Even Cat Sitters Get the Blues (11 page)

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Authors: Blaize Clement

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The sun sets early in December, around five-thirty, and it was almost seven when I headed home. What with changing clothes half a dozen times and changing my mind about my hair and makeup I don’t know how many times, I barely had time to shower, dress, and leave for the Crab House by eight-fifteen. I’d finally settled on a pair of butt-hugging black leather pants with short high-heeled boots and a fuzzy pink sweater. Hair left hanging. No makeup except gloss and mascara. Sort of an innocent-whore look.
A full moon hung low on the fresh-washed horizon like a newly minted gold coin, bathing the key in such a flood of bright radiance that security lights were redundant. Driving past the Kurtz house, I looked toward the guardhouse and the palm hedge beyond it. In the bright moonlight, the place had a lost, forlorn look that gave me a guilty nudge. My angel self said it wouldn’t kill me to pop in and check on Kurtz and Ziggy and give him the key to his back door. My selfish self said to shut up, I didn’t have time, and anyway I didn’t want to. My selfish self won.
The Crab House is at the southern tip of the key on the bay side. I thought it spoke well of Ethan that he’d
suggested it, since it’s one of my favorite places. The clientele is a good mix of straight/gay, young/old, rich/ middle-class, some from boats tied up at the Crab House dock and some off shiny Vespas or Hogs. The food is good, the music is good, and those who are so inclined, which I never am, can dance on its tiny dance floor.
I parked the Bronco at the side of the parking lot next to a car with two teenagers making out in the backseat. From the sounds coming through the open windows, I got the distinct impression of an impending orgasm, maybe two. For their sakes, I hoped it would be two. For my own sake, I hoped I got away before it happened. It had been four years since I’d known that kind of mindless joy, and now that I’d sort of decided to maybe put myself in a possible situation which might conceivably one day lead to me having an orgasm with a new man left me feeling weak and stupid, as if I needed a diagram of how to do it, like
Insert Tab B into Slot A
. As I hurried toward the door, I heard the girl in the car howl like a cat in heat. So much for missing the sound of her orgasm.
When I opened the door, Ethan Crane was inside waiting for me, and when he saw me he got that look in his eyes that men get when they’re interested in making you yowl like an alley cat.
Holy smoke, he was almost too good-looking.
Smooth man that he is, Ethan had already snagged us a table, and he steered me there with a couple of fingers light on my fuzzy pink shoulder. One of the most strikingly handsome men in the world, Ethan is an arresting combination of Seminole Indian and some other genes that produced shiny shoulder-length black hair, deep-set dark eyes, an engaging white-toothed grin, and a firm, nicely muscled body. A woman who didn’t find him enticing would have to be either dead or hard-core lesbian. I’d noticed him even when I was almost numb, and it had scared me to death.
Now that I was thawing out and thinking I might want to live like a woman after all, I still got flustered when I was around him. I was also confused. How could I feel such a strong pull from Guidry and still have deliciously indecent thoughts about Ethan Crane?
I was acutely aware of the heat of his fingers through my sweater and relieved that our table was by the back glass wall. If we ran out of things to talk about, or if I became totally inarticulate, we could look out at the bay.
A waiter slid up as soon as we were seated, and I had the feeling Ethan had engineered that too, probably with money and the promise of more with excellent service. He was that kind of man.
I ordered a margarita—on ice, with salt—and Ethan ordered a beer. Somehow, that surprised me.
I said, “I’d have expected you to order something more sophisticated, like special scotch that’s been filtered through oatmeal or something.”
He shrugged. “You know how it is with us Injuns. We don’t do well with strong firewater.”
His voice had a bite to it, as if he resented the stereotype, even though he was invoking it himself and even though he was only a quarter Seminole.
I said, “Makes you crave more?”
“No, makes me puke in the parking lot. Plays hell with a date.”
That made me remember we were on a date, and I instantly tensed.
He said, “You look terrific. I like that fuzzy stuff. What is it?”
“Mohair. It’s mohair. Comes from a goat. I think it’s a goat. Maybe it’s a sheep. I’m not sure, goat or sheep.”
Lord help me, my mouth wouldn’t shut up.
His grin was a white slash in his bronze face. No doubt about it, he was one gorgeous Indian.
The waiter whipped back with our drinks and asked if we wanted to order yet.
Since I was suddenly famished, I nodded vigorously. Ethan allowed as how menus would be a good idea, and we spent the next few minutes deciding on what to eat. The waiter was at our side the instant we both
decided on grilled grouper, which made me positive he’d been paid to shower us with attention.
