The Cat Sitter's Whiskers

3

I could hear a faint ringing in the distance, sort of like a church bell, and the first thing I saw was Barney Feldman’s big fluffy face looming over me. I was lying flat on my stomach with my head turned to the side and my cheek smashed into the floor, and Barney was gazing at me with a slightly worried expression. He seemed to be saying, It’s a good thing you woke up because I have no idea how to use the phone.

My whole head was throbbing, and when I tried to roll over to my side a blistering pain went bouncing through my skull and right down my spine, all the way to the soles of my feet. I let out a low moan, which apparently Barney took to mean everything was fine now, because he licked one black paw and drew it daintily across his long whiskers.

I did a quick inventory up and down my body. My clothes were on, which is always a good thing, and I didn’t see blood anywhere, which is also a good thing, and except for the throbbing pain in my head and a vague ringing in my ears everything seemed okay.

I rolled over on my back and then slowly sat up on my elbows, trying as hard as I could to ignore the pain as I waited for my blurry eyes to focus. There was a shaft of sunlight streaming in through the window illuminating tiny specks of dust floating in the air, and I tried to decipher by the sun’s angle what time it was … until I remembered my cell phone in my back pocket. I pulled it out and looked at the screen.

It was 6:30, which meant I must have been out cold for at least a half hour. I was about to close the phone and lay it on the floor next to me when I noticed something else on the screen. There was one missed call and a new voice mail: It was from Mrs. Keller.

I almost laughed out loud at the irony of it. While I was lying there knocked out cold on the floor of her laundry room, she had left a message. I wondered if she’d called to ask me to mail that box in the foyer, or maybe to warn me about statue-wielding, mask-wearing degenerates sneaking around inside her house looking for unsuspecting cat sitters.

I had a view through the laundry room into the kitchen, which opened up into the living room beyond, and at first everything seemed perfectly normal, but then the gauzy curtains behind the couch billowed out slightly and I realized with a jolt that the folding glass doors leading to the back garden were standing wide open. In front of the couch was a marble-topped coffee table, and when I saw what was sitting on top of it, I froze.

There were two tapered candles. One red, the other black, and they were both lit. Their yellow-white flames were flickering gently in the breeze from the open doors.

I flipped my phone open and punched in the numbers as fast as I could.

“911. What is your emergency?”

I whispered, “This is Dixie Hemingway, I have a code 11-99. Somebody just hit me over the head with a statue and I think it’s possible they’re still in the house.”

The operator’s voice was thin and nasal. He said, “They hit you with a statue?”

“Yeah, a little statue made of stone or marble or something.”

“Are you bleeding?”

“No, but it knocked me out and I just woke up.”

“What’s your location, ma’am?”

“I’m … in the laundry room.”

“Okay … I’m showing an address of 22 Island Circle, is that correct?”

Close enough, I thought. “Yes, that’s it.”

“Are you able to get out of the house safely?”

I looked around for Barney but he had disappeared. “Um, I don’t know.”

“I’m sending help now. Stay where you are.”

I slid my hand down my hip and felt for my holster. “Okay. I’ll search the house.”

His voice rose. “Excuse me? No, you need to stay right where you are. You need to—”

I interrupted as I felt my fingers close around the handle of my pistol. “It’s okay, I’m a sheriff’s dep—”

But before I could finish I looked down at my hand. I was holding my little flashlight out in front of me, absentmindedly fluttering my thumb around its base looking for the safety release.

The operator’s voice cut through. “Ma’am? You need to stay put, do you hear me?”

Just then the room started spinning.

“Yeah,” I whispered as I let my head touch the floor with a gentle thud. “I hear you.”

* * *

I’m not completely sure how long I lay there before they arrived, but it felt like an eternity. I spent the entire time straining to hear any sounds from inside the house, which wasn’t easy since the ringing in my ears wouldn’t stop and I felt like I’d been injected with a dose of morphine big enough to take down the Jolly Green Giant. There were literally waves of sleepiness washing over me.

