Curiosity Killed The Cat Sitter

He leaned across the desk and clasped his palms together. “Look, it’s not as bad as it sounds. There are no bank accounts involved, no stocks or bonds or cash other than what’s in the house. You’ve got complete power of attorney, so you can do whatever you want to with the house, the car, the jewelry, whatever her personal possessions were. If you want to, you can move into the house with the cat and use the car and everything else as if it’s your own. If you don’t want to do that, put the house on the market and let an estate-liquidation company sell the rest of it. So long as you see that the cat’s well cared for until it dies a natural death, you can do whatever you want to with the assets in the trust. It’s a pretty sweet deal.”

I could feel my lower lip creeping out like a sulky four-year-old’s, and I felt like throwing myself on the floor and kicking and screaming. A healthy, happy, active cat can live twenty years or more, and Ghost was less than two. The last thing I wanted was to complicate my life for the next twenty years with a dependent. I didn’t want Ghost for my own. When Michael and I were growing up, we’d always had pets, but I didn’t want a pet now. Owning a pet requires a commitment. It forces you to have a close relationship with a living being with needs and feelings. I didn’t want to make that kind of commitment. I didn’t want a close relationship with anybody, no matter how many legs he had.

I stood up. “What do I do now?”

He rose to his feet and held out his hand. “Whatever you want to do. That’s the beauty of a living trust. You’re the trustee, and that’s that. Get a death certificate from the Sheriff’s Department, and then all you need is the power of attorney in that folder.”

His hand felt so warm that I knew my own must be frigid. I tucked the folder under my arm and walked out of his office like a condemned woman on her way to the execution chamber. I could feel him watching me, and for a humiliating moment I hoped my butt looked good.

In a bemused daze, I drove home. Michael’s car was still gone, but Paco’s Harley was under the carport. More than likely, he was in bed catching up on lost sleep from whatever job he’d been doing—a job that had involved a drug sting at Crescent Beach. I might never know what had been in the canvas bag I’d seen a woman pick up, because Paco’s life could depend on my not knowing. I accepted that the same way I had accepted department secrets that Todd hadn’t told me. It comes with having detectives and undercover cops in the family.

What I didn’t accept was what I’d just learned from Ethan Crane.

I kicked off the heels and changed clothes again, pulling on a clean pair of shorts and a sleeveless T. My brain was screaming for sleep, but I was too disturbed to lie down and shut my eyes. I stripped my bed and threw the sheets in the washer with some towels and dirty clothes. While the washer chugged away my body’s cells and scents, I attacked the bathroom like an avenging Fury until every square inch sparkled and smelled of bleach. I love the smell of chlorine bleach. Breathing it makes me feel I’m cleaning my brain of old gunk while I’m destroying germs and stains. By the time I put the last polishing rub on the sink’s water spigot, I felt cleaner inside, as if all the images of violence and ugliness of the last few days had been polished away.

I padded barefoot to the office–closet and read the living trust again. It still said the same thing. I was now Ghost’s legal keeper, and I had complete control over Marilee’s house, her car, and everything in her house.

Boy-howdy.

Whoop-de-do.

Shit.

My office phone rang and I froze, waiting for the answering machine to click on. It was a man, and not a voice I recognized. This one was sure to be a reporter. He said, “I called before. I’d like to talk to you, Miss Hemingway.”

I made a face at the phone and said, “I’ll just bet you would!”

Then he said, “I got your name from Ray at the Crab House,” and I snagged the phone before he could hang up.

“Hello, this is Dixie.”

“I’m calling about Phil. Do you know how he is?”

“He’s going to be all right, I think. He has some broken ribs and a broken nose, but he’s not terribly hurt.”

“His hands?”

“His hands weren’t hurt. I think he must have tucked them under his arms to protect them.”

“Oh God.”

“Yeah. His head was totally uncovered. But it could have been a lot worse. A dog started barking and the attacker ran away.”

“I’ve called the hospital several times, but they wouldn’t tell me anything.”

I said, “Did you drive Phil home yesterday morning?”

I could hear a quick intake of air, and for a moment I was afraid he wasn’t going to answer.

He said, “Phil told me about you. He likes you. He said you weren’t going to out him to his folks.”

“I wouldn’t have either.”

“Do they know yet?”

“I really don’t know what they know. Look, could we meet and talk someplace?”

There was another long pause and then he sighed. “Do you think it would help Phil?”

“I don’t know. It might, and it certainly won’t hurt him.”