The Cat Sitter And The Canary

19

Here’s how they make a spicy grapefruit margarita at Colonel Teddy’s Tiki Bar on Siesta Key:

Take a fresh habañero pepper, cut it in half, and then steep it in three ounces of Pueblo Viejo tequila. Next, add an ounce of freshly squeezed lime juice, an ounce of freshly squeezed grapefruit juice, and then one ounce of simple syrup plus a couple handfuls of crushed ice. Cover and shake it for no less than thirty seconds and then immediately pour it, ice and all, into a mason jar with a salted rim, garnished with a wedge of key lime or meyer lemon or both.

You can specify how hot you like it.

For example, if you ask for “pleasantly spicy,” they’ll drop the pepper in a cocktail shaker, pour in the tequila, and then remove the pepper immediately. If you ask for “taste-bud abusive,” they’ll let the pepper sit with the tequila for a couple of minutes. Ask for “medical supervision advised,” and they’ll use a safely guarded reserve that’s been steeping for who knows how long.

And here’s how you drink a spicy grapefruit margarita at Colonel Teddy’s Tiki Bar on Siesta Key: as slowly as possible.

It’s preferable to kick your sandals off and dig your toes in the sand, and if you really want to do it right, you swivel around in your stool and turn your face to the sun to watch the waves roll in. Traditionally, you wait until at least 5:00 P.M., but here in Siesta Key, things are a bit more laid back, so it wouldn’t be considered a crime at four. If you happen to have a serial killer on your tail, 3:45 is perfectly acceptable.

After I left my meeting with Detective Carthage, the rest of the day felt like a blur. I’d seen to all my pets—that much I remember. And I remember when I got home our driveway was still cordoned off with police tape, so I had to leave my car on the side of the road. Mrs. Reed’s body had already been removed and taken to the county coroner’s office by then, but I couldn’t bring myself to walk down the lane. Instead, I thrashed my way through the woods with Deputy Marshall following about ten yards behind me, and then I walked along the beach to the house. Marshall sat on the porch all night long, despite Ethan’s protests, but to be honest I think he was secretly as happy as I was to have an armed deputy guarding us overnight.

I stirred my finger around in my margarita.

So, someone is trying to kill you.

I nodded, as if I’d come up with something completely brilliant.

Well, isn’t that just wonderful?

I nodded again. It seemed almost too outrageous, too surreal, to be true. And why? Was there something I was missing? Some detail that would explain it all? I knew if I could only connect the two murders I’d have an answer. The problem, of course, was that the only discernible connection between Sara Potts and Edith Reed … was me.

The messages on those two notes were playing in my head like a broken record: See you in hell, Dixie … Third time’s a charm … See you in hell, Dixie … Third time’s a charm … I opened my eyes and realized I was talking out loud. At a nearby table was a young couple sharing a basket of crispy fried shrimp and a large Coke, but they didn’t seem to notice, or if they did they were too polite to stare at the crazy lady at the bar, drinking alone in the middle of the day and mumbling to herself. A few tables away were two salty sea-captain types glaring at each other over a row of empty Budweiser bottles.

I took another sip of my margarita.

It burned my lips, but I didn’t care. At this point, anything that distracted me from the reality of the situation was more than welcome. Detective Carthage had contacted Sara Potts’s family—they were on their way to town now with the horrible task of identifying her body—and he’d spoken with the staff at the snack bar. The manager there had told him he’d gotten worried when Sara hadn’t shown up for work, which was unlike her. She’d always been an excellent employee, dependable and friendly, and he didn’t know anybody who might have wanted to hurt her. Still, no one could explain what she was doing in Caroline’s house. As far as anyone knew, they hadn’t been friends.

I closed my eyes again and tried not to think about it, focusing on the stinging tequila in my throat and the gentle breeze in the air. In a little while, I heard what at first sounded like a flock of chickens in the distance but turned out to be a group of about six elderly ladies in brightly colored print blouses and open-toed sandals making their way toward the bar, all talking and laughing over one another. They wore matching baseball caps embroidered with coral-pink sequins, and I figured they were probably a local gardening club or a reading group out for a field trip. They plopped their purses down in the sand at the opposite end of the bar, and one of them announced, “Now, I’m warning you, ladies. Once I sit down, I may never leave this bar again!”

I had to admit, that sounded like an excellent idea. In fact, I was thinking I might go over and join them for the rest of my life, but then the bartender tapped me on the shoulder.

“What do you say?”

