Read Online The Cat Sitter’s Pajamas by Blaize Clement - Free Book Online
Authors: Blaize Clement
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I patted myself dry, pulled a comb through my wet hair, shrugged on a terrycloth robe, and stuffed my damp towel in the washer with my clothes. I turned on the washer and joined Ella on my bed. I was asleep before the washer had begun its chugging.
I woke up a little chilled from the air conditioner set in the wall above my bed. I sat up and stretched, which made Ella sit up and open her mouth wide in a yawn. I jammed the wet laundry into the dryer and padded to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Ella leaped daintily to the floor and followed me. My galley kitchen is separated from my living room by a one-person bar. The kitchen is so small I can stand in one spot and reach just about everything, which made it possible to fill a teakettle with water and drop a tea bag in a mug without thinking about it. Instead, I thought about Cupcake and Jancey and Briana and the murdered woman.
When the water boiled, I poured it over a tea bag. While it steeped, I stared at it as if I might find truths in the darkening water. I didn’t. When I judged the color to be tea, I fished out the soggy bag and tossed it in the trash can under the sink, then ambled to my office-closet, where I conduct the bookkeeping part of my business. On the way, I flipped on the CD player and put on some nerve-soothing guitar by Segovia.
When my grandfather built the garage apartment, he was constrained by the existing boundaries of the carport, so it’s understandable that the rooms would be small squares laid out in a straight line, with a narrow central hall where he put an alcove for the washer and dryer. But he must have miscalculated somehow and ended up with extra space he hadn’t expected, because the closet is extravagantly roomy. A desk for record keeping sits on one wall, and the opposite wall is filled with shelves for my folded tees, shorts, jeans, underwear, and a few sweaters. My scanty collection of dresses and skirts hangs on the end wall across from a mirrored wall between two pocket doors.
I put my tea on the desk, and Ella jumped onto the desktop. She knows the routine as well as I do. Music plays, she bends the tip of her tail to the beat, and I return phone calls from clients, handle whatever business needs handling, and record my client visits.
I’m very meticulous about keeping records of my pet visits. I note every visit, what I did there, and anything out of the ordinary that I found. Usually that means something like a cat sneezing or a bird looking droopy on its perch, not a half-naked woman parading around in the homeowner’s big shirt. Definitely not a woman with her throat slit. Nevertheless, I had to make some record of my visit to Cupcake Trillin’s house, so I wrote: Intruder present, called 911. Officers found homicide victim. Cats taken to Kitty Haven until house is clear for their return.
I thought that covered the situation very nicely. Except for the part about the intruder having stalked Cupcake and him lying about knowing her.
When I finished the clerical duties, Segovia was still playing, and I couldn’t find any excuse to kill more time. Feeling defensive before he even answered, I called Sergeant Owens. Even after being away from the department almost four years, I remembered his number by heart.
Caller ID told him it was me, so he was already ready for my question when he picked up his phone. Without even saying hello, he said, “The suspect turned herself in about an hour ago, Dixie. Came in with her attorney. I’m sure the investigating officer will want to talk to you, but it’s just a formality.”
He sounded defensive, too, as if he’d expected me to ask him why the heck his new homicide detective hadn’t contacted me so he could follow the dots in tracing what had happened that morning. Guidry would have questioned me within minutes of arriving at the scene. Their new guy must be a lot slower.
It was at that moment that I should have said, “Oh, by the
I patted myself dry, pulled a comb through my wet hair, shrugged on a terrycloth robe, and stuffed my damp towel in the washer with my clothes. I turned on the washer and joined Ella on my bed. I was asleep before the washer had begun its chugging.
I woke up a little chilled from the air conditioner set in the wall above my bed. I sat up and stretched, which made Ella sit up and open her mouth wide in a yawn. I jammed the wet laundry into the dryer and padded to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Ella leaped daintily to the floor and followed me. My galley kitchen is separated from my living room by a one-person bar. The kitchen is so small I can stand in one spot and reach just about everything, which made it possible to fill a teakettle with water and drop a tea bag in a mug without thinking about it. Instead, I thought about Cupcake and Jancey and Briana and the murdered woman.
When the water boiled, I poured it over a tea bag. While it steeped, I stared at it as if I might find truths in the darkening water. I didn’t. When I judged the color to be tea, I fished out the soggy bag and tossed it in the trash can under the sink, then ambled to my office-closet, where I conduct the bookkeeping part of my business. On the way, I flipped on the CD player and put on some nerve-soothing guitar by Segovia.
When my grandfather built the garage apartment, he was constrained by the existing boundaries of the carport, so it’s understandable that the rooms would be small squares laid out in a straight line, with a narrow central hall where he put an alcove for the washer and dryer. But he must have miscalculated somehow and ended up with extra space he hadn’t expected, because the closet is extravagantly roomy. A desk for record keeping sits on one wall, and the opposite wall is filled with shelves for my folded tees, shorts, jeans, underwear, and a few sweaters. My scanty collection of dresses and skirts hangs on the end wall across from a mirrored wall between two pocket doors.
I put my tea on the desk, and Ella jumped onto the desktop. She knows the routine as well as I do. Music plays, she bends the tip of her tail to the beat, and I return phone calls from clients, handle whatever business needs handling, and record my client visits.
I’m very meticulous about keeping records of my pet visits. I note every visit, what I did there, and anything out of the ordinary that I found. Usually that means something like a cat sneezing or a bird looking droopy on its perch, not a half-naked woman parading around in the homeowner’s big shirt. Definitely not a woman with her throat slit. Nevertheless, I had to make some record of my visit to Cupcake Trillin’s house, so I wrote: Intruder present, called 911. Officers found homicide victim. Cats taken to Kitty Haven until house is clear for their return.
I thought that covered the situation very nicely. Except for the part about the intruder having stalked Cupcake and him lying about knowing her.
When I finished the clerical duties, Segovia was still playing, and I couldn’t find any excuse to kill more time. Feeling defensive before he even answered, I called Sergeant Owens. Even after being away from the department almost four years, I remembered his number by heart.
Caller ID told him it was me, so he was already ready for my question when he picked up his phone. Without even saying hello, he said, “The suspect turned herself in about an hour ago, Dixie. Came in with her attorney. I’m sure the investigating officer will want to talk to you, but it’s just a formality.”
He sounded defensive, too, as if he’d expected me to ask him why the heck his new homicide detective hadn’t contacted me so he could follow the dots in tracing what had happened that morning. Guidry would have questioned me within minutes of arriving at the scene. Their new guy must be a lot slower.
It was at that moment that I should have said, “Oh, by the
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