Duplicity Dogged Тhe Dachshund

4

When my grandfather was a young man, he traveled through Florida on business and stumbled on Siesta Key. He spent a week here, and before he left he’d bought a piece of land on the edge of the Gulf. My grandmother was flabbergasted that he’d put them in debt for a thousand dollars for land that wouldn’t even grow tomatoes, but he persuaded her to bundle up my two-year-old mother and come see the key for herself. They arrived just as the sun was setting. My grandmother stood on the dazzling white beach and watched openmouthed as a molten gold sun quivered itself into the water while banners of iridescent rose and turquoise and lavender streamed in the sky.

“I’m never leaving here,” she said, and she didn’t.

My mother was probably looking the other way, because she left as soon as she got the chance. My brother and I are like our grandparents. We’re never leaving either.

I live in an apartment above a four-slot carport next to the frame house where Michael and I lived with our grandparents. I moved here after the earth cracked in my world and left me standing beside a jagged fissure that threatened to suck me in. Michael and his partner, Paco, live in the house, and except for a remodeled kitchen, they’ve left it pretty much the way it was. With Michael and Paco to remind me that I am loved, and the continuous roll of the surf to remind me that life never stops, I have survived the last few years. Barely.

A wide covered porch runs the length of my apartment, with a hammock strung in one corner and a table for eating and watching the waves break on the beach. French doors open into a small living room with a sofa and chair. A oneperson breakfast bar separates the living room from a galley kitchen. My bedroom is just big enough for a single bed and a dresser. The bathroom is cramped too, but there’s an alcove in the hall for a washer and dryer, and I have a big walk-in closet. I put a desk in one side of it, and that’s where I take care of my pet-sitting business. The whole place has Mexican tiled floors and oyster-white walls. I wouldn’t call it spartan exactly, but it’s definitely no-frills.

It was nearing noon when I drove home down the twisting tree-lined lane. All the cars were gone from the carport, and only a few foolhardy seagulls wheeled in the blazing sunlight. The undulating sea glinted diamonds, and down on the beach wavelets slapped the white sand and stained it beige. I unlocked the French doors and went inside just long enough to go to the bathroom and wash my face. Then I came back out and dropped my weary self into the hammock in the shady corner of the porch. I’d been up since 4 A.M., and I was bushed. I fell asleep in seconds, rousing once to the sound of Michael and Paco’s laughter downstairs and then falling even deeper asleep knowing they were home. I always instinctively relax when I know they’re home, not even aware until then that I’ve been tense. That’s how dependent I am on them. I hate to admit it, but it’s true.

Michael is thirty-four, two years older than me, and he looks like the golden genie that would pop out of a magic lantern in an Arabian desert. He’s a firefighter, like our father and his father before him, and he is probably the best human being in the world. Paco is also thirty-four, and he looks like the camel driver who would find the magic lantern. Slim, dark, and elusive, Paco is with the Sarasota County Special Investigative Bureau, which means he does stings, drug busts, and other undercover stuff, frequently in disguises so good he could pass right by me and I wouldn’t know him. Both Michael and Paco are so good-looking that women tend to consider hanging themselves when they learn they’re a unit, but they’ve been together twelve years and counting, which makes Paco my other brother. They’re my best friends in all the world. They protect me, they feed me, they keep me sane. Mostly.

I slept until almost two o’clock, and woke up feeling rested, hot, and thirsty. I went inside and got a bottle of water from the refrigerator and drank it as I went down the hall to my office-closet to check phone messages. There were several. You’d think my business would fall off in the summer when all the seasonals leave, but it actually gets busier. Snowbirds usually stay put when they get here, so they don’t need anybody to take care of their pets. Yearrounders, on the other hand, go traveling in the summer and leave their pets at home. I returned the calls, turned down a couple of jobs on the mainland because I work strictly on the key, gave two people my rates, scheduled a job for the following weekend with a pair of Persians, and made arrangements to go meet a couple of Lhasa apsos and get their information.