I tried not to think about the fact that I’d just mistaken my flashlight for a pistol, or that I even thought I was carrying a pistol in the first place. Instead, I concentrated on what I’d learned in law enforcement training about concussions and ran down the symptoms: Trauma to the head? Yep. Extreme Lethargy? Yep. Mental confusion? Well, I’d come back to that one, but it wasn’t looking good.

I closed my eyes and sighed.

It was bad enough some low-life punk had snuck up on me, and worse still that he’d hammered me to the ground with a big-bosomed Buddha, or that he’d taken the time to light a couple of candles, which was super creepy, but the worst part was the possibility that he might still be lurking around inside the house somewhere. You’d think the thought of that would have sent me into a total panic, but it didn’t. I just kept telling myself everything would be fine as long as I stayed calm and alert.

Barney Feldman had taken up his post again, purring loudly and watching over me with a serene expression on his face. That made me feel better, too. I figured if there actually was somebody in the house Barney wouldn’t have been so relaxed. Just as I was congratulating myself for staying awake in spite of the overwhelming urge to sleep, I felt something press my hand gently. I opened my eyes to find, not Barney Feldman looking down at me, but Deputy Jesse Morgan. He was kneeling at my side.

“Dixie? You okay?”

I thought for a moment. I’ve known Morgan for years. He’s one of the Key’s few sworn deputies, which basically means he’s licensed to carry a gun. He’s about as fun as a barrel of monkeys, minus the monkeys, but he’s tall and lean, with sharp cheekbones, broad shoulders, and a buzzed, military-style haircut—exactly the type of guy you want around if there’s any trouble.

I said, “I’m fine … sort of.”

“You’ve got a pretty good bump there.”

I reached up and ran my fingers through my hair. There was a tender bulge the size of a small plum on the very top of my head.

I said, “Yeah, I was here taking care of the Kellers’ cat, and somebody snuck up and hit me.”

He frowned. “Somebody hit you?”

“Yeah, with a statue. It was a fat bald woman, and her toes were painted red.”

He raised an eyebrow. “A fat, bald woman with red toes hit you?”

Morgan’s not the brightest bulb in the box. I shook my head. “No, the statue. Dick Cheney hit me.”

He squinted his eyes and nodded. “Uh-huh.”

“He was about my height, more or less, and dressed head to toe in black.”

“Dick Cheney.”

“Yeah, one of the masks … he had one of the masks on. And I left the front door unlocked, so I don’t know if he was already here or if he snuck in after me.”

He nodded. “Okay, I think we better get you to a hospital.”

“No!”

I pushed over to my side and tried to stand up, but Morgan held me there. “Whoa, slow down now, little lady, let’s call an ambulance first.”

I decided to ignore the “little lady” comment and suppressed the desire to sock him in his little man parts. I said, “No. No way. I am not going to the hospital. And we need to make sure he’s not still hiding in the house somewhere!”

Morgan put his hands on both my shoulders and looked me squarely in the eye. “Dixie. You’ve got a concussion. Believe it or not, the first thing we did was search the house. There’s nobody here.”

I squeezed my eyes shut a couple of times and then nodded. “Okay, good. But I don’t have a concussion, so no hospital.”

“I’m pretty sure you do, and anyway that’s my call, not yours.”

“Believe me, I’d know if I had a concussion, and I don’t.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You told the 911 operator you’re a sheriff’s deputy.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yeah. You did.”

I didn’t remember doing that, but then again, I didn’t remember not doing it, either. I shook my head slowly. “No. She must have heard me wrong.”

“You mean he?”

“Yeah. He. Whatever.”

Morgan’s sharp features seemed to soften and he tilted his head to one side, the way you might do if you were trying to soothe a small child. “Dixie … you reported an 11-99.”

That stopped me. 11-99 is scanner code for “Officer Needs Assistance.” I didn’t remember saying that, either, but I tried to shrug it off. I said, “Well, what was I supposed to say? There’s no scanner code for ‘Cat Sitter Needs Assistance.’”

