Curiosity Killed The Cat Sitter

Nine

When I was done telling it all, Michael set his wineglass down with a firm thud. “Stay out of it, Dixie. Let the homicide guys handle it.”

Paco nodded soberly. “Dixie, you can get in the middle of something you don’t want to be in. Stay out of it.”

“I’m staying out of it! Did I say I wasn’t staying out of it? I’m just concerned about the cat. What if Marilee Doerring never comes home? Some people don’t, you know.”

I saw the looks on their faces and stopped. Okay, so I was getting a little overheated about the cat.

“I’ll stay out of it,” I said. “Don’t worry.”

Michael smiled and said, “Okay, folks, let’s get off this subject. I make a motion that we all go over to the Crab House for a while.”

Paco got up and started gathering plates. “Good idea. Come on, Dixie, let’s hustle.”

I knew what they were doing. Neither of them wanted me to go to bed thinking about death and loss. To tell the truth, I didn’t want me to do that, either. It was almost my bedtime, but the day’s excitement and my long nap had left me wide-awake.

The Crab House is a bayside waterfront bar that has entertainment ranging from female impersonators to stand-up comics to rhythm and blues. It’s the kind of place where you don’t have to arrive on a Ducati and look fetching in black leather, but it helps. There’s a wooden porch across the back where people can eat dinner beside the dock. Inside, tables line the perimeter of an oblong room separated from the porch by a glass wall. Half the patrons come from the key and half from boats that tie up at the dock. They’re mostly gay, mostly good-natured, and mostly free of prejudice toward straights. My kind of place.

The bandstand and a small dance floor is to the right of the entrance, and even before we opened the door, we could hear rollicking honky-tonk piano music. Several people were dancing, and as we went toward the tables, we automatically began bobbing our heads and dipping our knees to the music. We took a table in the corner and ordered margaritas from a finger-snapping, hip-twitching waiter.

Over the music and laughter, Michael shouted, “Who’s that playing?”

“That’s Phil,” the waiter yelled back. “A real cutie pie, and people just love him.”

He sort of jitterbugged away to get our drinks, dodging around two men taking turns whirling and dipping each other in a parody of a fast waltz. The place was really jumping, mostly because of the music. All over the room, people were wagging their heads and grinning at one another like idiots.

The waiter boogied back with the drinks and did a little shimmy before he boogied off. We laughed and clicked our margarita glasses. Michael’s idea had been a good one. Being in a fun place was a good way to get life back in perspective.

From where I sat, I had a good view of the pianist’s back and his blond head. He had broad shoulders and wore a black jacket flocked with some sparkly designs. He was built with long bones. When he stretched an arm out to reach the end of the keyboard, his long fingers seemed to dance across the keys, lifting with playful little flips. He was obviously having fun playing, and the fun was infectious. I couldn’t have said what it was that gave the music such a joyous sound. Whatever it was, it had a bouncing enthusiasm that drove deep into the psyche and flushed out every iota of cynicism.

A man in creased jeans and Doc Martens boots stopped beside my chair, and we all looked up. “Uh, I hope I’m not out of line here, but would you care to dance?”

Michael gave him a lazy grin. “Which one of us are you asking?”

The man gave him a startled blink. “Well, her, of course.”

Obviously, he wasn’t a native. I was guessing New York. Michael and Paco swung their heads toward me with eyebrows hopefully raised. The man met all their criteria. He was about our age and clean. His boots were polished and neither his fly nor his jaw gaped open.

I shook my head. “No thanks.”

He reddened and turned away. I looked at Michael and Paco and shrugged. I knew they would both like me to meet a man and fall in love again. As much as they had liked Todd, they were ready for me to replace him, and it bothered them that I wasn’t willing to entertain the idea, that I wasn’t even willing to dance with a new man.

It isn’t that I think love can’t happen twice in a lifetime. I’m not that naïve. And I don’t feel any constraint from Todd, no sense that his spirit hovers between me and a second love. If anything, Todd would want me to find somebody new and start a new family. It’s the new family idea that stops me. When Todd and I had Christy, we were so caught up in the pink cloud of starting a family that we never once considered the idea that everything has its polar opposite. If a family can be started, it can also be ended. The ending is an amputation of your soul, and I can’t risk that again. I also can’t place that restriction on love. You either love completely and absolutely, with faith in the future, or you don’t love at all. Since I can no longer have faith in the future, I choose not to love.

A little after midnight, the pianist switched moods. So softly that people stopped talking to hear, he began playing “He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother.” All around the room, people grew somber and reflective. For men who had literally carried their lovers in their arms as they died of AIDS, it was more than a sentimental ballad. Gradually, the playing grew more intense and passionate, filled with almost palpable anguish. The room had gone completely quiet and still, and as the song ended, I looked toward Michael and Paco and caught a look between them that made my heart catch. They never make a display of their feelings for each other, but their love is definitely not for weaklings.

Suddenly shy in the face of it, I drank the last of my margarita and began to scoot my chair back. I had to get up at 4:00 A.M., and Michael had to be at the fire station at 8:00. As usual, nobody knew what Paco had to do.

“We’d better go,” I said.

They nodded and began to dig in their pockets for money while I headed toward the exit. The pianist got up to take a break and turned toward me. By this time, I felt as if I knew him. Through his music, he had laid himself out in a way that was almost too transparent—whether it was joy or pain he felt, there was absolutely nothing between him and his listeners. Our eyes met across the room and I opened my mouth to shout “Great music!” or “Bravo!” or something to show my appreciation. He suddenly looked stricken and turned away. At the same moment, I realized who he was. He was the Winnick teenager, the shy classical musician destined for Juilliard.

