The Cat Sitter's Whiskers (23 page)

My afternoon rounds were a blur. I know I stopped by the Piker sisters' place, and considering the fact they have nine cats, you'd think I would have at least remembered something from that visit but I didn't. At Joyce Metzger's, I'm sure I took her miniature dachshund, Henry the VIII, for his regular walk around Glebe Park, but I couldn't remember a single thing about it.

All I could think about was the moment I'd first met Mona, outside Levi's trailer, how utterly nasty and angry she'd been. It was as if she moved through the world like a shark, always on the attack, always out for blood … and now I understood why. When I told her I was sorry she was so tortured, I had no idea the depth of the troubled waters I was wading into. She was indeed tortured, and from a very early age, and now her self-mutilation took on a whole new meaning: it was all she had ever known.

Now, as silly and potentially dangerous as it was, no matter what Ethan or Detective McKenzie or anybody else might have thought, I was happy I had helped her, even with something as simple as talking to her grandmother. She needed to know that the world isn't a shark tank and that she didn't need to be on the attack all the time.

At some point—it may have been when I was checking on the cats at the Silverthorn mansion—Ethan had called, and later I reminded myself I needed to listen to my voice mail. Then, after I crossed the bridge at Stickney Point and headed up Tamiami Trail, he called again, but he didn't leave a message that time.

I felt bad for not picking up, but I told myself I just had too much on my mind. Plus, I was driving. And I knew I wouldn't be able to give him my full attention. And I had to get a move on or I'd be late for my meeting at the Paxton Gallery. And …

I couldn't come up with any more excuses.

To be honest, I just didn't want to talk to him.

Not yet.

I knew it was silly, but I was having trouble. I couldn't get over what he'd said … about
our kids.
I'm normally an expert on avoiding things I don't feel like dealing with, but I knew this time it wouldn't be so easy, and the fact that he felt the need to apologize was all the proof I needed. Before, it had been a nonissue—or at the very least an unspoken one—but now it was hanging out there in the open between us, like an unresolved note at the end of a song.

Ethan's a straight shooter. I know that from firsthand experience. He says what he means, he doesn't play games, and he certainly doesn't shy away from the truth, so when he said having children wasn't on his agenda, I believed him. But the problem is, I had an agenda once, too, and I can now say without a doubt in my mind that my so-called “agenda” didn't exactly line up with reality, or, for that matter, with what was really in my heart.

Life isn't that simple. Lived at its fullest, life is full of blind turns and unexpected twists and unlimited possibilities. That's what makes it fun. We should all live our lives not knowing exactly what's around the corner.

But not me. I'm done with surprises. I see my life laid out before me, and it's just one straight, narrow road right to the horizon line.

I don't know if I can do that to Ethan.

He deserves better.

 

27

You'd think a town as small as Sarasota wouldn't exactly be a hotbed of culture, but it's impossible to overestimate the seductive power of our perfect azure skies and crystalline white sand, not to mention our winter temperatures that hover in the mid-seventies. Artists of every shape, size, and color flock here from all over the world. Writers, dancers, painters, singers, musicians … and then there's the clowns.

Ever since John Ringling set up his winter quarters here in the late twenties, the Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus has been as much a symbol of local life as the dolphins that frolic in the waves off Siesta Key Beach. Famous clowns like Emmett Kelly and Lou Jacobs lived and died here, and descendants of the famous Flying Wallendas still call it home (and some are still flying). It's not unusual to roll up to a stoplight and find a clown in full makeup at the wheel of the car next to you.

Plus, all that circus money went right into the local economy, which means we can afford to keep all those artists hanging around. Our museum is top-notch, our world-class orchestra is in its sixty-fifth season, and our Opera House just got a twenty-million-dollar makeover. It usually makes me feel classy just knowing it's there, but as I walked along the Opera House on Pineapple Avenue with Mrs. Keller's package tucked securely under my arm, the only thing I was feeling was … well, I think
numb
is a good word for it.

