Curiosity Killed the Cat Sitter (14 page)

As I went around the end of the diner’s counter, I glanced toward the empty stool where Dr. Coffey had been sitting when I talked to him. Suddenly, a piece of our conversation fell into my brain as if it had been poised above my head, just waiting for me to return to the scene. I had said, “My client left town and didn’t leave a number where she could be reached.” I had said, “I was thinking you might have some idea where she might have gone. Like where her business takes her, or where her family lives.”

When he jumped up and threatened to have me arrested, I had assumed he was jumpy about the possibility of getting involved in a murder investigation. But I hadn’t mentioned a murder, and I had never used Marilee’s name. All I’d said was that I was a pet-sitter. Surely Marilee Doerring wasn’t the only woman he knew who owned a pet. I wasn’t even sure the news of the murder had been on the news yet, and even if it had been, how could he have been so sure that’s what I was talking about?

My hand was reaching for my cell to call Guidry and tell him all my brilliant deductions, when I caught sight of the wall clock behind the counter and changed my mind. I was over an hour late with my pet visits, and if I didn’t get my mind back on my own business, I could lose it.

Like a robot on bunny batteries, I got in the Bronco
and started my afternoon rounds, apologizing to each cat for being late and promising to make it up to them later. I left Billy Elliot’s run for last, rapping on Tom’s door to alert him that I was there and then using my key. Just as I stepped inside, a loud TV voice said my name. Tom and Billy Elliot were parked in front of the TV, and Carl Winnick’s infuriated face filled the screen.

“The woman has a key to the house where at least one of these murders took place, and possibly both of them. She has a history of emotional instability that caused the Sheriff’s Department to dismiss her, and is clearly the most obvious suspect. Yet the Sheriff’s Department has not arrested her, and I want to know why.”

Both Tom and Billy Elliot felt me behind them at the same moment and swung their heads. Tom grabbed his remote and clicked off the TV.

“Shit, Dixie, I didn’t know you were here. I’m sorry you heard that.”

I wasn’t sure my voice would work, but it did, even though it came out a rusty croak. “Tom, do you believe what he said?”

“Good God, Dixie, of course I don’t. Carl Winnick is an officious, self-righteous idiot.”

“Then why were you watching his show?”

“That wasn’t his show. That was the evening news with a clip of what Winnick is saying on his show.”

My knees bent like Silly Putty. I sank onto a chair and stared at Tom. “So it’s not just Dr. Win’s usual fans who got that?”

“Don’t let it get to you, Dixie.”

I stared at him. Why did everybody keep telling me not to let it get to me? How could I not let it get to me that a talk-show celebrity was getting airtime to accuse me of murder?

He said, “Have the reporters found you yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Would you like to hide out here until this blows over? Billy Elliot and I would be proud to have you as our guest.”

I took a tremulous breath and stood up. “Thanks, Tom. I appreciate the offer and the vote of confidence, but I’m not going to hide.”

“Well, if you decide to just lay low for a while—”

“Okay.”

I got Billy Elliot’s leash and he and I went downstairs and ran as if it were a normal day. A casual observer wouldn’t have known that I was beginning to be mad as hell. If Dr. Win had been there, I would have told him to kiss my big fat white ass.

It was a little after 8:30 when I got home. The sun had just set, dropping abruptly below the line of the sea as if it had been treading water and at the last minute had gone under. The sky was streaked with waving banners of cerise and turquoise and lavender, and a couple of brave stars were showing their faces. On the beach, the tide was spreading lacy ruffles on the sand like a lone flamenco dancer entertaining herself.

Michael was on the cypress deck with the hood of the smoker open, scenting the sea air with the aroma of smoking meat. He waved a long fork at me and yelled, “You’re timing is perfect. Are you hungry?”

“Are you kidding? I’m starving.”

Gingerly, he transferred a slab of brisket from the grill to a big platter and closed the smoker. “I’ve got potato salad and beans inside,” he said.

