The Cat Sitter's Cradle

20

I opened my front door a crack and squinted at the bright morning light slanting in through the trees. Michael and Paco were sitting out on the deck at the table my grandfather built when we were kids. They had laid out a breakfast fit for a king. There was hot coffee, freshly squeezed orange juice, a bowl of locally grown strawberries and blackberries, and a platter heaped with glistening slices of cantaloupe, mango, and kiwi. Holding court at the center of the table was a basket of Michael’s freshly baked scones, still warm from the oven. I was only just a little bit disappointed not to see a platter of bacon, but since I was apparently going to be seeing more of Ethan from now on, I figured I could do without it. A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips, my grandmother always said.

It all looked so good I practically skipped down the stairs and across the deck to the table. I could tell by their empty plates that Michael and Paco had already eaten, but waiting at my seat was an absolutely yummy-looking slice of spinach and mushroom quiche, lying on a bed of bright green baby lettuce. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been able to stay in bed this late, and I was pretty confident Michael and Paco had both been fast asleep when Ethan left for work. Not that I was trying to hide anything. I can do what I want. I’m a grown, mature woman, sort of.

In fact, Michael and Paco had been encouraging me to go out with Ethan for months, so I knew they’d probably be pretty happy about it, but I just wasn’t in the mood to be bombarded with a hundred and one questions.

Turns out I was out of luck. The moment I saw the looks on their faces, not to mention the stack of newspapers spread out in front of them, I knew I was in for a good ol’ session of Q and A with M and P.

Of course they had read all about Mr. Harwick’s death, and now there were a number of articles in the paper with my name in them, and a quote from the police department saying there was a search under way for the primary person of interest: Kenny Newman, the Harwicks’ pool man. I told Michael and Paco the whole story of everything that had happened, excluding Kenny’s revelation about his father. I did tell them that Becca had revealed to me that she was pregnant, and that both of them had been missing ever since Mr. Harwick’s body was discovered.

Michael and Paco sat quietly and listened, except when I was describing the ordeal of pulling Mr. Harwick out of the pool and trying to revive him. I must have looked pretty shaken, because Michael got up and came around the table and put his hands on my shoulders.

When I was finished, we all sat for a while in silence. Finally Paco said, “So, Michael, I think we should all agree right now to not ever say ‘I told you so’ about Kenny Newman.”

Michael squeezed my shoulders and said, “Yeah. I totally agree, we should definitely not ever say ‘I told you so’ about that guy.”

I rolled my eyes and said, “Hilarious,” but I knew their teasing was only meant to make me feel better about the whole thing. In fact, I was pleasantly surprised that Michael wasn’t more upset—I hoped it meant that he was beginning to feel a little less responsible for looking out for me all the time. He had a few gray hairs mixed in with the blond, and I knew every one of them had my name on it.

Paco said, “So still no sign of him, huh?”

“Not exactly.”

Michael said, “What do you mean, not exactly? You know where he is?”

I took a bite of quiche and reveled in its buttery, cheesy deliciousness for a couple of moments. “Not really, but he paid me a visit last night.”

Michael’s voice rose. “What? He was here? Goddammit, Dixie, what were you thinking?”

“Michael, I know this is going to be hard for you to understand, but I just don’t think Kenny Newman is a dangerous person.”

Michael started to interrupt, but I cut him off. “I know what you guys think about him, and I agree it doesn’t look good that he disappeared after Mr. Harwick died, but he has an explanation for all of it, and I think I believe him.”

Michael took a deep breath. “Okay, I’m sorry. So what did he want with you?”

“He wanted to talk to me about a message he left on my answering machine the night before I found Mr. Harwick. He was worried that if I turned it over to the police, they’d think it was a confession.”

I could tell Michael was getting a little more agitated. He rolled his eyes and said, “Oh, great. I can’t wait to hear this. What was the message?”

I sighed. “He said he was about to do something. Something big. And that he was sorry.”

Michael sat back down and rubbed his temples with the tips of his fingers. “Dixie…”

“I know, I know, I know,” I said. “But there’s something else, something that explains why Kenny has led such a secretive life here.”

Michael raised his eyebrows. “What is that?”

I said, “Mr. Harwick is Kenny’s father.”

Michael had just taken a sip of coffee and almost spit it out all over the table. “What? How is that even possible?”

I told them Kenny’s entire story, and even Michael, who’s about the most skeptical person I’ve ever known, had to admit it was almost too crazy to make up. He also brought up a point I hadn’t thought of before: Even though Kenny worked for me, he didn’t have anything to gain by explaining himself. If he had been planning on murdering Mr. Harwick, why would he have called me first to warn me about it? Any fool would know that would’ve aroused suspicion about him right away.

I felt a sense of relief that Michael saw some logic in the whole thing. So much had happened in the last forty-eight hours I wasn’t sure I still had the ability to see straight. I was grateful he didn’t think I’d finally gone off the deep end.

Paco had grown more and more quiet the whole time we’d been talking. Now he was holding his newspaper out in front of him, taking an occasional sip from his coffee cup.

I said, “Paco, what do you think?”

He lowered the paper. “Hmm?”

