Free The Cat Sitter’s Pajamas by Blaize Clement Page B

to prove to me that he wasn’t a liar.
    I thanked Tom and left him looking suspicious and puzzled. I felt the same way, just not about myself.
    Back on Midnight Pass Road, I headed north. My next client was about a mile away on the Gulf side, so I got into the left turning lane and waited for a break in traffic. A white Jag convertible with a male driver whizzed by in the southbound lane. The Jag was the same model as the Jag Briana drove.
    Now here’s the thing about having been a law enforcement officer. For the rest of your life, you notice the numbers on license plates. Some area of your brain registers them and retains them even when you don’t consciously intend to. I could see the Jag’s license plate in my rearview mirror, and the plate was the same as Briana’s. The light changed, but instead of turning left, I made a U-turn and followed the Jag.
    Call me nosy, but I wanted to know who was driving Briana’s car.

 
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    So many tourists come to the Key that we locals are accustomed to driving behind cars that stop at every intersection while the drivers peer down a tree-lined lane that might or might not be the one they’re looking for. But the driver of the Jag sailed on as if he was familiar with the terrain and knew exactly where he was going. Near the southern Bay side of the Key, the Jag whipped a fast left turn that sent shell dust flying from under his wheels. I followed him onto a lane where big estates and small villas kept company among palms and live oaks and sea grape. The Jag pulled into one of the curvy driveways leading to a stucco two-story, neither mansion nor modest villa. I drove straight ahead, watching the driver in my rearview mirror. He got out of the car, hurried in a measured trot to the front door, and opened it without knocking or ringing a bell.
    I slowed the Bronco to a crawl and stopped at the curb. I felt stupid. What had I expected, that the driver would get out and hold up a sign for me that told me his name and his relationship with Briana? He had entered the house as if he lived there, which told me nothing. He had left Briana’s car in the driveway, so he wasn’t afraid he’d be caught out for driving it.
    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!