I happily trotted ahead of him to hold open the kitchen door, then got down plates while he slid the hot brisket onto the butcher block. I opened the lid of a pot simmering on the stove and moaned like a cat in heat. Michael’s pinto beans with hot peppers and garlic and tomato are
good enough to make strong men weep with unabashed joy. I ladled some beans on each of our plates and added potato salad from a big bowl sitting on the counter. Michael’s knife made thin diagonal slices across the tender brisket and transferred them to our plates, where they oozed their succulent juices.

I set our plates on the eating side of the counter and got silverware and napkins while Michael popped us both a beer. Then we both dug in, and for a while the only sound was my little whimpers of contentment.

We didn’t talk until after we’d finished eating and got the leftovers put away. Then we took coffee out on the deck and sat in the redwood chairs our grandfather had built with his own hands—chairs so sturdy they’ll be here long after Michael and I are gone. We waited awhile, letting the sea’s breath cool our faces, before we talked.

“Dixie, I have to tell you something.”

“What?”

“Somebody was in the house today while I was gone. There were tire prints in the drive, and more prints of somebody walking across the sand to your place, then to the back door here. Whoever it was broke the lock and went inside, there were footprints all over the place. I didn’t find anything missing, but I guess something could be gone and I just don’t know what to look for. I went inside your place, and it’s the same. Nothing messed up, but sandy tracks on the floor.”

I was sitting stiffly upright with the back of my neck tingling. Michael’s house was old and the back door didn’t fit well. My French doors would be child’s play to an intruder.

“Did you call nine one one?”

A mosquito buzzed around Michael’s head, and he waved at it in the reflexive way Floridians do, not really expecting to remove it but needing to show some resis
tance so the mosquito wouldn’t think it had clear title to a particular piece of flesh.

“Yeah, they came out and dusted for prints, but I think they were just going through the motions to satisfy me.”

“You think it could have been a reporter?”

“No reporter would stoop that low. Well, they might, but I doubt it was a reporter.”

We sat silently for a few minutes. A muscle in Michael’s jaw was working, and I knew he was forcing himself to stay calm for my sake.

He said, “I had left the brisket cooking. At least the bastard didn’t take that.”

I grinned at his forced joke. “What makes you think it was a man? It could have been a woman.”

“Dixie, until they catch whoever killed those people, I want you to keep the hurricane shutters down when you’re home by yourself. There are too many crazies out there, and with that son of a bitch Win splashing your name all over the news, somebody’s liable to decide to come looking for you just for the hell of it.”

I said, “Winnick hasn’t even tried to see Phillip, and neither has his wife. He’s afraid the media will find out what happened to him and hurt his reputation. His own son! Can you believe that?”

“I can believe most anything, Dixie. But my main concern is you. I want you to stay out of all this. Don’t talk to anybody else. Don’t listen to anybody else’s sad story. Let the cops handle it by themselves.”

“I haven’t talked to anybody. Not really. Well, a little bit.”

“Just promise me you’ll back off, okay?”

“Okay. Come upstairs with me while I look around?”

He stood up and reached a hand to haul me to my feet, then put his arm around my shoulder and squeezed me to his side. “It’ll be okay, Dixie. Just be careful.”

Together, we went up the stairs to my apartment, but Michael had swept up all the sandy footprints, and nothing looked as if it had been disturbed. I stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, thanked him for dinner, and promised again that I’d stay out of the investigation.

When he left, I closed the hurricane shutters and hurried to the desk in my closet–office to see if the mail I’d taken from Marilee’s house was still in the manila folder in the top drawer. It was, and I felt a little chagrined that I’d thought somebody had been looking for it. Meaning I had a guilty conscience. Not so guilty a conscience that I was ready to tell anybody about the letters, but guilty enough to be jittery about having them.

I put the folder back in the drawer and went in my bedroom and pulled my bed away from the wall. The bed is built on a wooden frame that has two storage drawers for linens on one side, but the side against the wall has another drawer that nobody knows about. It’s not exactly a secret, it’s just that nobody has ever asked and I’ve never mentioned it. When I pulled the drawer open, its contents were exactly as they had been when I put them there three years ago.

When a deputy quits or retires from the Sheriff’s Department, she can either purchase her department-issued gun or let it go back to the department. Todd’s 9-mm Sig Sauer went back when he was killed, and mine was turned in when I went on indefinite leave of absence. But almost every deputy qualifies for two or three personal backup guns as well as a department-issue weapon. Todd’s primary personal was a Smith & Wesson .40, and mine was a.38. Both guns were fitted into a special case in the drawer on the dark side of my bed.

