The Cat Sitter's Nine Lives (6 page)

I put Ethan’s hoodie back on and watched Michael and Paco at the grill, waiting for the right moment to make my move. Just then, they both went back inside to get something from the kitchen, and I took a deep breath. My heart quickened, and I felt like James Bond or George Smiley, as if I needed to synchronize my watch or whisper into my sleeve, “We’re goin’ in!”

I heaved my stiff body out of the Bronco and closed the door as quietly as possible, then gave Ella a quick rub on her head as I went by. She could tell my heart wasn’t really in it, though. “Sorry, Miss Ella,” I whispered. “I’ll make it up to you later.”

I tried to take the stairs two at a time, but my neck was so sore I could barely handle them one at a time, so instead I took little baby steps, slowly so I wouldn’t make any noise, and just as I was halfway up, Michael came out with a big bowl of mixed greens. I pressed myself against the side of the railing and froze as he set the bowl down on the big teak table our grandfather made. Then, as slowly as possible, I slithered sideways up the steps, keeping my back flat against the wall.

I’ve always thought that if my pet-sitting business didn’t work out, I’d convince Paco to get me a job at the Special Investigative Bureau. I’d make a good spy.
Even injured, I’m nimble as a cat and sneaky as a snake,
I thought to myself.

Michael said, “Dinner in five, Dixie.”

I sighed. Well, maybe not.

“Okay, great,” I said as I trudged up the rest of the stairs. “I just have to take a quick shower, and then I’ll be right down.”

“What? A shower? Didn’t you already take a shower this morning?”

“Yes, Michael, I did, and now I’m going to take another one. I’m covered in cat hair.”

He walked over to the edge of the deck and cocked his head to one side, as if he were inspecting a steer at market. “Are you okay?”

I paused at the top of the stairs. “Yep. I’m fine.”

“Um, isn’t that hoodie a little big for you?”

I turned around and put my hands on my hips. “What is this? Twenty questions?”

“Whoa.” He put his hands in the air like a bank teller in a holdup. “Okay, grumpy. Five minutes till dinner.” He shook his head as he headed back to the grill.

I put my keys in the door and breathed a sigh of relief. That was close. I congratulated myself on my spy skills. Of course, I’d eventually tell him what happened, but after what I’d already been through that day, the last thing I felt like listening to was a lecture about the dangers of getting near a smoking car or pulling semiconscious strangers from accidents. At that point, all I cared about was stripping out of those bloody clothes and getting in a nice hot shower.

I swung the door open, and there was Ethan, grinning, his arms stretched out for a hug.

“Hey there, gorgeous.”

Now, I may or may not have mentioned that Ethan is about the most handsome man I’ve ever laid eyes on. Women generally swoon in his presence. I don’t mean metaphorically. I mean actual swooning. As in eye-rolling, knee-weakening swooning. Chests heave, bodices rip—you know the type. Basically, he’s
smokin’ hot.

“No,” I said, pulling the hoodie tighter. “I can’t hug you, I’m covered in hair.”

He stepped in front of me. “What? I don’t care about a little cat hair, come here.”

“No, seriously, Ethan, I’m a mess.”

He was wearing jeans and a faded pink V-neck T-shirt, but that’s all I saw at first. I was trying not to look at him. When I’m around Ethan, I tend to lose my concentration if I’m not careful. There are a number of things about him that can be a little distracting: his beautiful light brown eyes, his thick lashes, his curly locks of long black hair, his broad shoulders, his muscled arms, the soft hair on his chest … I could go on.

“Hey,” he interrupted. “Is that my hoodie?”

“Yeah, sorry. I got a little cold, so I put it on.”

“Umm, it’s like eighty degrees outside.”

“Yeah, I know that, but…” I cast about in my head for a good excuse, but all I could come up with was a plaintive “I like how I look in it…?”

He raised one eyebrow. “Yeah. You’re like a hot shoplifter.”

I shrugged and flashed him a sweetly disarming grin, but he wasn’t buying it.

“Dixie, what’s going on? And what happened to your lip?”

I sighed. “Alright, but you asked for it.”

I put my backpack down and said, “Now, I’m totally fine, but…” I unzipped the hoodie and slid it off my shoulders.

Ethan’s jaw fell open. “Holy … Dixie, what the hell happened to you?”

