The Cat Sitter And The Canary

14

Ninety-nine percent of my days start out at Tom Hale’s condo. Tom’s an accountant and works from home, but he uses a wheelchair, so I go over twice a day—first thing in the morning and then again in the afternoon—to run with his retired racing greyhound, Billy Elliot. In exchange, Tom deals with my taxes and anything else having to do with money, which is good because I can’t balance a checkbook to save my life.

Billy and I usually do a few laps around the circular parking lot that surrounds the building, and then if there’s nobody else around, I let him off the leash so he can do a few more laps at a respectable pace. He’s not near as quick as he used to be (who is?), but when we’re riding back up in the elevator, both of us panting and grinning ear to ear, I know he couldn’t care less. He just likes to get out there and relive his glory days. I actually hate running, but I’d be a hot mess if it weren’t for Billy Elliot. He’s like my own personal trainer.

Deputy Morgan had spent another night staked out at the top of our driveway, but at some point before I left for the day, Deputy Marshall had taken his place again. I waved to him as I came out of the Sea Breeze’s lobby. He was sitting in his cruiser, parked by the curb just opposite mine. I heard his engine start up as soon as I headed across the parking lot, but when I opened the car door, something caught my eye. It was small and yellow, stuck down in the cushion behind the seat. I’d left my windows open the night before, so at first I thought it was just a leaf that had floated in, but I was wrong. It was a piece of paper from a pocket-size notebook, with words neatly written in bold, felt-tip pen …

Dear Current Owners,

My wife and I would very much like to talk to you about your house. Would you consider selling?

We are quite interested, and are prepared to make a convincing offer.

We’re here for a few more days. Please call our mobile.

Yours,

Garth and Edith Reed

Underneath the signature was a telephone number with an area code I didn’t recognize, but I figured it was probably from a big northern city, like New York or Chicago.

I don’t know why I hadn’t noticed the note before, except that I’d probably been sitting on it ever since Mr. and Mrs. Got-Rocks paid me a surprise visit that morning. “Current owners,” I muttered under my breath. “The gall of some people.”

I remembered the man had disappeared under the carport for a few moments. He must have left the note on the front seat then, at any rate, I had no intention of calling, no matter how “convincing” their offer. I folded the note and slipped it down in my back pocket, giving Deputy Marshall a thumbs-up as I climbed in behind the wheel. He replied with a short nod, and then followed me all the way around the circular driveway and out the main road.

My last stop of the morning was the Wincocks, a couple I’d only spoken to on the phone so far. I didn’t know much about them, other than that Daphne Wincock was an art professor at Florida State University, and her husband, Jackson, was a retired assistant district attorney for Sarasota County. They were catching a flight out of town the next day.

I turned down Sandy Crane Street, just north of the center of town, and kept an eye out for number 27. Mrs. Wincock had told me I couldn’t miss it, and she was right. Just like all its neighbors, the house was small—probably not much more than a thousand square feet—but what it lacked in size, it made up in personality. The house was robin’s egg blue, with striped pink-and-white awnings over all the windows and a wide pebbled walkway leading to the front porch, lined on either side with devil’s-tongue cacti, marigolds, and Mexican sunflowers. On the wall next to the door was a hand-carved wooden plaque that read GUARD CAT ON DUTY—HISS OFF! And there was a white rectangular rug in front of the door with blue lettering and a blue border, like the name tags they hand out at PTA meetings and hotel conferences. It read, HI, MY NAME IS MAT.

Before I could knock, the door opened to reveal a tanned woman in her midsixties, with a kind face and curly salt-and-pepper hair. Her dark brown eyes were magnified behind cat’s-eye glasses, and she had a slightly bemused, slightly chagrined expression on her face.

I said, “Hi, I’m Dixie Hemingway, the cat sitter.”

She nodded. “Well, Dixie Hemingway, the cat sitter, you’re about to get a quick education on what it’s like to live with a madman. Come on in.”

She led me into a brightly lit living room, where a man with a bushy mustache and painter’s coveralls was on his hands and knees in the middle of a large cotton tarp, completely surrounded by small piles of dowels and knobs, along with what looked like about a hundred little wooden hammers.

Mrs. Wincock said, “Dixie, this is my husband, Jackson.”

He stood up and said, “Welcome to her nightmare!”

He had a smile as wide as a ten-gallon hat, with a Texas accent to match, and everything he said seemed to end with an exclamation point and a wink.

“Jackson Wincock. Nice to meet ya!” He shook my hand firmly. “That’s not my porn name, by the way. It’s the one my mama put on the sales receipt!”

Mrs. Wincock shook her head at me. “I warned you.”

There was a twinkle in the man’s eye that made me like him immediately. His face was carved with laugh lines, and I guessed he was older than Mrs. Wincock by at least a decade. Where she was neat and trim and reserved, Mr. Wincock was round-bellied and booming, like a bar extra in a John Wayne movie.

He said, “Did you have any trouble finding us?”

“No, sir,” I said. “I know the Key like the back of my hand.”

He grinned. “I guess that means you’re one of them rarified full-time residents.”

I nodded. “Yep. In fact, I still live in the house I grew up in, down Midnight Pass Road, right by Turtle Beach.”

He said, “Well, I hope you’ll pardon the mess, Miss Dixie, but I’m smack dab in the middle of a project here.”

Mrs. Wincock raised one eyebrow. “The middle?”