During the six months I trained at the Police Academy, they kept score of who put the most bullets in the head or heart region of the cardboard targets. The rule was that
out of forty-eight shots, a minimum of thirty-eight had to hit dead center. The person who most consistently hit on target got a plaque at the end of the six months. It surprised a lot of people that I got that plaque. I still have it. They called it a “marksmanship award,” but I was never able to forget that was a euphemism for “accurate killer.” Most people don’t know this, but it’s against the law for a law-enforcement officer to shoot to maim or disable. By law, an officer is obligated to shoot to “eliminate the threat”—which means to kill. People who can’t accept that shouldn’t go into law enforcement.

It had been three years since I’d handled my .38, but it felt familiar and right in my hand. I sat at my kitchen bar and took my gun apart and cleaned and oiled it. When I was done, I popped a magazine in the butt and put two extra magazines in the pocket of the cargo shorts I would wear the next day. I laid the gun on the bathroom counter while I showered and brushed my teeth. When I went to bed, I put it on the bedside table where I could get it quickly.

Somebody had already killed two people and had tried to kill a third. I didn’t intend to be next.

I drifted to sleep and dreamed that Marilee was clutching a cat exactly like Ghost to her voluptuous bosom, but his name was Phillip. She was pleading with me to save him. “You have the key, Dixie. All you have to do is use it.”

When the alarm sounded, it took me a few seconds to remember where I was. I went to the bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror. Was it possible that my dream had actually been a message? If not from Marilee’s spirit, then from my own subconscious? Crazy as it seemed, I thought it was. Somehow, I had the key to solving the murders and to fingering the person who had attacked Phillip. I just didn’t know what it was.

I brushed my teeth, splashed water on my face, and pulled my hair into a ponytail. I pulled on a knit top and the cargo shorts I’d laid out the night before, and stepped into my Keds. Holding my.38 ready, I raised the storm shutters. The porch was empty, and I slid the gun into the right pocket of my shorts, where it made a satisfying pressure on my thigh. I had no idea what I was going to meet, or if, in fact, I needed to take a gun with me, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

By 4:15, I was halfway to my first stop, and the morning went smoothly. I didn’t find a single dead body, nobody got beat up, no reporter accosted me, and none of the cats on my schedule had done anything naughty that I had to clean up.

While I fed cats and groomed cats and changed cats’ litter boxes, my mind was on the strange message I’d gotten in my dream. I take dreams seriously because they’re the only way our subconscious can communicate with us. I went over the dream again and again—Marilee holding Ghost, except it wasn’t Ghost, but a cat named Phillip. Was that because I saw Phillip as a pet? No, I really didn’t. Was it because Phillip was similar to Ghost in some way? Maybe, but how? Ghost knew who the murderer was because he had been in the house when both murders happened. Did Phillip know, too? Had he recognized the woman he’d seen that morning and wasn’t saying? What was the key that I was supposed to have to all this? A key is like a code breaker, something that unlocks secrets, but if I had such a key, I didn’t know what it was.

At Kristin Lord’s house, she greeted me coolly and left me alone while I groomed Fred. She didn’t mention anything about Dr. Win’s allegations, but I wondered if she had been on the phone trying to find another cat groomer.

Guidry called a little after nine o’clock, just as I was
leaving Kristin Lord’s house. “Can you be at the hospital in fifteen minutes? I’d like to talk to Phillip Winnick now.”

I thought about my promise to Michael to end my involvement in this case. I thought about the two cats still on my morning schedule. I thought about how Guidry seemed to think that I had nothing to do except jump when he called. For all those reasons, I knew I should say no.

I said, “Okay.”

When I got to the hospital, I stashed the gun and the spare magazines in the glove box after I parked. I stopped in the gift shop to get some reading material for Phillip, then took the elevator up to his floor. In the ICU unit, Guidry was outside Phillip’s glassed cubicle, talking to a nurse. Beyond him, I could see Phillip. He no longer had the ventilator, but his swollen face was a mass of purple bruises.