When the waiter left, Ethan said, “I’m glad to see you again. When I saw your car at that house, I was concerned.”
His voice had gone deep and throaty. I thought of the teenagers in the car. I thought of how Ethan Crane would sound having an orgasm. I thought of how I would sound having an orgasm with Ethan Crane. I was very warm in my pink fuzzy sweater.
To keep him from guessing my carnal thoughts, I said, “Do you happen to know anything about Ken Kurtz?”
“Who?”
“The guy who lives in that house where the guard was killed.”
“I didn’t know his name. The house was built by a corporation based on the Isle of Man.”
“The Isle of what?”
“Man. It’s in the Irish Sea off the northwest coast of England. It’s a little tax-free island where people keep money they don’t want traced.”
“You mean Ken Kurtz doesn’t own the place?”
“I don’t know who owns it. He could be doing business as the corporation, although the corporation itself was a shell for another company.”
Suddenly Ethan Crane didn’t look so hot to me. For all I knew, he could be involved in whatever was going on with Ken Kurtz. Maybe his interest in me wasn’t personal at all. Maybe he had given my name and number to the Irishman who had called me.
I said, “How do you know so much about who owns the Kurtz property?”
The chill in my voice made him look up with a question in his eyes. “I served as escrow agent for the shell company.”
That was even more suspicious, because Ethan wasn’t a real estate attorney.
He must have sensed my withdrawal, because he almost blurted out an explanation.
“I met an attorney in London a couple of years ago, and we exchanged business cards. You know, in case I ever needed a contact in London or in case he needed one in Sarasota, the kind of networking thing people do. I never expected anything to come of it, but he called me about this time last year and asked if I’d handle this transaction here on Siesta Key. His client wanted to buy an existing house to tear down and put up a new one, but they didn’t want any public notice of the purchase. I filled him in on Florida realty laws, told him they’d have to retain thirty percent of the existing house to avoid zoning changes and public postings. To keep their name out of it during construction, the sale would have to be a land contract rather than the usual possession-at-funding deal. That way, the seller retains title until final payment is made.”
“So you handled it?”
“Yeah, it was just a favor to the guy. I might need his help in London someday.”
“When was final payment made?”
“It hasn’t been made yet. It’ll be finalized on January first.”
“In two weeks?”
“Right.”
All my nerve endings were standing up waving red flags, but I wasn’t sure if it was because I was still a little suspicious of Ethan or because what he’d said pointed to something that was important.
I said, “How’d you know the company you dealt with was a shell company?”
“Because the check they sent was cut by BiZogen Research, and the company buying the property was Zogenetic Industries.”
An icy trickle crawled down my spine. “Do you know anything about BiZogen Research?”
“Not a thing, do you?”
I shook my head. I didn’t, but I intended to find out.
The waiter brought our salads, and for a few minutes we filled time nodding yes to an offer of fresh ground pepper and then watching with faked rapt attention while he turned the pepper mill. You would have thought we were aboriginal people who’d just newly arrived in America and had never seen such an astonishing thing before. That’s when I realized that Ethan was just as nervous as I was, a realization that hit me like a thunderbolt. I’d known all along he was interested in me, but not that he was
that
interested. It was such a pleasant surprise that I smiled sweetly at him, the way you smile at a baby who’s doing something especially cute. Nothing like knowing a man is nervous in her presence to make a woman feel powerful.
His shoulders relaxed and we both began to talk about safe things—the chill weather and wasn’t it a shame that all those tourists weren’t enjoying the beach,
the salads and wasn’t the house dressing just the best, the music playing and wasn’t it smooth. The waiter whisked away our empty salad plates and replaced them with plates of grouper grilled exactly the way I like it, plain, with just a squeeze of lime and no yukky sauces to hide the fresh sea taste. With it we had what the menu had described as a “medley” of grilled vegetables—zucchini and snow peas and some broccoli flowerets. None of it was as good as what Michael makes on his prize grill, but then not many chefs cook as well as Michael.
I had long since polished off my margarita and switched to water, and I noticed that Ethan had done the same. I liked that in him. Too many men guzzle down alcohol like they have to have it in order to boost their spirits or their nerve or their egos. The fact that Ethan was cool without booze made him go up another notch in my estimation.
The musicians had moved from light listening music to dreamy dance music, and a few couples were on the dance floor.
Ethan said, “Care to dance?”
All my newfound feeling of female power went flying into space.