I take my pet-sitting business as seriously as I did being a deputy. In a way, the jobs are a lot alike. Whether you’re taking care of pets or enforcing the law, you’ve been entrusted with lives, and I treat that with a lot of respect. I belong to a professional association of pet-sitters that has a code of ethics as strong as the AMA’s. I’m bonded, licensed, and insured. When I take on a pet-sitting job, my clients sign an agreement detailing what they expect of me and what they agree in return. I get their vet’s name and number, any medical conditions the pet has, along with medications or vitamins or special treatments needed. I get a complete history of illnesses, injuries, and allergies. If the client has a trusted relative or friend, I get the name and number to call in an emergency. I find out the pet’s favorite foods, favorite toys, favorite games, even their favorite TV shows and favorite music. I have the owners show me where they keep the pet’s food, litter, leash, and grooming equipment. In some cases, I agree to pay for any emergency medical treatment or any unexpected home repairs that may arise while the owners are away, and they reimburse me when they return. In other cases, especially with clients who know me well, they simply give me signed blank checks to use as needed. While I’m on duty, I keep meticulous records of what I did and when I did it. In other words, pet-sitting is my profession, and I treat it in a professional manner.

By the time I finished the calls, it was time to leave for my afternoon visits. I took a quick shower and put on fresh shorts, a clean T and clean white Keds, and slathered sunscreen on every inch of exposed skin. Except for our father’s black eyelashes, Michael and I inherited our mother’s blond coloring, so I fry after just a few minutes of sun. I grabbed my backpack, detouring through the kitchen on the way out to search for a banana or an apple. Except for breakfast an eternity ago, I hadn’t eaten all day, and hunger was sucking in my stomach. My kitchen was like Mother Hubbard’s cupboard. No cheese, no apples, not even a limp stalk of celery. All I found was a mostly empty package of whole almonds. I grabbed it and told my stomach I would give it dinner later.

By the time I was at the foot of the stairs, the almonds were all gone. I tossed the empty bag in the trash can and got in my hot Bronco. I really needed to go grocery shopping. I really needed to get my life organized. I really needed to get a life. There was fresh egret and gull poop on the hood of the Bronco. I needed to wash my car too. Jesus, if I did all the things I needed to do, I wouldn’t have time for any of the things I had to do.

During the summer, afternoon rain clouds start scudding in from the Gulf around four o’clock. Like free-wheeling blue aardvarks, they rumble and flick lightning tongues at golfers and swimmers and tennis players, indiscriminately loosing showers here and there to cool the air and make the foliage smile. To avoid mildew or getting struck by lightning, I try to walk all my dogs before the rains start. Then I repeat everything I’ve done in the morning except for grooming. Mornings are for grooming and walking and playing and feeding. Afternoons are only for walking and playing and feeding. Either way, I spend the same amount of time, about thirty minutes, at each house.

Morning or afternoon, my first stop is always at the Sea Breeze, a big pink gulfside condo where Billy Elliot lives. Billy Elliot is a greyhound that Tom Hale rescued from the fate that befalls dogs who don’t win enough races. Tom’s a CPA who has been in a wheelchair since a wall of lumber fell on him at a home-improvement store. Tom and I trade services. He handles my taxes and anything having to do with money, and I go by twice a day and run with Billy Elliot.

When I got there, Tom yelled at me to come sign some papers. I went in the kitchen where he works at a center table. Tom has a thick mop of curly black hair, round black eyes behind round rimless glasses, and a plump middle. He looks like the Pillsbury Doughboy, except cuter.

He said, “Sign this form for the state, and this one for the federal government.”

I signed on the lines where he pointed, and he leaned back in his wheelchair and glared at me.

“Dixie, don’t ever sign anything without reading it.”

“I wouldn’t know what I was reading anyway, and I trust you.”

“Never trust anybody with your money.”

“It’s not my money. It’s a cat’s money. You promised me you would take care of it, and that’s all I need to know.”

He sighed. “How is the cat, by the way?”

“We should have that cat’s life. He lives with people who spoil him rotten. He eats, he sleeps, he plays a little, he eats, he sleeps.”

