The Cat Sitter and the Canary

6

It’s funny what a scream can do for you when you’re in grave danger.

First, if you do it right, your eyes clamp shut and everything goes dark. Next, your body shrinks into a tight little ball, like a turtle pulling into its shell, and then your mind goes completely and utterly blank. The result is pure oblivion: you can’t see a thing, and all you can hear is the sweet high-pitched singing of your vocal chords in all their stunning glory. You become the literal embodiment of the Three Wise Monkeys—hear no evil, speak no evil, see no evil.

I don’t know how long I was in that state of bliss—probably just a few milliseconds—and I wasn’t sure whether I’d heard a gunshot or not, but luckily when I opened my eyes I didn’t find God waiting for me at the pearly gates or angels floating around on clouds and playing harps, nor did I see a fork-tongued demon welcoming me to the underground. Instead, I found myself looking straight down the barrel of a 9 mm Sig Sauer handgun, which I recognized immediately as the standard-issue firearm for all deputies with the Sarasota Sheriff’s Department.

The man standing in front of me had piercing blue eyes, one of which was lined up with the trigger of his pistol, the other squinted half-shut. He had blond hair cut close to his scalp, with a sharp nose and high cheekbones that in the harsh light of the security lamp appeared to be chiseled out of concrete. A single diamond stud twinkled from the lobe of his left ear.

His eyes widened. “What the…?”

I said, “Morgan?”

“Jesus, Dixie, you nearly scared me to death!”

I tried to speak, but my throat felt like I’d swallowed glass, and that, combined with the fact that there were dogs barking in the distance from every direction, told me that I must have screamed loud enough to terrify the entire Key.

I bent over and put my hands on my knees to steady myself. “Sorry. You scared me too.”

Deputy Jesse Morgan. He had joined the department not long after I left, but, given my talent for discovering crime scenes, we had met on several occasions since.

He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Dixie, what in hell’s name are you doing? You have any idea how dangerous it is to be sneaking around out here?”

I nodded. I knew exactly how dangerous it was, and I felt a lot safer now that Charlie and I weren’t alone. Deputy Morgan is one of the Key’s only sworn officers, meaning he’s trained and licensed to carry a gun. He’s slimly built but muscled and tall, with broad shoulders and a sharp mind—exactly the type of guy you’d want around if there were any murderers hiding nearby.

He hissed, “You could’ve gotten yourself killed!”

“I know.”

Given how much noise we’d made already, it seemed pointless to go on whispering, but I kept my voice down just in case. “I didn’t have a choice. I was trying to check on the animals. If I can just get in there and…”

He held up one hand. “Hold on: 911 said you discovered a body.”

“Yeah. He’s just on the other side of the door. He’s wearing a light blue suit, and he’s got a scarf over his face, so I have no idea who he is.”

“A scarf?”

“Yeah. Silk. It’s lying flat across his face.” I wanted to add, like a death shroud, but I figured he got the picture.

“And where’s the homeowner?”

“She’s on vacation in the Keys. I’m not sure yet when she’s coming back, a week or so, but I’m taking care of her pets until then, and the thing is—they’re still inside.”

“Who’s inside?”

“Her pets.”

That didn’t seem to faze him one bit. “What’s the homeowner’s name?”

“Greaver. Caroline Greaver.”

“She live alone?”

“Yeah. She’s only been gone for two days. I was just here yesterday and everything was totally fine—nothing suspicious or out of place or anything—but then the second I got here today, something seemed weird.”

“Which door is he at?”

“The front door. Caroline didn’t say she’d have any visitors or anything. As far as I know, I’m the only one authorized to be here.”

Morgan’s pistol was at his side, pointed at the ground, but now he slipped it into its holster. “Okay.”

I said, “You know what? I’d keep that handy if I were you. There might still be somebody in there, and if there is, I have to get…”

He stopped me. “Wait. When you called 911, you said the body had been there for at least twenty-four hours…”

“It’s a guess. There’s no pulse and his wrist is cold as ice. But when I opened the door … I don’t know. Something didn’t seem right. I just had a really weird feeling somebody was still in there…”

“But did you see anybody?”

I shook my head silently.

“Anyone on the street when you arrived?”

“No, not that I noticed.”

He lowered his chin to his chest but kept his eyes locked on mine. After a quick moment, he motioned me to follow.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

He turned and headed back down the walkway, talking under his breath the entire way. “First, let’s get you out of here until I can get some backup on the scene. If there’s somebody in there, I don’t want you anywhere near this house. After that, I can do a search of the premises and make certain it’s secure. You can leave your car where it is…”

His voice trailed away as he stopped and turned around.

I was about twenty feet back, still standing at the corner of the house with one hand raised limply in front of me, pointing in the direction of the lanai.

“Dixie, what are you doing?”

I whispered, “I can’t leave.”

“Why the hell not?”

“There’s a rabbit.”

“A what?”

“Gigi. Caroline’s rabbit. I told you. He’s still in there. He was just out by the pool, but when he saw me he ran back inside. There’s a pet door that leads to his cage. Franklin’s probably hiding, but I can’t leave Gigi in there all by himself.”