“Dance?”
“You know, the thing where two people stand with their arms around each other and move to music.”
I hadn’t danced since a New Year’s Eve party just before Todd and Christy were killed. I hadn’t thought I’d ever dance again, hadn’t thought I’d ever be in another man’s arms again.
I felt the old familiar tug of loss and grief and
hopelessness—and let it go. I do not honor my husband or my child by living as if I had died with them.
Ethan was looking at me with a dark shadow in his eyes. “Something wrong?”
“No, I just spaced out for a minute. I couldn’t remember if I left water out for the last cat I saw today, but I did.”
He nodded, eyes hooded, not believing me for one minute but letting his disbelief go to the same place I’d sent my sadness. Some things are better left unsaid. Some old wounds are better left under their scabs. I was glad we both understood that.
I said, “To tell the truth, I haven’t danced in a long time. I’m pretty rusty.”
“Then it’s time you did it again.”
I rubbed my sweaty palms on my black leather thighs and tried not to look terrified. I wanted to ask Ethan if I could have time to think about it. I wanted to tell him I couldn’t get that close to him yet. I wanted to run to the ladies’ room and sit on a toilet and cry.
In a bitsy voice that barely reached my own hearing, I said, “Okay.”
He stood up and reached for my hand, and I allowed myself to be elevated to my feet and led to the dance floor, where Ethan took me in his arms and moved so gracefully that I forgot I was rusty at dancing and moved along with him. They say you can tell a lot about a man by the way he dances. Ethan danced like a man comfortable with taking the lead, like a man always mindful of where his partner was, both physically and mentally. Like a man who enjoyed his body. In a few minutes, my own body had learned him so it knew
what he was going to do before he did it, knew by the flexing of his muscles when he was going to move this way or that, knew it was safe to let him lead me wherever he wanted me to go.
I was an astronaut floating in space with a disconnected tether, moving through vast potential without any control over my next move. Even in the midst of all the music and laughter and sounds of dishes clinking, I felt as if I were in an eternal quietness where the only sound was a cosmic heartbeat. Or was that my own heartbeat? Or perhaps his? If I turned my cheek to lay it against his chest, I couldn’t be sure whose coursing blood sang under my ear. The only thing I could really be sure of was that I never wanted to move, never wanted to break this contact of flesh and breath and pulse beat. No doubt about it, I was in trouble.
He tightened his arm around my waist and drew me close. Leaning to nuzzle my hair above my ear, he said, “Could I lure you to my place, right now?”
Only God knows how much I wanted to say yes.
I pulled back and looked up at him. “Not tonight, Ethan.”
He grinned. “Does that mean I can try again?”
I laid my finger on his lips to shush him, and he grabbed my hand and kissed it.
Oh, my, when a man as handsome as Ethan Crane kisses your hand, it makes you feel like a fairy princess who’s just found a way out of the tower.
We went back to the table, where I got my purse and Ethan picked up the bill that had been left while we danced.
I said, “I think I’d better head home now.” I didn’t add
Before I throw you to the floor and have my way with you here in front of all these people
, but I thought it.
As if he read my mind, Ethan gave me a slow grin. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
I shook my head. “No, thanks. I enjoyed the evening, Ethan.”
Before he could debate the issue, I turned on my stiletto boot heel and hightailed it out of there, breaking into a run when I got to the parking lot as if I were afraid he was after me. The only thing I really feared was that I would turn around and run back in and fling myself into his arms. It had been too long since I’d been with a man. I didn’t know how to behave with one anymore.
I headed home in something of a stupor, sort of letting the car drive itself. Every time I thought about what had just happened, my whole body blushed. My back still remembered the touch of Ethan’s hand. And that was nothing compared to what my front remembered—of feeling Ethan’s hardness, of knowing he was as turned on as I was.
As I drove past the Kurtz house, I looked down the driveway and saw a dark sedan crisply illuminated by the full moon. I knew that sedan. It was the one the woman with the bulldog had driven. I made such a sharp turn that the car behind me went into a squealing skid and blasted me with its horn.
With my heart pounding and my fists clenched on the steering wheel, I pulled even with the sedan. I didn’t see the woman or the dog, but I was certain it was the same car. Okay, dammit, this was proof that Kurtz had lied when he said he didn’t know her. He and
the woman had made me look like a paranoid fool—to Guidry, to Michael, to Cora, and even to myself. The woman was probably inside with Kurtz, telling him how she’d made sure I would show up at his house. They were probably planning their next clever move.

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