Tom grinned. “He’s a damn rich cat. I’ve made a report for you, all the investments the cat has made, all his profits and expenses. Take it home with you for bedtime reading. I mean it, Dixie. I know you trust me, and I appreciate that, but you need to know what’s going on. Too many people are too trusting when it comes to money, and I’m beginning to think half of the suckers live in Florida. I guess it’s because we’ve got so many old people.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “That’s a little ageist, don’t you think?”

“Probably, but I’ve spent all week trying to help a sweet trusting great-grandmother who’s a victim of identity theft. Somebody cleaned out her savings account and ruined her credit. I suspect she signed things she didn’t read or gave out information just because somebody asked for it.”

I stood up and grabbed the folder. “I don’t do that.”

“Good. Read those reports.”

I promised I would, but we both knew I wouldn’t. Sometimes you just have to trust people.

It was close to seven when I neared Secret Cove. The box of free kittens had been removed. Either they’d all been taken by kind Samaritans, or they’d all fried in the heat. At Mame’s house, she was waiting behind the glass by the front door with the leash in her mouth and a determined gleam in her eye. I thought that was a good sign. She was old, but she had purpose, and when you really get down to it, that’s the only thing that makes life worth living for any of us.

I hugged her hello and ignored the disappointed look she gave me when I put the leash back in the basket by the door. No way was I going to walk down that lane again today. Sheriff’s cars were still at the crime scene, and I knew that’s where Mame would want to go. I did a quick walkthrough to make sure she hadn’t had any accidents or done anything naughty. In Judge Powell’s study, the rug beside his desk had two small wet spots on it. I poured club soda on the spots and blotted them dry.

Mame came and watched.

I said, “So your bladder isn’t what it used to be. Whose is?”

She yawned and flapped her long ears as if the subject didn’t even merit conversation.

When I took her out to the lanai for a sedate game of fetch-the-ball, she played, but I could tell she had hoped to go chew on the finger again. At around seven-thirty, I changed the TV channel—Mame liked variety—set the timed nightlight, and kissed her good-bye.

At the Ferrellis’ house, the driveway was filled with cars. I parked in the street and went to the front door and rang the bell. A flint-faced woman with black hair cut in an angled bob answered the door with a lit cigarette in her hand. She gave me a snooty glare.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m Dixie Hemingway. Mrs. Ferrelli asked me to come by tonight.”

She looked as if she didn’t believe me, and turned to yell into the living room. “Stevie, did you ask somebody named Hemingway to come by?”

Instead of answering, Stevie came down the hall. “For God’s sake, Marian, let her in!”

The woman shrugged and stepped aside, giving my rumpled shorts and T scathing looks as I went by.

Stevie said, “I’m sorry, Dixie. Things are a little bit out of control.”

I said, “If I’m in the way—”

“Oh, no. God, no. You’re probably the only person who isn’t in the way.”

She followed me across the living room, which was filled with people chatting and smoking and drinking cocktails. They stopped talking when they saw me, staring as if I were an alien who had just flown in.

As we left the room for the kitchen, I heard the woman who’d answered the door say, “Stevie insisted on her coming in. Don’t ask me why. You know how Stevie is.”

In the kitchen, Reggie was lying on the floor in front of the sink, sprawled on the tile as if he were cooling his belly. I knelt to feel his black nose and touch him all over again, searching for bumps or painful places. He was okay, just not frisky. Like Mame, he was dealing with the trauma of the morning in his own way.

I got his leash from its place in the pantry and took him out the back way, through the laundry room and breezeway and carport. I didn’t want Reggie to go near the place where Conrad had been killed, so we walked north, toward the place where the street loops. Lights were on in the houses we passed, but they were like the lights at Mame’s house—on timers to fool would-be burglars into thinking the owners hadn’t left town.

At the loop, we turned and retraced our way back to the Ferrelli house. Stevie must have been listening for us, because she came in the kitchen as soon as we got back. She leaned on the kitchen counter and watched me get out Reggie’s bowl and shake food into it. She watched Reggie fall on his kibble and chew enthusiastically. She seemed dazed, as if she were in someone else’s house watching someone else’s dog.