The kid took off toward the rest rooms at the back and left me rooted to the floor. The Crab House was a far cry from Juilliard, and I couldn’t believe the sanctimonious Winnicks had given their blessing to their son’s night job.

Michael and Paco caught up with me, and Michael took my arm as if I needed steering. Paco held the door for us, and we moved out into air that was damp and warm, with a strong briny scent from the bay. Our footsteps made crushing noises on the shelled parking lot. Somewhere in the starlit distance, an outboard motor made muffled chugging sounds and night peepers called from the dark treetops.

I contained myself until we were in the car, Michael and Paco in the front and me in the back. Then I leaned forward and said, “You know who the piano player is? He’s the kid who lives next door to Marilee Doerring. The house where the murdered man was!”

Now here’s one of the differences between men and women. If they had been women, both of them would have turned around with their jaws dropped and their eyes stretched wide. They would have said, “No! You’ve got to be kidding!”

Being men, Michael said, “Huh,” and Paco didn’t say anything at all.

I said, “He can’t be more than sixteen years old!”

That made Paco turn. “Nah, he’s older than that. He’s eighteen or nineteen.”

Michael said, “God, it’s nearly one o’clock. We’re all gonna hate getting up in the morning.”

Sometimes men are just no fun.

Michael was right about hating to get up next morning. When the alarm went off at four o’clock, I crawled out of bed with a dull margarita headache and a queasy stomach. There was a time when I could stay out till after 1:00 A.M. and get up at 4:00 with at least a modicum of alertness, but no more. If I hadn’t known that half a dozen animals were depending on me, I would have hit the snooze button and slept another hour. Bleary-eyed, I switched on the bedside lamp and padded barefoot to the bathroom where I automatically got myself splashed and brushed for the day. I grabbed clean shorts and a T from the closet shelf and started pulling them on as I went down the hall. Then I remembered I was going to be seeing people, so I went back to the closet and got a bra. I shook my Keds to make sure no critters had crawled in during the night, then slid my feet into them and laced them up.

Out on the porch, I stopped a minute to inhale the fresh briny odor of morning sea air. A soft breeze was cool on my skin, and I could see the dark curved backs of dolphins jumping the waves in the milky light. So long as I concentrated on my work and had moments like this, I was okay. Not great, but okay. At least I was a lot better than I had been three years ago.

I clattered down the stairs, shooed a congregation of gulls off the Bronco, and got in. I would have preferred the bike, but I didn’t know what the morning would bring. I went down the drive and turned onto Midnight Pass Road, where I didn’t meet a single car. I didn’t even see an early-morning jogger. I could have been the only person in the whole world.

Both coach lights were burning at the Graysons’, and I mentally patted myself on the back for remembering to change their lightbulb. Rufus and I had our usual morning love-in, and as soon as we went out the front door, he started barking and straining at the leash. I had to shush him sharply to get him to shut up, and I took him toward the bay instead of toward Midnight Pass Road for his morning poop. Something was definitely calling to him from the woods.

After his walk and brushing, I put my bill on the kitchen counter, along with a note asking the Graysons to call me as soon as they got back that afternoon. Otherwise, I would make an evening call to take care of Rufus, and they’d get billed whether they were home or not. You have to be strict about these things. Sometimes people don’t notify their pet-sitter that their flight has been delayed or that they’ve decided to extend their trip for a few days. I don’t intend to neglect any of my charges, and I don’t intend to pace around wondering if their owners might not have returned when they said they would. Ergo, they have to verify they’ve returned or pay for an unnecessary trip. I gave Rufus an extra-big hug when I left. I was going to miss him.

When I let myself into Tom Hale’s condo, Tom and Billy Elliot looked up at me and Tom waved, but then their attention went back to the TV. A woman with spiky black hair and ruby red lips was holding a blue-balled microphone close to her lips and speaking low, the way sportscasters do at a golf match. Behind her was a wide wrought-iron gate, through which one could see a massive house.

“Mrs. Frazier hasn’t made a statement yet, and so we’re just waiting here to see what the next development will be. From what the Sarasota County Sheriff’s Department has reported to us, the medical examiner’s office has not yet released the body to the family.”

A man’s off-camera-voice said, “Any new information about the connection between Harrison Frazier and the woman whose house he was found in?”

“Well, that’s the interesting thing, Joel. According to the Frazier family spokesperson, there is no connection between the two at all. The family believes he must have been killed somewhere else and moved to the house.”

Tom hit the mute button on his remote and said, “Well, there’s a classic case of denial.”

“That dead man in Marilee’s house was Harrison Frazier?”

“Yep, and if he wasn’t dead already, getting caught in Marilee’s house would kill him.”

Harrison Frazier was one of Florida’s wealthiest men, with a family that practically went back to Ponce de León. The epitome of good breeding and good taste, the name Frazier graced an opera house or botanical garden or library in almost every city in Florida.

“You think Harrison Frazier and Marilee knew each other?”

“Come on, Dixie, why would somebody dump a dead body in Marilee’s house? Of course they knew each other.”

“You think she killed him?”

“Marilee never seemed the type.”

“Anybody’s the type, Tom. Any one of us could commit murder.”

His face tightened. “I’ve sure had moments when I could.”

“We all have. Most of us are just lucky enough that the moments pass.”

“Still, Marilee’s a gentle soul. I just can’t see her shooting somebody.”

“Is that what they said? That he’d been shot?”

“I just assumed. Wasn’t he?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. He might have been.”

It seemed like the time to get out, before he could quiz me about what I had seen. I snapped Billy Elliot’s leash on his collar and started toward the front door. Tom said, “Dixie, did you call Cora Mathers?”

I shook my head. “I haven’t had a chance yet. I’ll do it later.”