Read Online The Cat Sitter’s Pajamas by Blaize Clement - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Blaize Clement
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in another room and killed the woman. She may be telling the truth.”
Michael’s voice grew suspicious. “How do you know what she’s saying?”
“I called Sergeant Owens.”
It was absolutely true that I had called Owens, so technically I wasn’t lying.
“According to the TV reporter, the judge denied bail for her because she broke into the Trillin house and because they think she was stalking Trillin. With her history, I guess they think she’ll run if they let her out.”
I didn’t think there was any question that Briana would definitely want to leave if she thought she could hide out and never be found. But since her face was so famous, leaving wasn’t really an option for her.
I was afraid I’d give away the fact that I knew Briana better than the TV reporter did if I talked to Michael any longer, so I told him I was on my way out the door for afternoon pet visits. I was almost on my way out, so it was only a small lie.
He said, “I’ll be home in the morning. Love you.”
“Love you.”
We always end our conversations like that. Both of us have plenty of reason to know that every day might be our last, so we don’t leave love unsaid.
I hurried to get dressed in my regulation khaki cargo shorts and sleeveless white tee. I slipped on fresh white Keds from the drying rack over the washer/dryer—I can’t stand shoes that smell like feet, so I go through a lot of Keds. Then I called the guy who does homicide cleanup.
I said, “I wanted to give you a heads-up about a cleaning job in Hidden Shores. So far as I know, there’s only one contaminated floor in one room. I’ll let you know when the criminalists are done there.”
“What kind of floor?”
“Tile.”
“What kind of tile? May have to replace it.”
“Expensive tile. The owners of the house are out of the country, but they’ll be home tomorrow night. If you have to replace the tile, they can give you the particulars.”
He thanked me for giving him a chance to plan ahead, and we said our good-byes. He didn’t ask the homeowners’ name, and I didn’t volunteer the information. He was a professional, he knew not to pry.
Morning and afternoon, my first pet stop is at Tom Hale’s condo on Midnight Pass Road. Tom is a CPA whose life went off on a different road than he’d intended when a wall of door displays fell on him at a home improvement store and crushed his spine. Life is like that. One moment you can be strolling down an aisle in a store admiring doorknobs, and the next moment you’re not who you used to be but somebody totally different.
After his agony and fear and fury had got sorted out, Tom faced life as a paraplegic without a CPA office, a wife, or children. Well, he still had children, but his ex-wife had taken them and most of his settlement money to another state. But Tom’s not one to sit around feeling sorry for himself, so he started over in a wheelchair. Instead of doing CPA work in a fancy office, he does it at his kitchen table. He adopted a greyhound racing dog, who had also been given up by the world as useless, and named him Billy Elliot.
Some retired greyhounds are happy to leave their racing days behind them, but not Billy Elliot. He needs a good twenty minutes of all-out running twice a day, so Tom and I do a trade-off. I run with Billy, and Tom handles my taxes and anything that has to do with money.
I took the mirrored elevator to Tom’s floor, knocked lightly on his door to let him and Billy know I was there, and let myself in with my key. Tom yelled hello from the kitchen, and Billy met me in the foyer grinning and wagging his tail in absolute ecstasy. I love that about dogs. They don’t stand back and make you work at being friends with them, they’re your best friend the minute they see you.
I got Billy Elliot’s leash from the closet and went to stand in the kitchen doorway. Tom had his laptop computer open on the table, and he looked up at me with a friendly grin. Not as friendly as
Michael’s voice grew suspicious. “How do you know what she’s saying?”
“I called Sergeant Owens.”
It was absolutely true that I had called Owens, so technically I wasn’t lying.
“According to the TV reporter, the judge denied bail for her because she broke into the Trillin house and because they think she was stalking Trillin. With her history, I guess they think she’ll run if they let her out.”
I didn’t think there was any question that Briana would definitely want to leave if she thought she could hide out and never be found. But since her face was so famous, leaving wasn’t really an option for her.
I was afraid I’d give away the fact that I knew Briana better than the TV reporter did if I talked to Michael any longer, so I told him I was on my way out the door for afternoon pet visits. I was almost on my way out, so it was only a small lie.
He said, “I’ll be home in the morning. Love you.”
“Love you.”
We always end our conversations like that. Both of us have plenty of reason to know that every day might be our last, so we don’t leave love unsaid.
I hurried to get dressed in my regulation khaki cargo shorts and sleeveless white tee. I slipped on fresh white Keds from the drying rack over the washer/dryer—I can’t stand shoes that smell like feet, so I go through a lot of Keds. Then I called the guy who does homicide cleanup.
I said, “I wanted to give you a heads-up about a cleaning job in Hidden Shores. So far as I know, there’s only one contaminated floor in one room. I’ll let you know when the criminalists are done there.”
“What kind of floor?”
“Tile.”
“What kind of tile? May have to replace it.”
“Expensive tile. The owners of the house are out of the country, but they’ll be home tomorrow night. If you have to replace the tile, they can give you the particulars.”
He thanked me for giving him a chance to plan ahead, and we said our good-byes. He didn’t ask the homeowners’ name, and I didn’t volunteer the information. He was a professional, he knew not to pry.
Morning and afternoon, my first pet stop is at Tom Hale’s condo on Midnight Pass Road. Tom is a CPA whose life went off on a different road than he’d intended when a wall of door displays fell on him at a home improvement store and crushed his spine. Life is like that. One moment you can be strolling down an aisle in a store admiring doorknobs, and the next moment you’re not who you used to be but somebody totally different.
After his agony and fear and fury had got sorted out, Tom faced life as a paraplegic without a CPA office, a wife, or children. Well, he still had children, but his ex-wife had taken them and most of his settlement money to another state. But Tom’s not one to sit around feeling sorry for himself, so he started over in a wheelchair. Instead of doing CPA work in a fancy office, he does it at his kitchen table. He adopted a greyhound racing dog, who had also been given up by the world as useless, and named him Billy Elliot.
Some retired greyhounds are happy to leave their racing days behind them, but not Billy Elliot. He needs a good twenty minutes of all-out running twice a day, so Tom and I do a trade-off. I run with Billy, and Tom handles my taxes and anything that has to do with money.
I took the mirrored elevator to Tom’s floor, knocked lightly on his door to let him and Billy know I was there, and let myself in with my key. Tom yelled hello from the kitchen, and Billy met me in the foyer grinning and wagging his tail in absolute ecstasy. I love that about dogs. They don’t stand back and make you work at being friends with them, they’re your best friend the minute they see you.
I got Billy Elliot’s leash from the closet and went to stand in the kitchen doorway. Tom had his laptop computer open on the table, and he looked up at me with a friendly grin. Not as friendly as
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