I said, “I’ll come in the morning and take him for a walk. Is there anything else I can do for you now?”

“Dixie, tell me what happened this morning. How did you find Conrad?”

“I was walking the Powells’ dog, their little dachshund, and she got away from me. She ran into the bushes by the road, and when I went in after her she was digging in a mound of leaves and pine needles. I saw that it was a body, and checked for a pulse. Then I called nine-one-one.”

I didn’t think she needed to know that her neighbor’s dog had pulled on Conrad’s dead hand.

“Did you try CPR? Did you do anything to save him?”

Her voice had risen to a shrill pitch, and she put both hands across her mouth as if to keep herself from screaming.

“Stevie, he had been dead for a while.”

“How could you be sure?”

“I used to be a deputy. I know how to tell if a person is dead.”

“The detective wouldn’t tell me how he was killed. He said there would have to be an autopsy. Don’t they know how he was killed?”

“They probably have a good idea, but that’s the procedure. Until there’s a formal autopsy, they can’t be absolutely sure what caused a death, so they wait.”

“They can surely see a bullet hole, can’t they?”

Her eyes were wide and unfocused, and I had the feeling she was about to spin out of control.

I said, “Stevie, do you have anything you can take? Something to get you through the next day or two?”

She laughed bitterly. “God, Dixie, everybody in my living room has brought their drug of choice for me. I don’t even take aspirin. I don’t want to be drugged.”

I could hear conversation from the living room. It sounded more like a business meeting than a gathering of the bereaved.

“Are those people in there family?”

She crossed her arms over her chest and hugged herself.

“Conrad’s brother and his wife; she’s the one who answered the door. I’m not sure who those other people are. Somebody Conrad was doing business with, I think. His brother brought them.”

“Do you want them here?”

“Jesus, no. I just don’t know how to get rid of them.”

“Would you like me to do it?”

She looked hopeful. “Could you?”

“Wait here.”

I grabbed a tray from a custom-built slot and walked briskly to the living room, where I started gathering up overflowing ashtrays and half-finished drinks.

I said, “Mrs. Ferrelli needs to rest now. She asked me to tell you good night. She’ll be in touch tomorrow.”

They all stared up at me with sullen expressions of outrage and shock.

The woman who had opened the door said, “Who the hell are you to tell us to leave? You’re not Stevie’s family.”

I straightened from leaning over a table to pick up a crumpled napkin and gave her the look, the look that anybody who has ever been trained in law enforcement knows, the one that says, Don’t mess with me, bitch; don’t even think about it.

She flushed, and a tall bald man with sensual lips got up. Half of his hairless scalp was mottled with sun spots, the other half was covered with a livid birthmark that split his face in half.

“I think this is where I came in,” he said.

The bitterness in his voice seemed to come from old injustices, old pain, old anger. Everybody looked up at him with apprehensive faces, but his entire visage suddenly altered, going from brooding darkness to urbane smoothness. He crossed the room with a large hand held out to me, his thick lips drawn back in a patronizing smile.

“I’m Denton Ferrelli, Conrad’s brother. You’re the dog-sitter, aren’t you?”

He wore an expensive navy blue suit with the requisite white shirt and tie. Except for his bald head and the dark birthmark, he was like any well-educated rich man. But his voice was too icky-soft, like a scab that floats off in the bathwater, and either drugs or dislike for me had made his pupils contract to pinpricks.

Since both my hands were occupied with the tray, I ignored his proffered handshake.

“I’m Dixie Hemingway.”

“Good of you to take care of Stevie. The family appreciates it.”

My skin prickled at the slimy innuendo that Stevie was the dog I was there to take care of. He winked lazily, one maroon eyelid sliding over a milky yellow-green eye, giving his face the look of a heavy-lidded cobra. As he held my gaze, the tip of a fleshy gray tongue crept between his heavy lips and rapidly flicked back and forth. It was a peculiarly lewd gesture that left me feeling dirtied, as if he’d jacked off against me.

