seat. I didn’t even look at the caller ID before I answered it.

“Mrs. Keller?”

“No, this is Wilfred Paxton. I’m calling for Miss Hemingway.”

He sounded younger than what I would have imagined for a man named Wilfred, and there was a slight British clip to his voice.

I said, “I’m so sorry, yes. Mrs. Keller told me you might call.”

“Yes, brilliant. I believe she asked you to meet me at the gallery?”

“She did, and I’ll be there at three.”

“Yes, that’s why I called. I’m afraid my flight was canceled and I had to take a plane to Miami. I’m waiting for the connecting flight to Sarasota now.”

I pulled over to the side of the road in front of Beach Palms, a tiny bungalow hotel that faces the ocean. In Florida, it’s perfectly legal to talk on the phone while you drive, but I’d recently been rear-ended by a young woman who was too busy talking on her phone to be bothered with watching the road. Other than a cut on my lip and some tears, we were both fine, but I interpreted it as a subtle warning from the powers above. Ever since then I’ve tried to be a little more careful.

I said, “Not a problem at all. I didn’t realize you don’t live here.”

“I do. I’m just returning from a buying trip in the Andes. My plane arrives this afternoon, and I should be at the gallery no later than five.”

I said, “It’s Pineapple Avenue, right?”

“Yes. 3535 Pineapple, just down the street from the Opera House. It’s a hideous pink building. You can’t miss it.” There was a moment of silence, and then he said, “Miss Hemingway, does anyone know you’re meeting me today?”

I blinked. “Well, Mrs. Keller knows, of course, but other than that I don’t think so. Why?”

“I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about, just … the item you’re bringing, it’s quite valuable.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Paxton, it’s safe with me.” I started to ask him what the yellow powder was in that clay jar, but I decided for now it would be better not to confess that I had opened it. Instead, I said, “I promise I won’t let it out of my sight.”

“Very good. I’ll see you then.”

I dropped the phone back down in its cup holder and rested both my hands on the steering wheel. Right in front of the Bronco was a squat palm tree, and there was a small red-crested woodpecker making her way around its fat trunk, hunting for insects. To my left, on the other side of Beach Road, was an open field of sand, filled with sea oats, pencil trees, wild yucca, and patches of prickly pear leading all the way down to the beach, and to my right was the little white picket fence that surrounds the Beach Palms’ back patio. There were four blue-and-white-striped lounge chairs lined up in a row, and I considered getting out of the Bronco, hopping the fence, and stretching out in one of them for the rest of the day. I thought if anyone asked what I was doing there, I’d smile pleasantly and order a Corona with a wedge of lime.

I looked down at Mrs. Keller’s package on the seat next to me and sighed. There’d been something in Mr. Paxton’s voice, a nervousness perhaps, that I didn’t like one bit, and I was beginning to wonder what the hell I’d gotten myself involved in. There are all kinds of powders in this world, powders that aren’t necessarily valuable because they’re rare or ancient or may have come from Cleopatra’s makeup kit, but because they can be produced with relative ease and sold to users and dealers for outrageous amounts of money.

Not that I thought for one second that Mrs. Keller’s new hobby was dealing in illicit drugs, but it did make me wonder if she herself had the slightest idea what in God’s name was inside that jar.