Guidry didn’t speak to me, just held his hand out and took my arm while he finished his conversation with the nurse.

He said, “Is he medicated?”

The nurse raised his eyebrows and gave Guidry a tight smile, the kind you’d give the village idiot. “Of course he’s medicated. He’s able to talk, but it will hurt. Try to keep it to a minimum.”

The nurse followed my gaze toward Phillip and shook his head. “It’s hard to take in, isn’t it? You just never dream that somebody would deliberately do this much damage to a kid.”

Guidry said, “Come on,” and gave my arm a firm tug.

Phillip’s eyes were closed, and when he heard us enter, he opened them with a hopeful look that quickly changed to polite disappointment. I felt like apologizing for not being the person he hoped to see.

I said, “Hey, Phil, good to see your eyes open. You look like hell. Blink twice if that’s how you feel.”

He managed a weak smile, winced at the pain it caused, and slowly blinked two times.

“I brought you some things to read,” I said. “But they didn’t have much of a selection. You have a choice of
Reader’s Digest
,
House & Garden
, or
Sarasota Today.
When you’ve enjoyed as much of those as you can stand, I also got you a Carl Hiaasen book.”

I was prattling to cover my dismay at how devastated he looked. Even without the ventilator down his throat, he looked pathetically vulnerable and ravaged. He closed his eyes, either from exhaustion or the effects of his medication, and I shut up. I knew he would recover from his injuries, but the sight of his sweet face so swollen and bruised made me want to go find the person who had done this to him and hurt him really, really bad.

I took one of his big hands and stroked it, wishing I could make all his pain go away just by rubbing him. The normal reaction to being beaten around the head and shoulders is to hold your hands over your head to protect your skull. I suddenly realized that Phillip must have tucked his hands under his armpits during his attack. Awed, I couldn’t even imagine the incredible willpower it had taken to protect his hands and leave his head exposed.

I said, “Phillip, I know you didn’t see the person who attacked you, but was there anything at all about the person that seemed familiar? Footsteps, scent, sound of his breathing, anything?”

His eyes opened, and for an instant the look he gave me seemed absurdly hostile, the way a drowning animal looks at its rescuers. He rolled his head side to side in slow denial, then closed his eyes again.

On the other side of the bed, Guidry cleared his throat
meaningfully, and I took my cue. “Phillip, Lieutenant Guidry wants to hear about the woman you saw leaving Marilee Doerring’s house. Just tell him about it in a few words, okay?”

He opened his eyes and gave Guidry a somber look. In a husky whisper, pausing to take shallow breaths, he said, “Black Miata came…woman got in…drove off. Top was up…couldn’t see…driver.”

Guidry said, “Was she carrying any luggage?”

Phillip’s eyes widened. “No.”

“You remember what she was wearing?”

Keeping his eyes fixed on Guidry, Phillip said, “Pants…light color.”

“High heels? Low heels?”

“High…they…made a noise.”

“What about her hair? Was it up or down?”

“Down, I think.”

“Black hair?”

“Dark.”

“You’re sure it was a Miata? Couldn’t have been an MGB or a Mercedes or a Toyota?”

“I’m sure.”

“When the car door opened, did a light come on inside?”

Phillip’s eyes grew wide again, and it seemed to me there was a flicker of fear in them. “I guess.”

“But you didn’t see the driver?”

“No.”

“Do you think you could identify the woman you saw? Would you know her if you saw her again?”

“Didn’t see her…that well.”

“Where were you when you saw her?”

Phillip cut his eyes toward me and then swung back to meet Guidry’s penetrating gaze. “My window.”

“By your window, outside your house?”

“Yes.”

“Did the woman see you?”

“I think so…she looked…over her shoulder…jerked…like she was…surprised.”

Guidry’s questions had come in rapid-fire sequence. Now he stepped back from the bed.

“Okay, Phillip, thanks. You’ve been a big help, and I won’t make you talk anymore, at least not today.”

This time, I was positive I saw fear in Phillip’s eyes.

I squeezed his hand. “You just concentrate on healing. By the time you leave for Juilliard, you’ll be fine.”

