The Cat Sitter And The Canary

13

Ethan had taken the news of our overnight security guard surprisingly well. I had expected him to be at least as dramatic as Michael had been, but I think he must have considered what it would have done to me if he’d shown more than cautious concern about it. Instead, he told me not to worry, that obviously the sheriff’s office was just doing their job—covering all their bases and so forth—and that he was 100-percent certain Detective McKenzie would soon have a logical explanation for everything that had happened.

He also canceled his appointments for the day and told me he’d work from home, “just in case.”

I didn’t argue. Especially since it meant he could babysit Gigi.

“Custom House. How may I help you?”

I was pulled over to the side of the road just past Sea Plume Way, and Deputy Morgan was idling in his cruiser about a hundred feet behind me. I squinted my eyes, trying to read the fine print on the calling card that Elba Kramer’s assistant had given me, but it wasn’t easy. My sunglasses were all smudged and covered in several years’ worth of scratches from rattling around in the glove compartment. I pulled them off and tossed them in the backseat.

I said, “I think I must have the wrong number. I was trying to reach Ms. Kramer…?”

“I am Rajinder, the house manager. Who may I say is calling please?”

“Oh. This is Dixie Hemingway. We met at Caroline’s house next door, I was supposed to—”

“Ah, yes. And how is Charlie?”

“Oh, Charlie’s fine. His folks are back home now, so I’m all on my own today.”

There was a short pause, and then he said, “That’s good news. Ms. Kramer has been eager to hear from you. Please hold.”

I glanced up in the rearview mirror. Morgan’s chin had dropped to his chest, so all I could see was the top of his deputy hat floating behind the steering wheel. I wondered if he’d gotten any more sleep than I had.

“This is Elba Kramer.”

She spoke in a smoky half-whisper, as thick as syrup but tinged with color, like the brassy high notes of a saxophone, mixed with just the slightest hint of a southern accent—exactly as I’d imagined the Scarlet Woman of Siesta Key would sound.

I said, “Oh, hi Ms. Kramer, this is Dixie Hemingway. We were scheduled to meet last night…?”

“I know. When I heard you scream, I called the police immediately. I didn’t realize they were already there until I saw everyone walking around. What a terrible, terrible thing! I can hardly believe it. I hope you’re okay?”

“I’m fine. I was just calling to explain why I never showed up, but I guess you already figured that out.”

She said, “No need to apologize. The detective told me everything. Oh, that poor girl. Did you know her? It must have been quite a shock. I can’t even imagine. After I talked to that detective, not the guy in the suit, but the other one—I forget her name. Very strange woman…”

I said, “That’s Detective McKenzie.”

“Yes. McKenzie. After she was done questioning me, I told her I’d come outside to find you. But she said it was a bad idea, and by that time all the reporters were hovering about, and … well, I don’t like reporters very much.”

For a split second, a series of images flashed in my mind like still frames from a movie montage: me, headed for the limo outside Todd and Christy’s funeral, surrounded by TV crews, a reporter sticking her microphone in my face: How does it feel to lose a husband and child in such a senseless way? My mouth twisting in rage as I lunged for her, wanting nothing less than to rip her from limb to limb, and then Michael and Paco pulling me off and holding me in a bear hug, as tight as a straitjacket …

I said, “Well, Ms. Kramer, I don’t blame you. I don’t much care for reporters either.”

She said, “Oh, honey, I think we’re gonna get along splendidly.”

Tell her, I heard a voice in my head say.

It seemed unnecessary, but still I wondered if I wasn’t being dishonest—not telling her our paths had crossed before. But, then again, I wondered if maybe she already knew and didn’t care. Maybe it would just be embarrassing to bring up the whole affair on the boat with Senator Cobb after all these years.

I could hear what sounded like the tinkling of ice being dropped in a glass in the background. She said, “Could you be here the day after tomorrow at five thirty? I realize with everything that’s happened you’re probably in shock…”

I said, “No. That’s totally fine, but I did have one question: Have you by any chance heard from Caroline?”

There was a short pause. “No, honey. And I don’t think I will.”

I said, “Oh.”

I heard a small laugh. “Miss Hemingway, I guess no one’s told you, but Caroline and me, we’re not exactly friends.”

I felt as if I’d walked right into a patch of quicksand. “Oh, gosh, I’m sorry. I just haven’t been able to get ahold of her, so I thought maybe…”

“Oh, please. How could you know? To be honest, I haven’t spoken to Caroline in years. Like most stories in which I’m involved, it’s a long and sordid one. When we’re best friends, I’ll tell you all about it.”

People tend to blurt out their deepest, darkest secrets to me, even perfect strangers, so I didn’t doubt her one bit. Just one week earlier, I’d been in line at the grocery store and picked up one of those gossip magazines off the rack to pass the time. The headline read: ANGELINA DEVASTATED! MY HUSBAND IS A LIAR! Underneath was a blurred picture, like a freeze-frame from a television show or a movie still, with Angelina Jolie looking distraught and close to tears.

As I put the paper back, the elderly woman in line behind me leaned over and whispered, “My husband’s been lying to me for thirty years. I’d cut his pecker off if I thought I could get away with it!”