He frowned. “Franklin?”

“Caroline’s cat.”

He put his hands on his hips and cocked his head to one side. Without even looking at the pained expression on his face, I knew he was thinking I was a complete idiot. I also knew there was no way he was letting me inside that house until he knew it was safe. Not to mention the fact that every square foot of the property and every single thing inside was potential evidence—including, unfortunately, Gigi and Franklin—and I knew Morgan didn’t want me disturbing anything until an investigator was on the scene.

He took a deep breath. “Listen, I guarantee you the moment we determine it’s okay, you can go in and get your animals, but for now you’re coming with me … by force if necessary.”

I frowned. There was certainly no need for that kind of attitude, but then again anybody who knows me knows I can be a little stubborn when I want to. Charlie was standing at my feet, panting, and I realized I must have scared the poor guy to death when I screamed. He’d been searching my face for answers, but now he glanced over at Morgan and whimpered.

I said, “Okay. Let’s go.”

I picked Charlie up and followed Morgan alongside the house and down the driveway. When we got to the sidewalk, I paused, expecting him to turn right and lead me down the block to wait around the corner, but instead he stopped at his green-and-white police cruiser and opened up the back passenger door.

I said, “No, it’s okay. I’ll just take Charlie and go down the street until backup arrives.”

“Like hell you will. Get in.”

I’d probably spent thousands of hours inside a squad car just like Morgan’s, but always in the driver’s seat, never in the back, trapped behind the steel mesh and bulletproof glass like a caged animal. The thought occurred to me that anyone watching from one of the neighboring houses would think I’d been arrested.

Morgan cleared his throat. “Dixie. Get in the car. Now.”

I held Charlie tight as I got in, and as soon as Morgan shut the door and looked up at the house, I knew what he was thinking. I’d been through the same six-week deputy training program he had, although probably a decade earlier, but I knew the basic rules couldn’t have changed that much. Standard protocol dictates that in the event of a possible homicide, as long as there’s no imminent danger or pressing reason to search the premises, all first-responding officers should wait on-scene until an investigative team arrives. It’s a safety measure, but it also minimizes the very real risk of contaminating evidence.

But I also knew no decent officer would respond to the report of a dead body without first confirming beyond a shadow of a doubt that there was no chance of resuscitation. I could have described the porcine cast of the man’s skin, or the odd angle of his thin arm stretched out next to his body, or the absolute stillness of the silk scarf laid over his face, but it would have been a waste of time.

We both knew he’d be a fool to take my word for it.

Morgan was still standing next to the squad car, looking slightly hesitant, and I wondered if he wasn’t considering getting behind the wheel and backing down the block so he could go inside without my knowing he was bending the rules a bit.

He was just about to make a move when I tapped lightly on the window. “Deputy Morgan?”

He turned and glared. “What now?”

“It’s locked,” I said.

He glanced down at the car’s handle. “Yes. I’m aware of that. It’s for your own safety. I’ll let you out as soon as I know the house is clear.”

I shook my head and held up my ring of keys. “No. I mean the front door.”

He blinked. “Oh.”

He opened the door and took the keys, nodding silently and mumbling something that sounded like, thanks, and then shut the door again after I showed him which key was Caroline’s. After that, I slumped down in my seat and put Charlie in my lap. He was trembling slightly, so I tried to rock him like you might comfort a baby. We both watched Morgan as he retraced our path back up the driveway to the front porch. At the big picture window by the front door, he paused and peered inside. Just then a woman’s voice cut the silence. It was the dispatch operator coming through on the police radio in the front seat.

Her voice was a thin wail, almost like a siren. “Deputy Morgan, backup en route, ETA is three minutes.”

I glanced up at Morgan. He pulled his radio out and then seconds later I heard his voice. “Ten-four. Standing by.”

He took another step past the window as he clipped the radio back on his belt and withdrew his gun. Then, in one swift motion, he unlocked the front door and disappeared inside. Less than twenty seconds later he came backing out with his radio in his hand again.

His voice was softer now. “Lorraine, this is Deputy Morgan. Possible Signal 5 here. We’re gonna need a 10-93. I repeat, 10-93.”

I had forgotten most of the technical jargon and law-enforcement terms within three or four months of leaving the sheriff’s department, but a few of them had stuck in my brain like mice in a glue trap. “Signal 5” is police code for homicide, and “10-93” means “send detective.”

There was a burst of static from the radio and then a couple more voices on top of each other, both talking so fast I couldn’t understand a thing, but finally the dispatch operator said, “Deputy Morgan, please describe the victim.”

“Approximately a hundred forty pounds, five foot nine inches. Caucasian.”

“Age?”

“Midthirties.”

“Male or female?”

There was a pause, filled with nothing but blank space, and then I heard what at first I thought was more static, but then realized it was Morgan taking a deep breath. I glanced up at the porch again. He was leaning with one arm braced against one of the big pillars, his legs at a wide stance, his head hanging down.

He said, “Female.”