Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 14 - Murder in a Casbah of Cats (2 page)

After parking in front, I mounted the three steps to the porch. I stopped in front of twelve-foot-high wooden double doors, ornately carved out of what I guessed was dark oak.

Resisting the urge to bang the heavy knocker in the middle of one door, I rang the bell. Moments later, the door opened. A middle-aged man wearing cutoffs and a yellow T-shirt with the less than optimistic assertion “Things Get Worse Under Pressure” stared down at me. “Yes, sir?” His head was bald, his face showed no beard, and I didn’t see a single hair on his arms or legs.

It took a moment for me to assimilate the image before me. I cleared my throat. “I’m here to see Ms. Watkins. She knows I’m coming.”

A poor excuse for a smile cracked his lips. With a touch of disdain, he said, “You’re Mr. Boudreaux. I’m Henry.” Without giving me a chance to reply, he stepped back. “Please come in. Skylar is waiting in the library.” He closed the door behind me and promptly padded across the foyer, his Nike running shoes squeaking on the terrazzo floor.

Skylar? What kind of butler called his employer by her first name? For that matter, what kind of butler dressed in a T-shirt and cutoffs? What had Marty Blevins gotten me into?

I stumbled after Henry, unable to keep my eyes off his hairless head.

The mansion was right out of Hollywood. The foyer was at least forty feet wide, with graceful stairs curving up to a mezzanine on the second floor. A young blonde stood at the railing, staring indifferently at me. I nodded to her.

She rolled her eyes and turned away.

Henry stopped in front of two ornately carved double doors that were partially open. From where I stood, I saw a huge fireplace almost filling the outside wall. The four-foot-high firebox could hold at least half a dozen of Charles Dickens’s Christmas logs. The lean butler knocked. As soon as he did, a Siamese cat darted around the door and sprinted up the stairs.

My client, I told myself.

Pushing one of the doors aside, he stepped into the room, beckoning me to follow.

When I entered, my jaw dropped open. Seated on a luxurious couch was bikini-clad Skylar J. Watkins, her coal-black hair draped over her bare shoulders. If that weren’t enough to catch my attention, then the five cats lounging beside her on the cushions and back of the couch were enough to set the hook.

Skylar rose and extended her hand. With a gracious smile, she said, “I’m so pleased to meet you, Mr. Boudreaux.” She reached
for a robe and slipped into it. “Please excuse me. I just came in from the pool.”

She waved her hand at Henry, dismissing him, then turned back to me. Snugging the belt about her waist, she continued. “I know I’m just a foolish old woman, but…”

Old woman! She and I sure had different definitions of “old woman.”

She continued, pure peaches and cream. “But I’d feel much better knowing someone with all of your experience with cats will be looking after my darlings. From what Mr. Blevins said, you’re the perfect one.”

All of my experience? I had Cat three days before he vanished, and AB only a couple of months. The only other experience I had with pets was Oscar, my brain-damaged Albino Barb exotic fish that I found belly-up in his aquarium one morning. Poor Oscar. I felt a tinge of sadness when I flushed him down the commode.

All my experience! Typical Marty Blevins bull.

Though I tried to remain professional, I have to admit that, despite her age, based on what little glimpse I’d had, she did that pale-green bikini justice. She gestured to her cats. “Here are some of my babies. That one, the fawn-colored one, is Hathor, my Abyssinian. Hathor was the Egyptian mother goddess of all that is best in women. As goddess of music and dancing, her emblem was the sistrum, an ancient musical percussion instrument. All Egyptian women worshipped her.”

She looked around at me. I didn’t know what to say. Since I had just learned a lot more than I really wanted or needed to, I simply replied, “Really?”

With a bright smile, she answered. “Really. And the calico on the back of the couch, that’s Rose.”

She named the other three, taking care to point out that one was a Devon Rex, another a Siberian, and the last an American bobtail.

To me, they were just five fat, spoiled cats.

“They look content,” I said, making sure I kept my eyes on hers instead of letting them roam, as they wanted to. “I saw a Siamese in the foyer.”

