The Cat Sitter and the Canary

4

As soon as the coast was clear and my early-morning intruders had moved on to their next potential demolition site, I streaked back inside. I was completely behind schedule now, but fortunately my morning routine is quick and simple. I can practically do it in my sleep. My feet were still damp from the misty air outside, so I tiptoed to the closet, careful not to slip on the terra-cotta tile.

Despite the fact that my apartment is small, my walk-in closet is big enough to hold a world-class collection of designer shoes and expensive haute couture. Instead, I’ve got a filing cabinet and a small desk in one corner. Pretty much every stitch of clothing I own fits on one six-foot rack.

There was a time when I had tons of clothes, although none of it was exactly what you’d call high-end—casual stuff for dinner with friends from work, vaguely sexy stuff for a standing Friday-night date, rugged stuff for running around with the kids at the playground … but things are simpler now.

As I pulled on my standard cat-sitter uniform—cargo shorts, white sleeveless T, and a pair of white Keds—I surveyed the stacks of bills and papers spread across my desk. One of the advantages of growing up in a sleepy beach town is that you develop a pretty laid-back attitude about most things, but when it comes to work, I run a very tight ship. In fact, I like to think I operate my pet-sitting business with the same discipline and dedication I brought to being a sheriff’s deputy. I’m always prepared, I’m respectful and kind to everyone I meet (furry, feathered, or otherwise), and I keep a spiral notebook with detailed notes on every pet I’ve ever cared for—what medications they take, what their favorite snacks are, and what kinds of games they like to play. Filing, however, is not my strongest skill. In fact, I like to pretend I have a private secretary named Dammit.

I shuffled things around on my desk and muttered under my breath, “Dammit, when are you going to get this place organized?”

Usually Dammit just rolls her eyes and mutters, “Oh, don’t have a cow. I’ll do it later,” but of course she never does.

I finally found my calendar under a collection of bills and cat-treat coupons and went over the day’s schedule. There were my regular morning clients first and then the rest were all felines. The Webers were volunteering again at the Women’s Exchange, but today they were only working the second shift, so I planned to swing by and pick Charlie up after I started my afternoon rounds. My final appointment of the day was reserved for the Scarlet Woman of Siesta Key.

The plan was to time my arrival at Caroline’s about forty-five minutes early and then, once Gigi was taken care of, I’d stop in next door for a quick meet and greet. The only problem was that I’d forgotten to mention to Ms. Kramer’s assistant that I’d have a deranged Lhasa apso with me. I didn’t like the idea of bringing someone’s dog to an initial meeting, especially a dog as unpredictable as Charlie, but there was nothing to be done about it now.

Downstairs, there was a giant pelican roosting on the handlebars of my bike. I felt bad making him move, especially since I could easily have taken the Bronco, but I wanted to enjoy the cool morning air while I could. I knew within a couple of hours the roads would be more crowded, plus the sun would be out and it would be way too hot for pedaling around all day.

With a little encouragement, the pelican hopped over to the hood of the Bronco and then watched me with an incriminating glare as I backed out and rolled across the courtyard and down the curving driveway. Normally, the sound of the bike’s wheels on the crushed shell sends the parakeets in the treetops into a flutter, but my morning explorers had already woken them up, so everything was eerily still as I made my way down to the main road.

For the rest of the morning and into the afternoon, I felt just slightly off-kilter. Biking around town usually makes me feel free as a country cat, but it wasn’t working this time. I still felt … I don’t know … nervous isn’t exactly the right word, but something close to it. All six of my morning clients had been perfect angels overnight—no accidents to clean up or destroyed houseplants to doctor—but still I felt a tiny bit of foreboding every time I took out my keys and unlocked another front door. Even a quick nap before my afternoon rounds was completely useless.

The temperature had risen as the day went on, plus I couldn’t very well pedal around with Charlie in tow, so after my nap I left my bike at home and switched to the Bronco. Luckily, I’d left all the windows open from the night before so it wasn’t a broiling inferno inside—more like a toasty oven. I cranked up the AC, and it cooled off nicely.

At the Weber’s house, Charlie was waiting for me just inside the gate to the backyard, which was a good thing since it meant I didn’t have to go hunting for him. As soon as he saw me coming up the side driveway, he ran to his little igloo doghouse on the porch and brought back one of the many stuffed toys he keeps there—this time a ragged yellow giraffe—and shook it at me tauntingly.

I unlatched the gate and tried to be firm. “No, sir. We’ve got work to do. I promise we’ll play when we get home later.”

He ignored that and ran around in circles while I pulled his leash off a peg by the back door, and then I ran around in circles trying to hook it onto his collar. Finally, I gave up and let him run ahead to the Bronco, where he waited by the passenger door with his giraffe in his mouth and his tail wagging excitedly.

Just like people, animals are a lot happier when they have a purpose in life, and I was beginning to think Charlie was enjoying his part-time employment. For the rest of my afternoon stops, he kept himself on good behavior (relatively speaking), and it made me smile every time I thought of it. Elba Kramer wasn’t the only one around here with her own personal assistant.

By the time we finally finished up with my afternoon clients and pulled into Caroline’s driveway, I was thoroughly pooped and so was Charlie. He was stretched out on the passenger seat with his chin resting on his giraffe, held in place between his paws. I switched off the ignition and told him to stay put while I got his leash, but he just lifted his head and sniffed the air tentatively.