“I was in an accident, but really, I’m fine.”

His face went pale as he looked at the bloodstains on my clothing, and for a second I thought he was about to swoon himself.

I put my hand on his chest just in case he tipped over. “No, no, no. The blood’s not mine!”

He stood there, nodding for a couple of seconds and taking it all in. Then he said, “Yeah. I need to sit down.”

I led him over to the couch, and he stretched out on his back and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Okay,” he said, looking up at the ceiling. “Go ahead.”

I knelt down at the edge of the couch and smiled sheepishly. “You okay?”

He nodded vigorously. “Oh sure. Yeah, I’m great. Go on.”

I told him everything that had happened. All about the accident, how Baldy had been tailgating me, how after I’d let him pass he had hit a truck head-on, about the pileup and how I’d been rear-ended by a girl who was talking on her cell phone and only braked at the last minute.

His eyes were closed, but I went on anyway. “And now, except for a stiff neck and a little cut on my lip, I’m really, totally fine.”

He turned and looked at me. “Good story. Now get to the part where you pulled the bloody guy out of his car.”

“Oh right, yeah. So then I pulled the bloody guy out of his car.”

He waved one hand in the air nonchalantly. “And hence the blood.”

“Ethan, I didn’t have a choice. There was smoke pouring out of it. If I hadn’t gotten him out before it exploded, there’s no way he would’ve survived.”

He stared at the ceiling. “Exploded.”

“Oh. Yeah, his car exploded. Well, ‘exploded’ seems a little dramatic. It blew up.”

He shook his head and started laughing quietly to himself.

“Ethan, seriously, there was nobody else there to help him. What was I supposed to do?”

He turned and looked at me. “I know. You’re amazing.”

I held up my hand for a high five. “Finally! This is what I’ve been trying to tell everybody!”

He shook his head. “No, seriously. That took guts. How bad is your neck? Maybe we should get it looked at.”

“Oh please, don’t be such a drama queen. I’m fine.”

He sat up slowly. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. It’s nothing an aspirin and a hot shower can’t fix. And look, can we please not tell Michael and Paco? I don’t want them to make a big deal out of it.”

He put his hands on my knees. “Okay. Sure, if that’s what you want. I’ll give you one of my patented neck massages later.”

I sighed. “Okay, good. I mean, I’ll tell them later. I just don’t want Michael to freak out.”

He nodded, and that was it. No lecture, no hand-wringing, no “next time this” or “next time that.” Just a little dramatic light-headedness and then he simply listened. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I like a man who knows how to listen.

I like a man that knows how to listen
a lot.

“So here’s the plan,” I said. “I managed to sneak upstairs without them getting a good look at me. So now you go down and tell them I had a phone call or something. Meanwhile I’ll hide the evidence, take a hot shower, and be right down like nothing ever happened.”

He stood up, “Okay, let’s reconnoiter downstairs. Ten-four, Agent 99, over and out.”

He saluted and then stuck his hand out for a handshake. I swatted it away. “Very funny.”

As soon as he was gone I was out of my clothes and in the shower in less than ten seconds. I’m a champion shower-taker. I can stand there until all the hot water runs out and my fingertips look like little wrinkled babies’ butts, or I can be in and out in under three minutes, as efficient as a pit crew at the Indy 500. This time, I didn’t exactly empty the hot water tank, but I let the water run over my neck and shoulders long enough for a few muscles to relax back to their normal spots.

I toweled off quickly and slipped on my nicest pair of long slacks, which is what you wear to lounge around in when your work uniform is shorts and a T-shirt, and then a pale yellow linen blouse with little blue cornflowers embroidered on the cuffs that I bought at an Indian shop downtown years ago. I wear it whenever I want to feel extra clean and carefree, which is exactly how you want to feel after you’ve spent a few hours covered in somebody else’s blood.

On my way out, I paused in the kitchen. There was an envelope in the basket at the end of the counter where we put the mail. For a second, I just stared at it. My eyes were working fine, but my brain was having a little trouble processing the name in the return address.

It read
J. P. Guidry.

