I sat and considered my options. I could call Ethan and ask him if he knew who had Briana’s car, and why. But if I did that, Ethan would know that I was sticking my nose into a place where it definitely had no business being stuck. Besides, he might not know the answer. He had introduced Briana to her defense attorney, but that was his only involvement in the case. Unlike me, Ethan minded his own business.
The other option was that I could be like Ethan. I could drive away, take care of my pet clients, wait like the rest of the world to find out if Briana had killed the woman in Cupcake’s house or if some phantom killer had come in the house while Briana was getting dressed. I could stop thinking about Briana’s lies and secrets. I could stop thinking about Cupcake’s lies and secrets. I could concentrate on my own lies and secrets.
A sharp tapping on my window made my head jerk around so fast I heard my neck pop. A broad-faced woman with frizzy lavender hair was looking in at me with a smirky smile that said she found my presence rude and disrespectful and that she was looking forward to telling me so.
I stretched my lips in a pretend smile and lowered the window.
She said, “This is a private street. Are you lost?”
I said, “I’m, um, I’m looking for a lost cat.”
Her gaze became a shade less haughty. A lost person didn’t get her respect, but a lost cat did. “What kind of lost cat?”
My mind zipped to the place where big fat falsehoods live. There was a large yellow cat there.
“He’s yellow. And white. Big. Longhair. Looks like a Dreamsicle.”
For a second, her face fell at some secret disappointment. Then she waved her arm in an excited arc.
“Well, what do you know about that! He’s in my house! I was going to run an ad about him! Come on in!”
That’s the trouble with lying. Sometimes your lies rise up and smile at you and there’s nothing you can do except take their hand and pretend you’re friends.
Feeling like an idiot, I slunk out of the Bronco and followed the lavender-haired woman up her driveway to her villa. She was built like a sweet potato, with the retired Floridian woman’s pull-on white knit pants and loose top. Her right foot must have been sore, because she tilted a bit to the left. With a genuinely nice smile, she held the front door open, and I dragged my own feet inside. It was a typical single retiree’s villa: open floor plan with a bar separating the kitchen from the living area, lots of glass to let in the sun, creamy white tile floor, rattan furniture with creamy white linen cushions, creamy white walls hung with big splashy watercolors of sailboats on blue water under blue skies. A big white and yellow long-haired cat was draped over the top of a chair. He looked extremely contented.
A Pomeranian with electric white hair trotted to sniff my Keds.
The woman said, “Don’t mind Snowball, she won’t bite.”
I smiled down at Snowball, who delicately licked my ankle.
The woman said, “The cat just showed up at my door a few days ago. I’ve been calling him Cecil. He looks like a Cecil, don’t you think? He’s a funny duck. He steals shiny things out of wastebaskets. Foil, or those lids on frozen dinners that are shiny on one side. I can’t put a single shiny thing in the wastebasket anymore. I have to take it straight to the can in the garage.”
She sounded proud of the cat’s thievery.
She said, “I had a cat one time that lived to be twenty years old. I cried my eyes out when he died, just like if a child had died.”
I nodded. “That’s how it is when you love a pet.”
With a yearning look at the cat, she said, “Where did you say this cat lives?”
The cat yawned and turned its head away from me.
I said, “You know what? This isn’t the cat I’m looking for! The cat I’m looking for is a lot bigger and has more white in his coat.”
“Oh, that’s too bad!” Her eyes twinkled with delight.
I said, “I wonder if the people in that villa with the white Jaguar convertible in the driveway might have seen my cat. Do you know them?”
“Those French people? I doubt it. They’re not permanent.”
“They’re French?”
She waved her hand. “They speak something foreign.”
“Could they be Swiss?”
She was looking at me funny. “I don’t think I caught your name.”
The question spooked me. I suddenly felt like a criminal about to be thrown in the slammer if I didn’t come up with a cover name.
“Uh … it’s Bridget. Bridget Jones.”
Oh, Lord, I had given her the name of a movie! I was not only a total idiot, I was getting myself in deeper trouble with every lie I told.
I said, “I’m so sorry to take up your time! I’ll just get out of your way and keep looking for the other cat.”
“Well, if you’re sure it’s not the same cat.”
“You know, I’ll bet this cat chose to live with you. Cats do that, you know. If you haven’t seen any lost-cat signs in the neighborhood, I think this cat was meant for you.”
She looked hopeful. “You think?”
“I really do.”
“I’ve missed having a cat. I love Snowball, but cats get to your heart in a different way, you know?”
I was already at the door, trying not to look like an escaping felon. “Thank you so much! Enjoy Cecil! ’Bye!”
With a nervous fake laugh, I skittered out and pulled the door closed behind me. I broke into an undignified lope down to the sidewalk, where a hibiscus hedge would hide me if she came out to ask where I’d come from. Sweaty with shame, guilt, and anxiety, I made it to the Bronco in record time and zoomed away.
In my imagination, I saw a TV reporter interviewing the sweet lavender-haired woman with the yellow cat and the white Pomeranian. The woman was saying, “I knew she was lying about looking for a lost cat. I asked her to come in so I could find out what she was doing in the neighborhood, and then she gave me that phony name. As soon as she left, I called the police and they arrested her.”
At least I’d learned that the man driving Briana’s car had recently moved to Siesta Key, and that he spoke a foreign language to another person who lived in the house with him. The woman with the Pomeranian had said “they” might be French, which could mean that more than two people lived there. Perhaps Briana lived in that house when she wasn’t hanging out in Cupcake’s house and wearing his shirt. Or perhaps the woman who’d been murdered in Cupcake’s house lived there. I groaned. Maybe they all lived there. For all I knew, Briana was part of a Swiss ménage à trois, and I was a provincial fool doomed to live the rest of my life alone, not even smart enough to come up with a plausible fake name.
For the rest of the afternoon, I minded my own business. I walked an elderly boxer with creaky knees and sad eyes. I cleaned litter boxes. I groomed cats. I tossed a Frisbee for a hyperactive terrier, and I played chase-the-peacock-feather with a Russian Blue who could leap as high as my head. I brought in mail and left it neatly stacked on hall tables. I watered house plants and vacuumed cat hair. At every house, I checked timers to make sure lights and TVs would turn on and off at various times to fool would-be burglars. I changed TV programs for the pets, too. Most of them like the nature channels during the day, but they seem to prefer kid shows in the late afternoon and early evening. They’re not too crazy about cop shows or romantic comedies.
While I switched channels at one house, I caught a local news report about the murder at Cupcake’s house. With my thumb suspended over the remote, I stared at old footage of Briana sashaying down a runway in Milan or Rome or Paris, her pelvic bones leading her pale lithesome body, shoulders held in a classic slouch, all that red hair tumbled around her face. That image segued into footage of Cupcake suited up in his football gear, his dark face behind the helmet’s grid looking ferocious and huge.