I gave him a quick shoulder rub. “I know, buddy. Being a cat sitter isn’t as easy as you thought, huh? All we have to do is feed Gigi, then a quick meeting next door, and then we’re done for the day.”

At that he stood up and wagged his tail in agreement, although his expression seemed more curious than eager. As I got out of the car, I glanced across the street to see if there were any signs of Mr. Scotland, and, sure enough, there he was, sitting in one of the wicker rocking chairs on the front porch with a book in his lap. He was wearing tan shorts and a T-shirt now, and even from a distance I could make out the tanned muscles of his arms. With the setting sun streaking the sky pink and amber overhead, the scene looked like something from a sexy postcard or a romantic movie. A baseball cap shaded his eyes, so I wasn’t sure if he was watching me, but as soon as I raised my arm to wave, he immediately waved back.

“Gid evenin’ mess!”

I said, “Hi there. How’s your vacation going so far?”

He flashed a white smile. “Hay rot braw!”

I smiled back and nodded, having no idea what the hell he’d said. Charlie pulled me all the way up the walk to Caroline’s front porch, ignoring my halfhearted commands to heel, and the closer we got to the front door, the more determined he became. The driveway had been baking in the hot sun all day, so I figured it was probably still too hot for his little paws. Either that or he was looking forward to adding a few more scratches to that parlor door.

I said, “Charlie, don’t even think about it. From now on, you’re staying on leash.”

But I don’t think he even heard me. He was too busy sniffing around the doorjamb, holding his tail out straight like an English pointer’s. I shook my head in admiration.

Lhasas aren’t exactly known for their tracking abilities, so it’s easy to forget that even a tiny puffball like Charlie has the same not-very-distant ancestor as every other dog in the world: the gray wolf. And, just like wolves in the wild, dogs have a sense of smell that borders on the supernatural. They can detect microbial disease in beehives, counterfeit DVDs in foreign shipments, elevated blood pressure in humans—even a tablespoon of sugar in an olympic-size swimming pool! It was no wonder Charlie could still sense that Mr. Scotland had been here. I figured that man’s smug, oozing charm could linger for days.

Just then, as if to prove my point, Charlie let out a low, rumbling growl.

“Charlie!” I tugged at his leash to get his attention. “I promise you there’s nothing to worry about.”

I glanced up to see if Mr. Scotland was still watching, but he must have gone inside. I flipped through my keys until I found Caroline’s, which was silver with a red rubber tag attached, and as I slipped it in the lock and turned the handle, Charlie surged forward, ready to rush in ahead of me.

I said, “Hold on there, Speed Racer.”

I pulled him back a few feet and made him sit, and then while I held one hand in front of his snout like a school crossing guard, I reached back and pushed the front door open with my right foot. Just then, Charlie looked down at the floor behind me and ever so slowly began wagging his tail.

I froze.

Dogs use their tails to communicate all kinds of things, but I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the particular signal Charlie was communicating was, “Hello, stranger.” I slowly turned and peered over my left shoulder. There, in the middle of Caroline’s front hall, surrounded by a sea of envelopes and flyers and plastic-wrapped catalogs, was a man.

His back was flat on the floor and his legs were laid out straight, but his left arm was at an odd angle, almost as if it didn’t belong to the rest of his body. He wore a light-blue, three-piece suit, with a green-and-yellow striped tie. There was a white silk scarf laid across his face, so I couldn’t see whether his eyes were open or not. As I leaned in closer, I realized the envelopes and mailers around his head and shoulders were soaked in blood.

I glanced down at Charlie. “Stay.”

I knelt down and touched my thumb and forefinger to the man’s narrow wrist, then, as calmly as possible, I pulled the door shut and locked it. I walked Charlie down to the Bronco, put him in on the passenger side, and then walked around the back, glancing across the street. Mr. Scotland had disappeared. I got behind the wheel and put my backpack down on the floorboard, and then I reached for the car keys in the cup holder between the seats. I started the car and backed about four feet down the driveway.

Where the hell are you going?

I shook my head as I cut the engine and sighed. I had no idea. All I knew was that I wanted to be as far away from there as possible. I got out and walked back up to the porch so Charlie wouldn’t hear, and then I pulled out my cell phone.

“911, what is your emergency?”

The operator’s voice seemed eerily close, almost as if he was standing right over my shoulder.

I said, “My name is Dixie Hemingway. I’m at Caroline Greaver’s house on Old Vineyard Lane.”

“Old Vineyard Lane?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what’s the problem?”

I took a deep breath.

The human body is an extraordinary machine, armed with all kinds of survival systems that automatically kick in when it senses danger. The moment there’s any kind of injury, every cell in the body jumps into action, flooding the bloodstream with hormones and pain relievers, stopping digestion, opening the lungs’ airways, narrowing vessels, conserving body temperature, and slowing blood flow to all the major muscle groups. It’s a finely tuned orchestration of events designed to preserve the body’s strength, giving it the best possible chance of survival.

But the man lying in Caroline’s front hall … there wasn’t a doubt in my mind. He was beyond resuscitation. I knew he’d been dead for at least twenty-four hours. It was the temperature of his skin. It was ice cold, and there was a stillness around him that seemed thick and impenetrable, as if some small invisible amount of energy had been permanently sucked out of the universe.

I said, “I’m the cat sitter. There’s been a murder.”