5

The view from my balcony was almost enough to make me shed tears of joy. There were tiki torches surrounding the deck, giving the entire courtyard a flickering golden glow, and the big table in the middle looked like a photo shoot for one of those fancy food magazines. At one end was an old tin bucket, its sides sweating in the warm air, filled with ice and two bottles of white wine attended by four chilled wineglasses, all glittering with the reflected light from the torches. At the other end of the table was a big bowl of elkhorn lettuce, arugula, endive, and Swiss chard, tossed with big shaves of Parmesan, sliced red onion, and black olives—not the yucky canned type but the nice ones from the Italian market. In the center, practically glowing in all its glory, was a platter full of fresh grilled fish.

I knew right away that Paco must have been in charge of the meal. Michael is the true chef in the family, but every once in a while one of us steps in to give him a break. If it’s my turn, I order takeout—I’m not much of a cook—but when Paco takes over, it’s a special treat.

Paco is the kind of man who women dream about turning straight. He’s of Greek American descent, but with his dark good looks and facility with languages he could pass for almost any nationality in the world. I can barely master my own native tongue, but Paco speaks at least six fluently, and he’s always learning more. He’s been studying Korean for two years now, usually at the end of the day when everybody else is watching TV or playing Sudoku or staring at the wall. That kind of dedication comes in handy when you’re an undercover agent. His family name is Pakodopoulos, but that’s a mouthful for most people, so we call him Paco for short.

His parents immigrated to the States before he was born, but his mother taught him all the recipes she remembered from her own mother’s Mediterranean kitchen. Tonight he’d made striped bass, filleted and sprinkled with lemon juice, freshly ground cayenne, and coarse sea salt, then grilled to utter perfection on a quilt of fennel, tops and all. White fish tends to dry out on the grill, but as the fennel steams, the moisture rises up through the fish, keeping it moist and lending a note of anise and celery, while the charred, feathery greens curl up around the fish and give it smokiness. Paco served it on a bed of wilted kale with couscous and roasted pine nuts, sprinkled with ground peppercorns and paper-thin slices of lemon.

If I ever meet Paco’s mother, I’ll get down on my hands and knees and kiss her feet.

As I joined them at the table, Michael handed me a glass of wine. “Hank called from the firehouse and asked if I could be on call tonight. He said there was a bad accident on Ocean. Some guy in a convertible got hit by a garbage truck head-on.”

Before I could stop myself I said, “A landscaping truck.”

“Huh? How’d you know that?”

I winced and glanced at Ethan for help. “Um, yeah, I drove by there on my way home from work.”

At the same time, Ethan said, “Yeah, it was on the news.”

I grabbed my fork and shoved a big bite of salad in my mouth while Ethan reached for his wine.

Michael shrugged. “Oh. I guess Hank got it wrong. Anyway, he said it was pretty bad. Two people had to pull the guy out of his car.”

I tried not to choke on my salad. “Wow, that’s impressive.”

“Yeah, he said the car was on fire, so this blond girl and another guy literally picked the dude up and carried him to safety.”

“Huh,” I said.

“And then the dude’s car exploded.”

Ethan was looking down at his plate, moving his couscous around with his fork. “I guess they probably saved that guy’s life.” He looked up and flashed me a sly smile.

Michael nodded. “Oh yeah, definitely. Luckily the guys were right on it. They got everything hosed down before it could spread anywhere. Hank said the blonde was cute but a little broad in the beam.”

I paused. “Huh?”

Michael held his plate out over the table, and Paco put some salad on it. “You know, broad in the beam—isn’t that what Grandma used to say? I think he meant she had a big butt.”

I put my fork down and calmly took a sip of wine.

“He said she was kind of cute, but with a huge big fat butt, and she was wearing a white T-shirt and cargo shorts. Oh, and she drove a pale yellow Ford Bronco.”

I looked Michael levelly in the eyes. A big, mischievous grin spread across his face. I said, “I am going to come over there and personally beat you up.”

Paco burst out laughing, and Michael raised his hands in mock surprise. “What did I say?”

I turned to Ethan. “You traitor. You told them!”

“I swear I didn’t say a word!”

Michael said, “Dixie, did you think the guys down at the firehouse wouldn’t recognize you?”

I said, “Look, I was going to tell you. I just didn’t think you’d want to see me all messed up.”

“What do you mean, all messed up?”

“Michael, the guy was in a head-on collision. There was a little blood involved.”

He frowned. “Oh, I didn’t even think of that.”

“Right.”