He was suntanned, with a nice smile and tousled blond hair that fell to his shoulders. His tortoiseshell glasses made him look a little older, but I could tell he wasn’t much more than twenty-five or so. He wore board shorts with a faded dive-shop T-shirt and a forest-green baseball cap with a yellow bill, tipped jauntily to one side.

I said, “Huh? Sorry, I wasn’t listening…”

He grinned. “I could tell. You seem pretty lost in thought. Wanna take another stab at it?”

“Another stab at what?”

He waved my empty margarita jar in the air. “At whatever it is you’re trying to forget.”

“Ha. I’d better not. That’s a good line though.”

He grinned. “Thanks. I speak fluent bartender.”

“Oh, did you study that in college?”

He shook his head. “Actually, no. I’m studying poetry.”

“You’re a poet?”

He winked. “No. I’m a bartender. Just the check then?”

I nodded as he dropped my glass down into a sink of soapy water and headed over to the women with a handful of menus. A little louder than necessary, he said, “Alright girls, I’m gonna need to see some IDs,” and they all giggled appreciatively.

There was a pink plastic caddy on the bar in front of me with various drink garnishes. I looked for something to give Gigi, who was sitting in a red plastic tortilla chip basket perched on the stool next to me, but celery sticks can be deadly for rabbits, and I didn’t think he’d care much for a marinated cherry. He was still munching halfheartedly on the carrot stick I’d given him earlier, but I could tell he was ready for something new. Just the sight of his little floppy ears and fuzzy button nose made my spirits lift a little.

I whispered, “Gigi, I continue to be impressed with how laid back you are, considering the circumstances. I’m not sure I’d be so happy riding around all day in somebody’s backpack.”

He took a bite and munched thoughtfully, holding his carrot stick like a cigar. I could tell he was probably wondering how much longer before he could go back home.

I said, “Soon … hopefully.”

A few minutes later the bartender handed me a slip of paper, and I caught a glimpse of dark red splotches on his fingernails. He withdrew his hand and blushed.

He said, “Nice, huh? Nail polish. I promise it’s not what you think. Like, I’m not a cross-dresser or anything.”

I held my hands up. “No judgments here.”

“It’s from a party the other night. My girlfriend thought it would be hilarious if I painted my nails too.” He scratched on his thumb nail with his right index finger. “It seemed like an awesome idea at the time, but I had no idea how hard it is to get this damn stuff off.”

I laughed. “Have you ever heard of a thing called nail-polish remover?”

He shrugged. “Yeah, but my bar knife works just as good. I chip a little more off whenever I get a break.”

I winced as I handed him a twenty-dollar bill. “Well, you better be careful. You could hurt yourself.”

He handed my twenty back. “We’re all good.”

“Huh?”

“Already paid for. That’s the receipt.”

I shook my head. “No. I can’t let you do that.”

“I didn’t.”

He pointed over my shoulder at the group of ladies. They were making their way down to the edge of the water with their margaritas. The wind had picked up a bit, and they were all using their free hands to hold down their sequined caps.

The bartender grinned. “They said you looked like you could use some cheering up.”

I smiled to myself all the way across the parking lot. Sometimes, it’s the little things that make the world feel right again—at least momentarily. As I came around the front bumper of the Bronco, I averted my eyes from the sheriff’s cruiser parked next to me. I knew seeing Deputy Marshall’s blank face behind his mirrored sunglasses would bum me out again, so instead I kicked off my left sneaker and shook the sand out of it, balancing on one leg to keep my sock off the ground. Then I repeated the whole process on the other shoe.

Just as I was tightening my laces, I felt a presence behind me and then a shadow fell across the pavement. Before my brain could even register what was happening, I thought of Gigi in my backpack and wondered if I could safely set him down before …

Without another thought, I reared back and spun around, clenching my car keys between my knuckles like a hawk’s talons. Deputy Morgan was standing right behind me, frowning down at a spot on the hood of his cruiser.

“Damn tree sap.”

He looked up at me. My eyes were glaring and my right arm was poised over my head like a snake about to strike.

He said, “What the heck are you doing?”

As nonchalantly as possible, I scratched the top of my head with my car keys. “Nothing. What happened to Deputy Marshall?”

He eyed me warily as he opened the car door. “We had a shift change while you were over there gettin’ drunk. Where to now, boss? You done for the day?”

I noticed grains of sand clinging to the edges of his boots as he sat down in the driver’s seat, which meant he probably hadn’t been waiting in his car. He’d been lurking around the bar, watching me the entire time.