We both saw it in his eyes immediately. Paco’s not normally one to hold back his opinions, especially when it comes to matters of law and order. There was a reason he wasn’t chiming in with his thoughts. He knew something.

I said, “What did you think of Kenny’s story about Mr. Harwick?”

He nodded nonchalantly. “Yeah. Sounds about right to me,” he said and went back to his paper.

Michael and I shared a look. As a member of the special crimes unit, Paco has a lot of experience with all kinds of investigations. One week he might be meeting with an informant to root out an illegal narcotics ring, and the next he might be working undercover as a temp in a law firm, gathering evidence for a corporate fraud investigation. If he was somehow involved in an investigation into the affairs of Sonnebrook or the Harwick family, that was about as much as we would get out of him.

Michael turned to me. “So please tell me Kenny isn’t running out of town.”

“No. By now he’s turned himself over to the police. I made him promise he’d go straight there after we talked.”

He sighed. “Good. So your work is done. Right?”

I bit into a juicy slice of mango. “Right.”

* * *

Weekends are usually busy on the Key, especially on a nice day. I was riding my bike up Midnight Pass, and I thought to myself, It’s not just a nice day. It’s a glorious day. The sky was a deep periwinkle blue, there wasn’t a cloud in sight, and the sun felt warm and healing on my body. The road was chock-full of cars and joggers and couples on bicycles. Every twenty feet or so I passed a family or a group of kids, all draped in towels and carrying chairs and coolers to the beach.

Right before I got to the village center I took a quick detour down a side lane so I could ride by a pair of ancient magnolia trees. They’ve been there for about as long as I can remember, and I always make a point of going by them when I’m on my bike. They were in full bloom, their white cuplike blossoms tilted toward the sun. Their heady, sweet perfume was so powerful I could taste it on my tongue.

I pedaled into town and found the Bronco right where I’d left it the night before, parked just a couple of doors down from Yolanda, which was in the midst of a bustling brunch crowd. There were six or seven tables on the sidewalk outside, and I saw Alfred bringing out a tray of drinks. I indulged myself in a tiny fantasy in which Ethan and I were sitting at one of the tables sharing a frozen margarita. Something about having a margarita in the middle of the day always seems so decadent and wrong. I resolved to make that happen with Ethan as soon as possible.

I threw my bike into the back of the Bronco and headed over to Tom Hale’s condo. I knew Pete had been by there earlier and let Billy Elliot out to do his business, but I had a feeling that Billy might not have gotten a good run in—Pete’s knees aren’t what they used to be. So I thought I’d stop by and take him for a short whirl around the parking lot. Plus, I had some other business I wanted to get Tom’s help with.

The entire way over I couldn’t get Ethan out of my head. Every time I blinked I saw his deep brown eyes looking into mine, and when I gripped the steering wheel and turned the Bronco into the parking lot at Tom’s, I could feel the back of his neck in my hands. I looked at myself in the mirror as I rode up the elevator to Tom’s apartment. For somebody who’d been drunk the night before and barely slept a wink, I didn’t look too bad, if I do say so myself.

I tapped on the door and opened it a peek. “Tom?”

“I’m back here, Dixie.”

I found Tom sitting in his wheelchair at the dining table with his laptop and a stack of papers laid out in front of him. Billy Elliot came racing to the door to greet me as I came in.

Tom took off his glasses. “Hey, we missed you this morning. You know Pete stopped by already, right?”

“I know. I’m sorry, Tom. I had a busy schedule today, so I had to ask Pete to fill in for me, but I thought I’d take Billy Elliot out for a jog if that’s okay.”

“Not a problem at all. We thought maybe you were sleeping in because you had a big date last night.”

Before I could stop myself, I said, “What? Who said that?” at about the highest, shrillest level my voice is capable of.

Tom’s eyes widened. “Whoa, I was kidding there, Dixie, but looks like maybe I hit on something.”

I pulled a couple of wandering strands of hair away from my face and smoothed them over my ears. “No, not at all, I’m just surprised because … because…”

He was grinning, and I’m sure my eyes were wandering willy-nilly all over their sockets as I searched for some plausible reason to be yelling like a howler monkey.

“Okay, fine. I had a date last night. Big deal!”

He chuckled. “Hey, I’m pretty good, huh? Maybe I should be a private detective.”

I said, “Huh. Funny you should mention that, because I actually have some detective work for you. I was talking to a friend of mine, and she told me that in Spain, Kermit the Frog is known as René, but last night I was at a Spanish restaurant, and the owner told me that in Spain they call him something different.”

Tom put his glasses on and slid his laptop over. “Hmmm, let’s see.”

His fingers clicked away at the keyboard. I’ve always been resistant to computers, or anything electronic, for that matter. I think I was the last person I know to even get a cell phone. I held out for as long as I could, but eventually I realized the whole world was going to leave me in the dust if I didn’t break down and get one. I was beginning to feel that way about computers.

Tom said, “Yep, he was right. They call him Gustavo in Spain.”

“Huh.”

He scrolled through a couple more screens. “That’s funny. Why don’t they just call him Kermit?”

