The Cat Sitter's Nine Lives (25 page)

Janet led me up the stairs to the library, where Mrs. Silverthorn was waiting in the same spot we’d had tea before, the little table at the far side of the chair-filled ballroom. The floral scarf that was tied around her waist when we first met was now fitted around her head like an Indian turban, and instead of a flesh-colored leotard she wore a bright red one-piece bathing suit with a white caftan hanging off her shoulders. Her long, beautiful tresses of shiny gray hair would have been impressive except I knew right away it was another one of her wigs.

As I made my way through the mélange of chairs, she talked a blue streak.

“Dixie Hemingway, I am so relieved to see you! You can’t imagine what I’ve been through in the past twenty-four hours. The most dreadful woman from the sheriff’s department was here yesterday with a demeanor so wretched that I felt sad for the entire world. She told me everything that happened and insisted on asking the most unsettling questions—how long have I owned the building, how long did I know Mr. Hoskins, where was I on the night he disappeared. I told her I’ve much better things to do with my brain than use it as a virtual appointment calendar.”

As I sat down in the chair opposite her, she pulled a tissue from the sleeve of her caftan and dabbed it at her eyes. “I cannot tell you how terrible I feel to have pulled you into such a mess. And when I think of that poor cat, waiting … all alone and helpless…”

She lowered her head and mumbled, “Oh, bother,” and raised one trembling hand in the air.

Now I finally understood how fragile her nerves could be. I wondered if she hadn’t slept at all since Detective McKenzie had been here.

I said, “Mrs. Silverthorn, cats are very strong, resilient creatures, and they’re experts at surviving difficult conditions—and one thing you should know, we think he’s going in and out of the store through the old air-conditioning system, and I left food for him in the back office, so I think it’s only a matter of time before we find him. I’m sure there’s absolutely nothing to worry about.”

She raised her head, her eyes filled with tears. “Thank you, Dixie Hemingway. You’ve done a great deal to ease my mind. I don’t know what I would have done without you. I’ve asked Mr. Silverthorn to write you a generous check.”

I looked down at the floor and nodded. “Yes, I ran into him on my way in. That’s all taken care of now.”

Just then, the phone rang. It was an old beige princess phone, sitting on the floor next to the stack of magazines by her chair, except it wasn’t a normal ring. It was three bright chirps.

Mrs. Silverthorn raised one thin finger in the air and said, “One moment, dear. That will be Janet.” She leaned over and picked up the phone.

“Yes, darling?”

There was a pause, and then her eyes rolled upward and she put the one finger she’d been holding in the air to her right temple and massaged it in a slow circle as she spoke. “How high … oh, damn it all … Yes, I understand. Alright, stay where you are and I’ll send the girl down.”

I wondered who else was in the house that she planned on sending down—perhaps there was a cleaning woman hiding with the cats somewhere—and then I wondered how it was that the Silverthorns managed to keep so many domestic servants and yet still couldn’t quite muster up the cash to pay for my services.

She laid the phone back down in its cradle and turned to me with imploring eyes. “Dixie … may I call you Dixie?”

I nodded mutely. I think I’d just figured out which “girl” she was sending down.

“Dixie, darling, that was Janet. I’m afraid Mr. Peters has climbed up a tree again and won’t budge. Silly Janet has a ridiculous fear of heights, or so she says—I’m not sure I believe a word that comes out of that woman’s mouth, but no matter. The point is, I was wondering … do you think you might…?”

I’m not a big fan of heights myself, but it didn’t seem right to just flat-out refuse. Hesitantly, I said, “Of course, but … how high is he?”

She smiled. “Not to worry. Mr. Peters is a very good climber, and he has quite an adventurous streak—I can vouch for that—but Janet tells me he’s well within reach. He’s in the old magnolia tree in the West Garden.”

I sighed. “Yes, of course.”

“Oh, thank heavens, you’re a dear. He’s never climbed that particular tree before—what an adventurous fellow he is. Normally, of course, I’d never ask you to do such a thing, but with the footman having run off God knows where, there’s no one else to ask. Janet’s waiting for you downstairs. She’ll direct you to the ladder.”

“Ladder?”