The Opera House is a beautiful old hacienda-style building, with rough stucco walls painted the palest shade of pink, topped with a red barrel-tile roof and guarded by three stately palm trees along the curb in front of it. As I walked by the front entrance, I tried to catch a glimpse inside. Supposedly, the big chandelier from
Gone with the Wind
hangs in the middle of the lobby, but since a ticket to the opera is a little outside my budget, I've never actually been inside to confirm it.

Just next door, dwarfed by comparison, is a beautiful old row house that's been divided into three shops, two stories high and covered in a neatly trimmed blanket of climbing hydrangeas. With its three arched doorways and thick-paneled wooden doors, it looks like something a family of hobbits might live in, or perhaps an illustration from the story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears.

On the left side is a quaint little bistro. It sells the most delicious panini sandwiches—so delicious that I sometimes dream about them—and as I navigated through the iron caf
é
tables on the sidewalk, the smell of fresh-baked bread and grilled cheese tried to lure me in. The middle shop is a boutique real estate office, with photos of fancy homes in the window that normally I stop and drool over, but I knew I'd be late if I didn't concentrate on the task at hand.

The last door had an oval lead-glass window in the middle, etched with gold lettering that read
PAXTON FINE ART & ANTIQUES
, and then in smaller letters underneath,
MESSRS. A AND R PAXTON, DEALERS
. The doorknob was one of those big brass numbers, polished with age, and when I pushed down on its paddle-shaped handle and gave it a nudge, I nearly banged my head on the door. It was locked.

Inside I could see a black metal music stand holding a framed placard that read
BY APPOINTMENT ONLY
, but then a woman appeared with a ring of keys in her hand. She was wearing a black long-sleeved silk blouse and linen pants with shiny black stiletto heels and a white leather belt around her tiny waist. I stepped back as she opened the door and smiled.

“Miss Hemingway?”

Her hair was pulled into a neat ponytail, and there was a tiny dried flower tucked over her ear, a pale pink rose. Her big brown eyes were partly hidden behind a pair of black horn-rimmed glasses, but I recognized her right away. I said, “Oh, I think we met before—at the Sea Breeze?”

She shook her head. “The Sea Breeze?”

“We rode up together in the elevator … remember? I'd forgotten to pick my floor?”

She smiled and shook her head slightly. “I have no idea what you mean.”

I blinked. “Oh. Sorry. I guess I'm mistaken. You look exactly like someone I met there.”

She looked up and down the street and then motioned me in. “No need to apologize. Mr. Paxton's just upstairs.”

I followed her to a reception desk set inside an alcove on the right, with a low counter and a row of white filing cabinets along the back. As she slipped around the counter, she glanced down at Mrs. Keller's package in my hands and said, “I'm Daniela, by the way. I'm Mr. Paxton's assistant.”

I nodded and smiled, trying to look as dumb and agreeable as possible. “It's so nice to meet you, and what a beautiful gallery.”

There wasn't a doubt in my mind. She was the same woman—the woman whose necklace I had complimented in Tom Hale's elevator. It was true she looked different in a ponytail and glasses, but her beauty was unmistakable. I was absolutely certain of it, but I couldn't very well argue with her. For whatever reason, she didn't want to admit she'd been there.

Of course, my mind immediately started tossing out all kinds of possible explanations. Maybe she didn't want her boss to know she'd been away from the gallery in the middle of the day, or perhaps she was having an affair with someone in the building, or perhaps she was embarrassed to admit on her days off she earned extra money at the Sea Breeze as a housemaid … an impeccably beautiful, luxuriously dressed housemaid.

She lifted up a green leather handbag from under her chair, and as she swung it onto the desk it fell open slightly and out slipped a piece of paper printed with what looked like an airline itinerary or maybe a boarding pass. I remembered she'd said the Catholic cross on her necklace was from Peru, her homeland, and I wondered if maybe she was planning a trip home, but I certainly couldn't ask her about it—especially when she was pretending she'd never met me.

She folded the piece of paper back into her bag and pulled out a cell phone, glancing up with a tight-lipped smile. “Make yourself comfortable. I'll let Mr. Paxton know you've arrived.”