“That was Princess.”

“You have six cats, huh?”

Her eyes grew wide in surprise. “Oh no. I have twenty!”

During the last few minutes, I’d been struggling to put my mind around a hairless butler, a rude young woman, and a bikini-clad client, and now I was hit with an additional fifteen cats.

I stammered. “T-Twenty?”

Skylar looked at me curiously. “Didn’t Mr. Blevins tell you?” Her brow furrowed. “I’m sorry. I thought you knew. I told him how many I had.”

Quickly, I reassured her. “I’m sure he did. I just forgot.” It was a lie. All I wanted to do was get out of there and bust Marty’s bulbous nose all over his fat face.

She brightened instantly. “Wonderful. Now, let me show you around.” Taking my hand, she paused before leading me from the library. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Understand, Mr. Boudreaux, I’ll feel so much better with you here.” She glanced at the library’s open doors. “My staff is wonderful, but like many domestic staffs, they need constant supervision.”

I studied her a little closer, seeing a few hard lines in the knit of her brow. Maybe there was a little vinegar mixed in with the peaches and cream.

A smile curled her full lips. “Besides, there’s nothing to do. The staff will take care of everything. Dorothy—that’s my niece—and I are leaving day after tomorrow on a Mediterranean cruise.”

I decided to go along with her just to keep her happy. Marty could send some other poor joker out. “Oh. That must have been her I saw upstairs when I came in.”

Skylar led me from the library. “That was Karla. Dot’s sister and my other niece. She’s staying here. I tried to talk her into going with us, but…” She paused at the foot of the stairs and gave me a look of frustration. “She has this boyfriend, and they can’t be separated for more than two hours, if you know what I mean.”

With a weak smile, I replied. “I know.”

“Good. Now, let me show you the upstairs.”

Henry appeared from a side room. “Telephone, Skylar. It’s your accountant.”

She frowned. “Tell him I’ll call him back. I want to show Mr. Boudreaux my babies.”

Without changing his expression, Henry replied, “He says it’s very important, ma’ am.”

Skylar pursed her lips, then shrugged. “Excuse me, Mr. Boudreaux. I have to take the call. Whenever Henry calls me ‘ma’am,’ it’s important.”

I glanced at the top of the stairs, imagining what lay beyond. I sighed with relief. Now I could get out of there. “No problem.”

“Henry will show you around.” She smiled becomingly at the slender man. “Henry, be a sweetie and show Mr. Boudreaux around. Don’t forget to show him his room.”

“Yes, Skylar.”

For the next thirty minutes, hairless Henry explained the cats’ daily routines, showed me their rooms, and reassured me that my only responsibility was seeing that they remained safe. He and the maid fed them, and the gardener took care of the sanitary conditions twice a day.

The cats roamed the house, but two large rooms on the third floor were theirs, filled with cat trees, houses, stairs against the wall, and a shelf around the top of the rooms. Large windows offered all the sunlight a feline could desire, and silent exhaust fans kept the air sweet and clean.

I whistled softly when I saw the rooms. “This is something,” I muttered.

A faint smile played over Henry’s sepulchral face. “Skylar spares no expense for her cats.”

“I can see that. There’s a lot of people here in Austin who don’t live half as well as these cats.”

Henry didn’t reply. He gave me the feeling that if I dropped dead right then, he would step over me and walk away.

I turned to him. “Tell me, Henry. You said she wanted the cats to be safe. Safe from what? And why did she hire us? You and the maid are obviously doing a good job. Why us?”

He studied me a moment. I could see the wheels turning in his head. Finally, he grunted. “Probably the ghosts! She’s worried about the ghosts.”

A dark-haired woman wearing jeans and a bright-yellow blouse followed by a weathered old man in overalls and a straw hat pushed through the door. She carried a bucket that was almost as big as she was in each hand. He had a bag of litter under each arm. They jerked to a halt when they saw us.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the woman said, starting to back out.