I shrugged. “Beats me. I guess the name Kermit doesn’t translate right in Spain for some reason.”

Billy Elliot came trotting up and dropped his leash at my feet. I think he’d had enough talk about Kermit the Frog for now. I clipped his leash on his collar while he wagged his tail like a helicopter blade.

“Alright, Mr. Elliot, let’s go out for a spin, okay?”

He wiggled his whole body with excitement, and we started for the door.

Tom was still looking at his computer screen. “Yeah, here it is. This says Kermit the Frog is called René in Guatemala.”

I slid to a stop, and Billy Elliot looked back at me.

“Huh?”

He squinted at the screen. “Yep. Guatemala. Your friend just had it mixed up. They call him René in Guatemala.”

* * *

As Billy Elliot raced around the circular driveway pulling me behind him, my thoughts raced around what Tom had just told me. Instead of feeling I knew more about Corina now, I actually felt like I knew less. I had one pretty good reason why she might lie about where she was from, but I didn’t want to admit it to myself. At least not yet. So I racked my brain trying to come up with an explanation.

Why would she lie? Spain sounds glamorous, but then so does Guatemala. Hell, I’ve never been outside Florida, so Peoria, Illinois, sounds pretty glamorous to me. Was it possible that perhaps she’d just misunderstood what we were talking about? Maybe she was just struggling with the language?

No. I knew I was only fooling myself, and the sooner I owned up to it the better.

The question to ask was: What next? I wasn’t completely sure, but I knew I needed to get over to Joyce’s and talk to her as soon as possible.

As usual, Billy Elliot and I rode up in the elevator panting like two rabid hyenas. I gave him a pat on the rump and told him he was a good boy, then hung his leash up in the hallway and called out to Tom.

“Thanks for the research, Tom! See you later.”

He said, “Hey, hold on a minute. You never told me about your hot date last night.”

As I closed the door I called out, “I know!”

* * *

I raced over to Joyce’s house, trying to figure out what my game plan was. I figured she’d be upset when I told her what I thought. She and Henry the VIII had a nice life they’d set up for themselves, but I knew having Corina and the baby in the house had given their little family a much-needed jolt of excitement. Plus, I think she enjoyed having the feeling that there were people at home who needed her.

I slowed down again as I approached the place in the park where we first saw Corina. Just as I passed, a homeless man in a filthy yellow tank top and dirty white shorts stepped out of the bushes. His skin was tanned dark brown, but his face and neck had the shiny red flush of an alcoholic. He had a red bandanna tied around his head to hold his scraggly, sun-bleached hair back, and he was carrying several overstuffed garbage bags and a milk carton. He waved as I went by, and I sheepishly waved back.

As I pulled into the driveway, Joyce was unloading groceries out of the backseat of her station wagon.

She waved as I got out of the Bronco and walked over. “Whew! Perfect timing! You can help me carry all this stuff in.”

Her backseat was filled with packs of bottled water and groceries, and there was a big fat watermelon strapped into the baby chair.

I said, “Joyce. Before we go in, there’s something we need to talk about. Is Corina here?”

“Sure. She’s taking a nap with Dixie Joyce. What’s the matter?”

“Good. I need to tell you something about her, and I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

She frowned and set the bag of groceries she was holding down on the hood of the car. “Hmm, that doesn’t sound good.”

“Well, I could be wrong—but it’s something we have to consider.”

She leaned against the car and folded her arms. “I think I know what you’re going to say.”

“You do?”

She nodded. “Is it about the bird?”

“Yeah.”

“You think Corina was going to sell it.”

I nodded. “Joyce, I think she lied when she said she was from Spain, and she may be poor, but I don’t think she’s homeless. You said that bird was from Guatemala, right?”

She nodded sadly.

“Well, my friend Tom looked it up—Kermit the Frog isn’t called René in Spain, he’s called Gustavo.”

Joyce looked down and shook her head. “Oh Lord.”

“I know. And guess what he’s called in Guatemala.”

She nodded. “I think I knew all along and I just didn’t want to think about it. She was on pins and needles the whole time that bird was at the vet’s, and if you’d seen how quickly he took to her … it was like he’d known her all his life.”

“I think maybe he has known her all his life. Poachers steal eggs from nests in the wild and then sell them for a profit to people like Corina, who hatch the eggs and raise them by hand. The more exotic and rare the bird, the more it’s worth. So Corina smuggles some birds out of Guatemala, sells them to a dealer here in Florida, and that dealer turns around and sells them to collectors and exotic pet stores for a handsome profit. Pound for pound, a bird like René is probably worth more than cocaine, gold, or even diamonds. On the black market, he could easily go for thirty or forty thousand dollars, possibly more.”

“So that explains the cash in her purse.”

“Yeah. She had probably already sold one bird, and I think she was on her way to deliver René to another dealer that morning we found her, but then there was a little snag in her plans. Remember the doctor said she was at least a month premature?”

Joyce shook her head again. “She probably thought she’d be back home in Guatemala by the time she had the baby.”

“Yeah, and with enough money stashed away to raise her right.”

She smiled wanly. “I think maybe we just figured out why they call it a nest egg.”