She nodded. “It should be in the garden shed. That is, if the footman didn’t steal that as well. Janet will show you.”

She sat and watched as I made my way through the chairs, and when I got to the door I looked back. She was still sitting there, her back ramrod straight. She unwrapped the flowered scarf from her head and waved it at me.

I couldn’t tell if she was waving good-bye or telling me to get a move on, but I waved back and smiled. Now, I thought, in addition to “Missing Pets Detective,” I could add “Girl” to my job description.

I wondered if that meant I’d get a raise.

24

Janet was waiting for me by the front door, staring at her shoes. We walked out to the porch, and I followed her down the portico and around to the right side of the house. The gardening shed turned out to be an ancient dry-stone building with a peaked slate roof, topped with a weather vane in the shape of a chicken, its wings spread wide to catch the wind. It was set in the middle of an undulating sea of weeds and rosary pea vine, covering a series of raised beds and low walls made with the same red brick as the driveway. There was a maze of overgrown shrubs surrounding the entire yard, with vine-covered statues here and there, and I could tell in its heyday it had probably been a very impressive display garden.

Janet led me down a beaten path through the weeds to a narrow gate set in stone, and as we made our way along it I tried to strike up a conversation.

“I take it Mr. Peters likes to climb trees a lot?”

She opened the gate and pointed at an extension ladder inside the shed. “Yes.”

I nodded and thought to myself,
Alright, then, good talk!
Janet was about as personable as a soggy bar coaster.

She pulled on a chain just inside the door, and an old hanging lamp illuminated the interior. The floor was covered in dried leaves and hay, and along one wall was a stack of clay pottery and broken pieces of an old trellis. Next to the ladder were shelves with dusty mason jars filled with various seeds and fertilizers and covered in cobwebs, and in the corner of the top shelf was a huge squirrel’s nest made of twigs, woven through with scraps of paper and shredded bits of lavender-colored fabric.

Janet helped me carry the ladder out, which wasn’t completely necessary since it was aluminum and actually quite light, but it was a little awkward getting it through the shed’s small doorway, so I was thankful for the help. She led me across the yard to an ancient magnolia tree as big as a mountain, which stood at the far end of the garden like an emperor surveying his vast holding of lands. It was in full bloom, and the heady scent of the flowers filled the air.

Looking a bit like the Ghost of Christmas to Come, Janet raised one thin arm and pointed up into the tree, where, perched on a branch at least twenty feet off the ground, was a snow white cat with piercing blue eyes. He was gazing down on us with an expression that was part curiosity, part utter disdain.

I said, “Oh, wow, he’s really up there isn’t he?”

Janet curled her lip briefly and then made her way back toward the house without saying a word. I leaned the ladder up against the massive trunk of the tree and muttered at the back of her head, “Oh, Janet, you jokester you!”

She didn’t answer. She was probably headed back to her servant’s lair somewhere deep in the bowels of the mansion, where she sat staring in the mirror and practicing her stink-eye. Of course, if the Silverthorns were paying her anywhere near what they were paying me, I’d be in a foul mood, too.

The ladder was actually two ladders joined together on a sliding track, with a yellow rope attached on one side to a pulley that could be used to extend the length as needed. I pulled on the rope and hoisted the extension ladder up until it reached as far as it could go, which was about twenty-five feet.

The trunk of the tree was easily ten feet around, with braided ropes of bark winding their way up into the canopy. The north-facing side of the trunk, where it received the least amount of sunlight, was covered in a fine carpet of green moss, and there was a column of tiny black ants traveling up and down a two-lane highway.

On my way up the ladder I had a few more choice words for Janet, and by the fifth rung or so, only five or six feet off the ground, my heart started skipping and I made a point of grasping the rails a little tighter. I couldn’t imagine Janet’s fear of heights being any worse than mine, but since it was in the service of rescuing a cat, I forged ahead.

Moving slowly, I climbed all the way up to the top of the ladder, where the glossy magnolia leaves formed a darkened cavern. I immediately knew why Mr. Peters might want to hang out here. He could lie about in the cool comfort of the shade while spying on all the birds flitting from branch to branch. I hoped for the birds’ sake that he was only enjoying the view and not hunting for a late-afternoon snack.