I said, “First of all, I was not getting drunk. I had one tiny margarita. And second of all, no, I’m not done for the day. In fact, I have a meeting with a new client.”

“You sure you’re okay to drive?”

I put my hands on my hips. “What do I look like? A lightweight?”

He shrugged, the corners of his mouth rising. “I don’t wanna pop your balloon, but yeah, a little bit.”

I was about to run through the battery of sobriety tests I’d conducted when I was a deputy myself—reciting the alphabet backward, standing on one foot and touching my nose—when a little lightbulb went off in my head.

My eyes widened. “Balloon!”

He frowned. “Huh?”

I held up one finger and said, “Hold that thought,” and then sprinted across the parking lot as fast as possible. By the time I reached the bar, Morgan had caught up with me.

Wheezing, he bent over and put his hands on his hips. “Dixie, you gotta work with me here! You can’t just go runnin’ off without warning me first.”

I said, “Sorry, I think I just thought of something.”

The bartender was straightening up the bar where the group of ladies had been. They were all still down at the water’s edge, kicking at the foamy waves and sipping their drinks. When he saw me approaching, he said, “Back for more?”

I shook my head. “I just wanted to ask you something. About that party you mentioned—what did you mean when you said your girlfriend convinced you to paint your fingernails … too?”

He grinned. “Oh, it was a costume party. They do it every year.”

“They?”

“USF. University of Southern Florida. I’m in the English department. It’s kind of a tradition. Most people dress up in drag. You know, guys wear dresses and girls wear suits. They’ve been doing it so long nobody even remembers why, but it’s a total blast. You get to meet all the new students.”

I turned to Deputy Morgan as his eyes narrowed.

He said, “And when was this party?”

“Like, five nights ago, at a professor’s house. He lives right here on the Key.”

I could feel the hair slowly rising on the back of my neck. I said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t get your name…?”

“Jason.”

I took a deep breath. “Jason, was the party on Old Vineyard Lane?”

“Yeah. How’d you know that?”

“And what are your school colors?”

He pointed at his baseball cap. “Green and yellow. Why?”

I nearly stumbled over myself as I backed away, muttering my thanks as I pulled my cell phone out and started dialing. Detective Carthage answered on the first ring.

I said, “Matthew, I mean Detective, I was just talking to the bartender at Colonel Teddy’s. He’s a student at USF, in the English department, and he told me one of his professors has a party every year. It was five nights ago, and guess where it was? Old Vineyard Lane.”

I paused, waiting to see if he might make the connection, but he didn’t respond. I said, “Old Vineyard Lane is Caroline’s street! And I think that party was just a couple doors down, because I saw a woman taking some balloons down the night before I discovered Sara’s body. And the thing is, it was a costume party. A drag party. And guess what their school colors are?”

“Green and yellow.”

I nodded. “And remember that striped tie Sara Potts was wearing?”

He said, “Green and yellow.”

“Right. And Sara told my brother she’d just started graduate school. I think you’d better go talk to that professor right away.”

He said, “Good idea. I’m with him now.”

Before my brain could catch up, I said, “I think it’s possible they weren’t after Sara Potts at all. She just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong … wait, did you say you’re with him now?”

There was a short pause. “Yes. And you’re exactly right. He lives on Old Vineyard Lane, two doors down from Caroline Greaver. Sara Potts was invited to the party, but she never showed up.”

“And…?”

There was a short pause. “Is that all?”

I blanched. “Oh. Sorry. I don’t mean to tell you how to do your job.”

“Not a problem. But one thing: until we find the person responsible for these murders, I think it’s probably a good idea that you talk to as few strangers as possible.”

I felt a lump form in the base of my throat. “Yeah, of course.”

“But feel free to give me a call if you think of anything else.”

I said, “Okay … uh, keep up the good work.”

He said, “Thanks.”

And the line went dead.

After our meeting at the Pavilion, Detective Carthage had done his best to convince me not to work for the next few days. To stay home. To sit in my apartment, staring at the TV or the blank wall like a vegetable, waiting for everybody else to figure out what was going on and who was after me.

I wouldn’t even consider it. After Todd and Christy died, I’d spent what felt like an entire lifetime holed up in that apartment … endless hours hiding from the world, pretending it didn’t exist, waiting for it to all end … but I’d changed since then. Plus, it was beginning to look like two innocent women had lost their lives because of me, and I knew I’d never be able to live with myself if I just sat by and did nothing. Now was not the time to be afraid.

“No,” I whispered out loud. “No more.”