His expression hardened. “We’ll be going now. Because we choose to, dog-sitter, not because you’ve told us to.”

Everybody immediately got busy finding their purses or adjusting their crotches, depending on their sex, and generally working their way toward the front door. I stood with the tray full of cocktail glasses and watched them leave. The last person out was Denton Ferrelli. He turned before he closed the front door and did the lip-licking thing again. Denton Ferrelli might be a multimillionaire, but he was a crass bastard.

I opened the sliding glass doors to air out the smoke in the room, and took the tray into the kitchen. Stevie was standing exactly where I’d left her, with Reggie lying on her feet, pushing his body close against her ankles.

I said, “They’re gone. I told them you’d be in touch tomorrow.”

She buried her face in her hands and sobbed for a quick moment, as if she had an allotted amount of time for crying and didn’t want to waste it.

When she raised her head, her face was wet.

I said, “Have you eaten anything today?”

“I guess. I don’t know.”

I suddenly realized what was missing from this house of mourning. In ordinary Florida neighborhoods, death automatically means neighbors bearing platters of fried chicken and bowls of potato salad. They bring deviled eggs and green Jell-O salad and red Jell-O salad and cookies and meat loaf. They bring it in a steady stream until the bereaved are inundated with gastronomic sympathy. Most of Stevie’s neighbors had left for the summer, and her relatives had brought drugs. The rich really are different from everybody else.

I pawed around in her refrigerator and found eggs and butter. She watched me beat a couple of eggs in a bowl, watched me scramble them in butter in a skillet, and obediently sat down at the bar when I put them on a plate. Neither of us talked. I gave her a fork and a napkin and poured her a glass of wine from a bottle in the refrigerator. While she ate, I ran water in the sink and squirted dishwashing liquid in it to make it bubble. I washed the skillet, bowl, and beater and turned around to look at her. She had polished off the scrambled eggs and was sipping her wine.

She said, “You had something like this happen to you, didn’t you?’

I leaned against the counter and wiped my wet hands with a dish towel. “Three years ago, my husband and our little girl were on their way home, and they stopped to get some things for supper. My husband was a deputy, and he had picked Christy up at day care when he got off duty. She was three years old.”

I stopped and swallowed a lump in my throat. I had never told this before, not to somebody I didn’t know well. I wasn’t sure I could tell it now, but I knew I needed to say it. Not just for Stevie, but for myself too.

“I’m sure Todd was holding her hand when they walked across the parking lot, he was always careful with her. She was probably skipping along and telling him all the things that had happened that day, and he was listening to her like everything she said was the most important thing he’d ever heard. He was like that. With everybody.”

My hands were bone dry but I kept drying them on the towel anyway. “A man driving across the parking lot turned into a parking place. He was ninety years old and almost blind, but he had a current driver’s license. He lifted his foot to hit the brake, but instead he slammed it down on the gas. He hit Todd and Christy and three other people. They told me Todd and Christy died instantly, but I’m not sure if that’s true.”

I looked up to see tears rolling down Stevie’s face. She whispered, “Oh, my dear God.”

I said, “That’s why I won’t try to make you feel better about what’s happened. I won’t tell you to cheer up because Conrad’s with Jesus now. I won’t tell you that one day you’ll stop hurting, because you won’t. But one day you’ll pick up your life and go on, because you’ll have to.”

She and Reggie walked with me to the front door. Before I went out, I said, “Stevie, Reggie wasn’t wearing a collar when I found him this morning. Is that unusual?”

She smiled and shook her head. “He’s so well trained to heel that Conrad always lets him run free.”

“And the necktie?”

She shrugged. “That was just Conrad. He really didn’t like dog collars; he thought they were demeaning. He put bandannas and neckties on Reggie. Every now and then a necklace. A different drummer, you know.”

“I put the tie on the shelf with the dog food.”

She gave me a quick hug. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

As I got in the Bronco, she and Reggie stood in the doorway and gazed after me with identical expressions of stunned sorrow.