Mr. Peters watched me with a bemused twinkle in his eye, as though he’d done this a million times before and knew the drill. When I got to his branch, he twitched his whiskers and tipped his chin as if to say, “Evenin’.”

I said, “You know, Mr. Peters, this would be a lot easier if you’d just come down to me.”

He didn’t say a word. Cats are perfectly engineered for climbing up anything they can sink their claws into, but coming down is a whole different story. I reached down into the pocket of my cargo shorts and pulled out the little plastic bag I’d grabbed from my backpack on the way out. I figured a few irresistible kitty treats might give him the extra bit of encouragement he needed, and it turned out I was right.

I held a cube of cheddar cheese between my thumb and forefinger and held it out so Mr. Peters could see it. He sniffed the air and then tentatively put one paw forward.

I said, “That’s a good kitty. Come and get it.”

He stood up now on all fours and crept down the branch about a foot, and just when I thought I’d have him in my arms in no time, a gray squirrel, its mouth full of strips of paper, popped out of a hole in the trunk not half a foot from my head. It scared me so bad I nearly fell right off the ladder.

For a brief moment, the squirrel and I just looked each other in the face, each of us equally flabbergasted. I giggled silently when I realized the strips of paper in his mouth had an archaic-looking print on them.

I said, “Well, it looks like Mrs. Silverthorn isn’t the only one around here with their own private library.” Mr. Peters ignored me and took a few more steps forward. He was just as interested in the squirrel as he was in the cheese, if not more so.

Suddenly the squirrel hopped out of the hole and scampered down the tree, and Mr. Peters and I watched as he ran across the tangled lawn of vines and slipped into a hole near the foundation of the gardening shed. I turned to Mr. Peters. Now I knew what he’d been up to.

I said, “You know, it’s not very nice to go around hunting poor defenseless squirrels, especially when you have a devoted owner who I’m sure keeps you very well fed with the finest cat food available.”

He gazed at me, unblinking, and I wondered if that was even true. If the Silverthorns’ financial situation was as dire as it appeared, it was possible Mr. Peters was wholly responsible for rustling up his own dinners.

I held the cube of cheese up again, cooing softly at him, and even though he eyed me suspiciously the entire length of the branch, it only took a little more encouragement to get him to come all the way down and gingerly take it from my fingers. As he gobbled it down and licked his chops, I could see his eyes were even more beautiful up close. They were an impossibly clear baby blue, like something an artist could only come up with in a dream.

He flashed me an expectant look, so I took that opportunity to make my final move—one more tiny offering of cheese, which worked like a charm. He fluttered his tail in the air and rubbed his cheek up against the back of my hand, purring like a tiny salad spinner. Now I knew I’d won him over completely, so I gently scooped him up in my arms and handed him another morsel. He barely argued, which was a good thing since I had no idea how I would have managed to climb down that ladder and hold on to a flailing cat at the same time.

Just then, I noticed one of the strips of paper hanging halfway out of the squirrel’s hole. It had perfectly aligned bite marks all the way down one end, but that’s not what caught my attention. It was the color of the paper—a pale, creamy yellow.

I have no idea what possessed me to do what I did next, because in my mind, every nook and cranny in the entire state of Florida is teeming with venomous snakes just waiting for an opportunity to strike, but sometimes my curiosity gets the best of me. Cringing, I reached my arm down into the hole and my hand fell on something at the base of it, something fluffy, like a cheerleader’s pom-pom, but solid underneath. I closed my hand around it and slowly drew it out.

My jaw fell open and my eyes must have grown ten times bigger.

Now I knew exactly where I’d seen that paper before, plus the old-fashioned print. I was certain. The bottom half was nibbled and shredded, and the whole thing was wrapped in a water-stained lavender scarf, which was also pulled and chewed through, but I knew without a doubt that it was the missing chapter from
The Furry Godmother’s Guide to Pet-Friendly Gardening
, by V. Tisson-Waugh.

I said, “Huh,” and pursed my lips together, making a little sucking sound of air through my teeth.

Mr. Peters cocked his head to one side and stared up at me quizzically.

“Mr. Peters,” I said. “I have no frickin’ idea.”