I wrinkled my nose and resisted the urge to give her a
your-secret's-safe-with-me
wink. Instead, I just nodded and smiled some more as I looked around the gallery.

The walls and floors were all bright white, and arranged around the room were a dozen or so glass cases on white pedestals, each about my height, with only one or two items inside and lit from above with tiny spotlights. The closest held two identical clay vases, both about the size and color of an avocado, with tiny looped handles on either side. They were pretty enough, but in another case farther back was something a little more my style. It was a threaded gold chain necklace with an oval-cut yellow sapphire pendant, set in a diamond scroll, like a cartouche, with a pair of matching sapphire earrings.

Or, I guess I should say,
not
my style—I'm not one to gush over expensive jewelry—but it was drop-dead, tail-wagging exquisite. The sapphire at the end of the pendant was as big as a peach pit, and I could feel myself swaying slightly in my Keds as I gazed longingly into its glittering abyss.

“For a hundred thousand dollars, it's yours.”

I turned to find a rugged-looking man in a gray pin-striped three-piece suit, an open collar, and gold chains nestled in the dark hair on his chest. He was handsome, with a small mustache and a five-o'clock shadow, but there was something curiously unsexy about him, like he might make a good villain in a cheesy TV movie.

I probably blushed, because I could feel my cheeks turn warm as I shifted Mrs. Keller's package to my left side and held out my hand. I said, “Great. I'll take two.”

He held his hand up and waved it sheepishly. “I'm sorry. You'll have to excuse me. I'm afraid I may have caught a cold on the plane and I'd hate to give it to you. I'm Wilfred Paxton. Thanks so much for your help with this.”

I said, “Of course, it's my pleasure.”

He looked down. “Is this…?”

I nodded self-consciously, certain he could tell I had opened it, which of course was ridiculous, but as I passed it to him, I literally felt the smile on my face reshape itself into a kind of nervous, guilty grimace.

“Miss Hemingway, is anything the matter?”

“Who, me?” I shrugged and flashed him my best smile. “No, no, I'm totally fine. It's just been a long day, that's all.”

“Yes, I completely understand. Well, don't let me keep you.” He nodded at the sapphire pendant in the case behind me. “Shall I wrap that up for you?”

I laughed. “I'm afraid I'd never have an occasion to wear it, but I think Mrs. Keller would probably love it. Why don't you go ahead and send it to her and I promise I'll pay you back later.”

He grinned, and I noticed his teeth were the same stark white as all the walls and floors. “She seemed rather reluctant to give me her address, so I'm afraid you may have to act as courier again, speaking of which, please do convey my sincere thanks to Mrs. Keller. She's been very patient about this entire debacle. As you may know, she bought this piece at an antique store outside Tampa, but it had already been promised to a client of mine.”

I shrugged. “Well, these things happen, I guess.”

He smiled. “Yes, it's difficult to find competent help these days.”

Over his shoulder, I could see Daniela sitting at her desk. She looked up and raised an eyebrow. Mr. Paxton led me over to her, and at one point he placed his hand in the middle of my back, which made the muscles in my neck and shoulders tighten, but I tried not to let it show.

“Daniela, give Miss Hemingway a receipt of delivery, please.”

He turned and flashed that toothy smile again. “And thank you so much for your help. My client will be very relieved.”

I nodded. “Of course, I'm more than happy to help. And as soon as I have a hundred thousand dollars I'll come back and pick up that necklace.”

He glanced at Daniela and then nodded at me, and then disappeared through a door in the back of the gallery. I almost stopped him. I actually took a breath and started to say,
Wait
. I was dying to ask what the heck that yellow powder was inside that jar, even though I knew if I did it might create more questions than answers.

Daniela pulled a piece of paper from the printer on the corner of her desk, folded it into thirds, and handed it to me. I tried to catch her eye but she avoided me. I was still thinking I might get her to acknowledge that we'd met before, but she was absentmindedly straightening the papers on her desk. As I said good-bye, she glanced at the door Mr. Paxton had gone through.