He tilted his head from side to side like a metronome. “Well, not the very middle exactly, but definitely somewhere past the beginning, and yet not quite at the end. I’ll be done in no time, darlin’, don’t you worry!”

She rolled her eyes. “He’s been telling me that for years.”

I looked around at all the various piles. “What … what are you doing?”

“It’s a harpsichord!” He pointed to two big harp-shaped pieces of wood leaning in the corner of the living room. “That’s the main body, and then these are all the little doohickeys that go inside it, in one order or another.”

I said, “Wow, that’s impressive. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who built their own harpsichord.”

Mrs. Wincock said, “And you still haven’t.”

I said, “Are you a musician?”

They looked at each other and then turned to me in unison, “No.”

“He’s a kook is what he is.”

Mrs. Wincock hooked her arm around mine and led me through the living room into the kitchen, where there was a wide bay window overlooking a tidy, manicured garden. Perched on top of a yoga pillow in the middle of the deep window sill was a pure-white Turkish Angora.

I said, “Oh, my gosh. What a beautiful cat! What’s her name?”

Mrs. Wincock smiled. “Meredith Heedles. We call her Maddy for short, but she prefers Mrs. Heedles. She owns the place. We just live here.”

At the sound of her name, the cat looked in our direction. Her eyes were a beautiful beryl green. She appraised me up and down and then turned back to the window. Outside, there were two teak benches along a bamboo fence at the far end, nestled among pots of herbs and blooming camellias, and in the middle was a wall of carefully stacked river stones, with a stream of water spilling over the top and tumbling down into a lily pond about the size of a kiddie pool.

Mrs. Wincock cooed. “Sweetheart, Dixie’s going to take care of you while we’re away for a couple of days.”

I held out my hand. “Hi, Mrs. Heedles.”

She sniffed the air tentatively and then raised herself up, pressing into my fingers as she ran her sides along the back of my hand. Her fur was thick and luxurious, and I was thinking it was probably about the softest thing I’ve ever felt in my life.

I said, “Oh, Mrs. Wincock, before I forget, I’ll need your vet’s number, and I’ll need some contact information while you’re away.”

Mrs. Wincock pushed her cat’s-eye glasses a little farther up the bridge of her nose and glanced back into the living room. Mr. Wincock had switched the TV on, and I could hear the theme music from our local newscast playing in the background. She said, “Oh, you can just use the number I gave you. That’s my cell phone.”

I pulled out my notebook. “I know, but if you don’t mind, I’ve learned the hard way that it’s good to have at least one additional contact number, like the name of your hotel, maybe?”

Her cheeks flushed as she glanced around the room. “Oh. I’ve got it written down here somewhere. It’s called the, uh … Hotel Orleans.”

“As in … New Orleans?”

She suddenly looked like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar. “Yes.”

I hesitated. “Oh, I know someone who lives there, he used to live here but…” My voice trailed away as Mrs. Wincock slowly removed her glasses.

She said, “I know, dear. It was Jean Pierre Guidry who told us about you.”

“Oh.”

“Before my husband retired, he and Guidry worked on a lot of cases together. We’re old friends.”

I could feel all the muscles in my face tightening into stone as I tried to force my mouth into a polite smile.

She said, “I’m sorry, Dixie. I should have told you when we spoke on the phone. I know all about how you and Guidry used to be…”

I said, “Oh, please, don’t be ridiculous. It’s completely fine. Guidry and I are just friends now. Are you going to New Orleans for business or pleasure?”

She frowned. “Well … we’re going to the wedding.”

“You mean, the wedding wedding?”

“Yes, it’s this week.”

I could feel my cheeks turning hot. “Oh, my gosh. I feel like a complete idiot. I didn’t realize it was already … I mean, I got the invitation and everything, but things have been so crazy. He’s probably wondering why I never responded.”

The expression on her face spoke volumes. I cast my eyes around the room, doing my best to look as breezy and carefree as possible. “So, will it be a big wedding?”

Mrs. Wincock slipped her glasses back on. “Well, you know Guidry. He doesn’t have a lot of friends. Always busy with work. But Monica comes from a big family, so…”

“Monica?”

“… that’s his fiancée.”

I nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, right,” I said. “I totally forgot.”

She smiled warmly. “I don’t blame you one bit. Let me show you the rest of the house.”

After the tour, I gave Mrs. Heedles a good scratch between the ears and told her it was a pleasure meeting her, and then we went back through the living room, where Mr. Wincock was back on his hands and knees, tinkering with his harpsichord project. The TV was still on, and there was an earnest-looking woman gazing intently into the camera, jabbering away in front of a mobile news van with a big satellite dish perched on top. I remember telling Mr. Wincock that Mrs. Heedles would be in very good hands while they were in New Orleans, at which point he shot Mrs. Wincock a bewildered look, but neither of them said anything after.

Mrs. Wincock stood in the doorway as I made the excruciating journey down the pebbled walkway to the Bronco, feeling her pitying eyes like a target on my back. The entire way, I whispered the name of Guidry’s fiancée and soon-to-be bride over and over again. Monica … Monica … Monica … Monica …

By the time I got behind the wheel, I’d said it so many times it didn’t seem like an appropriate name for a human being at all—more like a species of lizard, or maybe a topical ointment for ringworm … Ask your doctor about Monica!

Just as I stabbed my keys into the ignition, Mr. Wincock appeared, his face grim as I rolled down the window. He was still holding the TV remote in one hand, and the laugh lines around his eyes had fallen.

He said, “Miss Dixie, I think you better come see this.”