I didn’t know what else to say, so I just tightened my lips into a smile and pushed my basket in a little closer to the checkout girl for good measure.

Elba had pulled the phone away from her ear and was cooing at her assistant. “Oh, grapefruit! Raji, how lovely. Take it out to the pool, I’ll be right there.” A high-pitched chirp sounded in the background. “That’s Jane. She says hello.”

I said, “Oh, Jane’s your bird?”

“Calamity Jane! Raji tells me you have experience with birds?”

“I do. One of my clients has an African grey parrot named Big Bubba that I’ve taken care of for years.”

“Wonderful. You’ll love Jane. She’s the most fabulous little thing—I never go anywhere without her. She’s the light of my life! Five thirty, then? It’s important you’re not late…”

I said, “Not a problem. I’m always on time.”

I rang off and glanced in the rearview mirror, half hoping Morgan wouldn’t be there, but of course he was.

I whispered, “Well, it’s worth a try.”

As soon as I got out of the car, he rolled down his window. I got the impression he was already suspecting I might try to get rid of him, but then he took off his sunglasses.

It wasn’t Morgan.

I didn’t recognize him at all. He rose out of the car, big and burly, with broad rolling shoulders and a slight paunch—the imposing body of a man who enjoys his food. There was a patch of orange freckles across his pudgy cheeks, and as he tipped his hat I saw a glint of curly copper hair peeking out from underneath. I guessed his age at about twenty-five. A rookie.

Like putty in my hands, I thought to myself.

I said, “Hi. I’m Dixie.”

He tipped his hat again. “Yes, ma’am. I know.”

“Is this really necessary?”

He looked around. “What?”

“All this.” I drew a circle in the air with his face in the center. “I know you’re just doing your job, but having an armed escort follow me around all day isn’t exactly good for business. I don’t want my clients thinking I’m some kind of criminal. And anyway, you probably don’t know this, but I’m an ex-deputy myself.”

He slipped his sunglasses back on. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I was asked to follow you.”

“By who?”

“Sergeant Woodrow Owens.”

I nodded curtly and said, “Mm-hmm.”

Sergeant Owens had been my direct superior when I was on the force. It was Owens that had called me into the station, just a few weeks after Todd and Christy were killed. It was Owens who told me I was unfit, both emotionally and physically, for further duty, and it was Owens who had accepted my badge and firearm when I handed them over. I had tremendous respect for him then, and I still do. Plus—and I’m woman enough to admit it—I’m just a teensy bit scared of him.

I said, “Mm-hmm,” again and then started to head back to the car but stopped. “And what’s your name again?”

“Hank. Hank Marshall.”

I dropped my chin and glared at him. “Seriously?”

“Yes, ma’am. Is there a problem?”

I said, “So … your name is Deputy Marshall?”

He shrugged. “That’s me.”

“Alright, then.” I turned and headed back for the Bronco, waving my hand in Deputy Marshall’s general direction like I was tossing a trail of breadcrumbs behind me. “Carry on.”

I may look like a dumb blonde, and I’ll gladly admit I sometimes act like one too, but it comes in handy on occasion. In this particular instance, for example, I commended my brain for the remarkable job it had done so far ignoring the reality of the situation I was in. But now, as I made my way up Midnight Pass to my first client with an armed guard watching my every move, I couldn’t ignore it any longer …

This was serious.

When McKenzie had asked if there was anyone who might wish me harm, I’d immediately said I couldn’t think of a single soul, but we both knew it wasn’t true. There were probably hundreds. As a deputy with the Sarasota Sheriff’s Department, I’d conducted an untold number of arrests, I’d issued hundreds of tickets for reckless behavior and DUIs, I’d testified against all kinds of burglars and drug dealers, I’d hunted down deadbeat dads, hit-and-run drivers, juvenile delinquents, scam artists, wife beaters, husband beaters … There was no telling how many people might wish me ill, out of revenge, a perverted idea of justice, or just plain evil.

I shook my head to clear it, but all that did was send my thoughts flying around like tiny plastic flakes in a snow globe, so I tried my old standby for calming frazzled nerves: I counted birds.

Our little island is only a mile wide and not more than six or seven miles long, but despite that there are about fifty miles of winding canals and waterways within its borders. That means we’ve got a whole lot of water, countless ponds and lagoons, all lush and fertile as the garden of Eden. From above, it looks like a giant green-and-blue jigsaw puzzle. If you hired a team of crack wildlife experts to design the perfect bird habitat, they’d probably come up with something very close to what we call home.

There’s just about every kind of bird you can think of: gulls, terns, white herons, brown pelicans, black-necked stilts, double-breasted cormorants, spoonbills, storks, cranes—and those are just the ones that hang out shoreside. Then there are the cuckoos, the owls, the warblers, the finches, the swallows … the list literally goes on and on.

I spotted a couple of morning doves perched on top of the traffic light at the corner of Midnight Pass and Stickney Point, and then beyond that was a flock of swallows swooping over the treetops. A little farther up, wading around in the shallow fountain in front of the Beachhead condo building, was a snowy egret, her feathered crown like a fright wig perched on top of her skinny head.

Just then, I caught my reflection in the rearview mirror and raised one eyebrow.

“And then there’s you,” I muttered out loud …

“A sitting duck.”