Just then, Deputy Beane appeared in the doorway to the laundry room. I probably wouldn’t have recognized her but I remembered her hair—straight and jet-black, cut in a short bob that framed her face like a helmet. We had met before.

Morgan looked up at her and said, “Anything?”

She shook her head. “No. And I talked to a couple of neighbors. Nothing.”

“Okay,” Morgan said. “Dixie, I believe you know Deputy Beane.”

She nodded at me. “Hi. You all right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

Morgan said, “Dixie was just filling me in on all the details. Seems she reported an 11-99 because a fat, bald, naked woman with red toes broke in and hit her over the head with a statue.”

I started to interject but he held up one finger. “Oh sorry, no, I got that wrong. It was Dick Cheney. Dick Cheney broke in and hit her on the head with a statue. He was wearing a mask, and he had red toes. I forget, was he naked, too?”

Beane’s eyes widened as she looked at me expectantly. I couldn’t tell if she was thinking I needed immediate medical attention, or if she was waiting to find out if Dick Cheney had been naked, too.

I sighed. “No, he was not naked. And it wasn’t actually Dick Cheney. He was wearing one of Mrs. Keller’s masks that reminds me of Dick Cheney, so that’s what I call it. And he hit me with this little statue that had red toes.”

They both just stared at me with blank expressions.

“I know it sounds crazy, but I’m telling you the truth. I admit I must have been a little loopy when I called 911, but if I had a concussion, would I be sitting here talking to you like a normal person?”

Morgan’s eyes narrowed a bit. “I’m not so sure you are, but let’s try this. What’s your name?”

“Huh?”

“You heard me, what’s your name?”

“Oh, give me a break. You know exactly who I am.”

His expression didn’t change. “What is your name?”

I knew what he was up to. A person with a concussion can seem perfectly normal on the outside, while on the inside circuits can be overloading and burning out and blood can be pooling up in all corners of the brain and then before you know it you’re a vegetable. One way to determine if someone’s had a concussion is if they have trouble answering basic questions.

“I’m waiting.”

I sighed. “All right. My name is Dixie Hemingway.”

“And where are you?”

“I already went over this with 911. I’m in the laundry room.”

“Funny. I mean what town are you in?”

I blinked. “Oh. I’m in Siesta Key.”

“What state?”

“Florida.”

“Who’s house is this?”

“Buster and Linda Keller’s.”

He nodded. “Okay. So far, so good. What’s one hundred minus thirty-seven?”

My eyes glazed over. Math is not exactly my best subject. I can barely balance a checkbook.

I said, “Uh…”

Morgan stood up. “Yeah, we’re calling an ambulance.”

“Wait a minute, I got this … seventy-three?”

He nodded at Beane, “Go ahead and call Dispatch while I start a report.”

She pulled her radio out of its holster while I swiped at Morgan’s ankles, feeling like Barney Feldman under the hall credenza. “Sixty-three! Sixty-three!”

Morgan looked down and sighed. “Dixie, are you sure you’re okay?”

I looked around and thought for a second. I had mistaken my flashlight for a pistol, I’d told the 911 operator I was a sheriff’s deputy, my head was throbbing, the room was rotating slightly, and there was a distant ringing in my ears that sounded a little bit like the coronation bells at a royal wedding.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m totally fine, and I promise if I notice anything weird I’ll go straight to the doctor.”

He shook his head slightly. “Okay. I don’t like it, but I guess I’ll just have to trust you on this one.”

I held out my arms. “I could use a little help getting up, though.”

Beane stepped in and they both pulled me to my feet and stood on either side while the blood rushed back into my legs.

He said, “You good?”

I gave him a nod and a smile. “I’m good.”

“Okay, let’s have a look around and see if you notice anything out of place.”

I steadied myself with one hand on his shoulder. “Well, I can tell you right off the bat, those candles in the living room … they weren’t there before.”

Morgan glanced at Beane and then frowned. “What candles?”