The Cat Sitter’s Pajamas by Blaize Clement Read Free Book Online

woman or she had lied about when and how she’d run away from the house.
    I said, “If you didn’t kill the woman, then somebody else was in the house while you were there.”
    She shook her head too emphatically. “I was alone.”
    “You think the woman slit her own throat? Disposed of the knife before she fell dead? Damned clever of her.”
    She took a deep breath and exhaled in jerky bursts of air. “I meant I didn’t have a companion. Somebody else must have broken in while I was there, and I didn’t know about it.”
    “If that had happened, the security company would have got an alarm and sent somebody to investigate. Nobody came.”
    “I’m telling the truth.”
    I finished my fruit tartlet and considered what to do next. I had to call Sergeant Owens. I had to call Cupcake and Jancey. I had to tell them that I’d talked to Briana without anybody’s permission. I fervently wished I’d never done it. In probing Briana’s story, I’d found out things about Cupcake that he probably didn’t want known. Even worse, I’d provided a dress rehearsal for the interrogation she’d get from the sheriff’s department. My questions had given Briana a heads-up on what the homicide detective—whoever that was going to be—would ask her. Because I had felt empathy for a woman I’d thought was deranged, I might have skewed a murder investigation.
    She said, “Are you going to betray me?”
    The question was so stark and direct that it took me by surprise. That may be one of the differences between people who have the drive and determination to be internationally famous and the rest of us. Along with the drive comes a loss of social subterfuge.
    I said, “I’m not the only person who’s seen you. It’s inevitable that somebody will recognize you. But they won’t call the cops, they’ll call USA Today or Katie Couric. And when they do, you’ll be stuck knowing that somebody used you for their own gain, and it’ll make you even less willing to trust people.”
    “Psychology so early in the morning. And from a pet sitter, no less.”
    “Most people believe fashion models have the brains of a flea. Those same people belittle the intelligence of pet sitters.”
    She colored. “I’m sorry. And you’re right. Every time I’m hurt I grow more paranoid.”
    I said, “Do you have a lawyer?”
    “Just one who handles contracts.”
    “Do you know a defense lawyer?”
    She shook her head, and even her hands turned paler. “Do you know one?”
    I thought of Ethan Crane, and just the thought of him made me feel lighter. Suddenly moving with quick efficiency, I whipped out my cell phone and dialed Ethan’s number.
    When his receptionist answered, I said, “Tell Mr. Crane that Dixie Hemingway has an emergency and will be at his office in five minutes.”
    Doubtfully, she said, “I’ll tell him, but I’m not sure—”
    All I’d wanted to know was whether Ethan was in, so I clicked her off and crammed our cups and sandwich leavings—Briana had barely touched her sandwich, and she didn’t even open her tartlet box—into the cardboard tray. Briana watched me get up and toss the tray into a trash bin, watched me walk back to our table.
    I said, “I’m going to drive to the office of an attorney I know. If you choose to, you can follow me and go in with me and tell your story. If you choose not to, we’re done.”
    I spun around and did a fast clip out of the pavilion and down the steps to the parking lot. I got in my Bronco while Briana made a white blur behind me charging to her Jaguar. The woman could move fast when she wanted to. I peeled out, and the Jag kept up. I was both glad and disappointed that she was sticking to me. It would go a lot better for her if she got a lawyer and turned herself in. It would go a lot better for me if she ditched me and ran.
    I should be ashamed to admit it, but the reason my blood tingled on the way to Ethan Crane’s office wasn’t solely from guilty excitement at