Henry stopped her. “Come on in. Let me introduce you to our new employee, Tony Boudreaux.” He indicated the old man. “This is Frank Creek, the gardener, and this is Gadrate Brasseaux, Skylar’s maid.”

I chuckled. “Brasseaux? You couldn’t be from around here.”

She eyed me suspiciously, then smiled. For some inexplicable reason, I felt she was forcing it. “I come from Morgan City ten years ago.”

“Morgan City. Then you probably know where Church Point is. I grew up there.”

“I know,” she replied without enthusiasm, shifting her gaze from me to the cats.

The gardener, who was a few pounds overweight, snorted. “Yep, she’s our token Cajun. Now we can’t be accused of discrimination around the Watkins mansion.”

All three laughed. I joined in. Despite the quirky environment, I liked the three of them.

After Henry and I left the room, I turned to him. “What’s this about ghosts?”

He shrugged. “Just her imagination. Skylar’s like that. Says she sees ghosts on the grounds at night. I’ve tried to reassure her, but she insists they’re out there. I’ve even spent several nights over the past few years watching, but there’s nothing.” He paused and added. “Sometimes kids sneak on the grounds just to see what they can see. Seldom any trouble.”

“Ummm.” I didn’t know what else to say.

Henry continued the tour, unable to contain a sneer when he saw my Silverado pickup and pointed out where I should park it, after which he showed me the Olympic-sized swimming pool with a white cabana containing dressing rooms, restroom, and mechanical area containing the pump, pool piping, and filter.
Fifteen minutes later, I left him at the front door with a lie. “See you Wednesday morning.”

“Eight o’clock. Skylar insists everyone is punctual.”

I grinned wryly. “On the dot.” In a pig’s eye.

I pulled up to the main gate opening onto Woodlawn Boulevard. I glanced up and down the street. Halfway down the block, a young man waited at the bus stop, a bench sheltered from the weather. Without warning, a figure appeared from behind the brick gate-post outside my window. I had to look twice. It was Karla, the young woman I’d spotted on the mezzanine at the mansion.

She gestured for me to roll down the window.

“Hi,” I said as the window hissed down. “You’re Karla.”

She looked me over, ignoring my remark. “I know why Skylar sent for you. You seem like a nice guy. Do yourself a favor and don’t take the job.”

To say her warning stunned me was as much an understatement as saying Noah only took a two-day fishing trip. Before I could stammer out a word, she turned on her heel and headed back up the drive. “Don’t forget, I warned you. Anything happens, don’t blame me,” she said over her shoulder.

Cursing Marty for tossing me into such a bizarre situation, I drove straight to the office, ready to send my conniving, manipulative boss to the hospital. To my disappointment, he had been called away to Dallas on a family emergency.

I punched in his cell number.

When he answered, I called him every name I could think of and then made up a few.

When I finished, he replied with all the naïveté of a five-year-old, “Something wrong?”

I started in again, making sure he understood I would never, ever spend two weeks looking after twenty cats.

“Look, Tony,” he interrupted. “I got big trouble up here. Cover for me a couple days. I’ll get back and come see you. We can talk about it then. OK?”

“A couple days? You sure?”

“On my honor.”

“Come on, Marty. I’m not falling for that honor business.”

“All right. Then I promise. OK?”

“OK. This time.”

I hung up, satisfied. Sure, the extra forty-two hundred would have been welcome lagniappe, but I wasn’t hurting. I had money in the bank. Being single, I didn’t need much. Working the hours I did, there wasn’t much time to spend it anyway.

That night I called Janice Coffman-Morrison, my on-again, off-again significant other, to arrange a Saturday dinner date at one of the local supper clubs.

Later, I climbed into bed and instantly fell asleep.

In the early morning hours, a crashing noise from the living room awakened me. Sleepily, I stumbled from the bedroom and flipped on the light. I stared in disbelief at the softball-sized rock on the floor and the broken window through which it had come. A sheet of paper was tied around the rock.

On the paper were the words
stay away from the watkins place
.