He gave me a ghost of a smile, but the fear was still in his eyes.

Guidry was quiet as we walked down the hall toward the elevator. I didn’t speak either. Something was bothering me about Phillip’s account of what he’d seen that morning. Eyewitnesses are usually uncertain about a lot of details. They change what they say from one time to another, adding some elements and altering others. Phillip hadn’t changed a thing. In fact, he had used almost the exact words that he’d used with me. That could either be because he had an unusually vivid recollection, or because he was repeating a rehearsed story.

I said, “It’s probably a guy thing, but could you tell the difference between a Miata and some other sports car in the dark?”

“Sure. Why? Do you think the kid’s lying?”

“I just wondered about the car.”

He didn’t answer me, and we got in an elevator full of people and went down without speaking again. In the lobby, he said, “Thanks, Dixie. It was easier for him with you there.”

I gave him a half wave and went through the doors to the parking lot, half relieved and half annoyed that he hadn’t mentioned the accusations Carl Winnick was making about me. The fact that he hadn’t probably meant he
hadn’t been influenced by them, which was good. But he could have spoken a word of support.

Damn, now I was wanting Guidry to prop up my ego with nice words of encouragement.

I wrenched open the Bronco, flung myself in the seat, gripped the steering wheel, and gave myself a good talking-to. Mostly, that consisted of telling myself that the last thing I needed was to start caring what some man thought about me, and to get my head out of my butt and go take care of the other cats on my schedule.

It was 11:15 by the time I groomed the last cat, and I still hadn’t checked on Cora. I was starving, but I knew I couldn’t eat until I was sure she was okay. This time, the concierge at Bayfront Village recognized me and called Cora before I got to the desk. We both waited while the phone rang, the concierge counting the rings by little nods of her head while she smiled at me and rolled her eyes toward the ceiling in a show of amused patience. When Cora answered, the concierge said, “You have a visitor down here. Shall I send her up?”

She replaced the phone and said, “She’s waiting for you.”

From the casual way she acted, I gathered that reporters covering Marilee’s murder hadn’t yet discovered that Cora was her grandmother. I took the elevator up and found Cora’s door open a crack.

I knocked and pushed the door open. “Cora?”

“I’m in here,” she called.

I followed her voice, making a right turn into a short hall that led to a large sunny bedroom. Cora was sitting upright in a bed that looked big enough to play hockey in. She wore a white pleated nightgown with a high collar and long sleeves, and her wispy white hair stuck out in all directions, like a newly hatched chick’s.

“I’m sorry, Dixie, I just don’t feel like getting up today.”

“Well, of course you don’t, Cora. Have you had anything to eat?”

“I’m not hungry, dear.”

“I know, but you should eat anyway. I’ll make you some tea.”

I didn’t give her a chance to argue, even though I remembered how she felt, throat closed tight with grief, stomach roiling in angry waves, lips compressed to keep from howling like an animal. I filled the teakettle, and while it came to a boil, I found bread and eggs in the refrigerator. I made buttered toast and a poached egg, poured a small glass of juice, and put together a breakfast tray that I carried into the bedroom.

“Oh, Dixie, honey, you didn’t need to do that. And anyway, I don’t want anything to eat.”

I poured a cup of tea and paraphrased what Judy had said to me. “Cora, if you let the slimeball who killed Marilee make you stop living, then he’s killed you, too. You need all your strength now to help put him behind bars, so eat the damned breakfast.”

Her head jerked up at me, eyes blazing, and then she suddenly laughed. “You know, you’re a lot like Marilee. She’s bossy, too. Was.”

She only picked at the egg, but she ate all the toast and drank the juice. When she was finished, I left the tea things on the tray and washed the dirty plate and glass in the kitchen.

Cora was out of bed when I went back into the bedroom, her bare toes peeking from under her nightie.

“Here,” she said, “you can have these. I was saving them to leave to Marilee, but now that she’s gone…”

She held out a pair of red glass earrings, the kind you see in a jumble of junk jewelry at a garage sale. My eyes
misted as I took them. I wouldn’t have worn them to a ratturd exhibit, but I knew they held memories that made them beautiful to her.

“Thank you, Cora. Is there anything I can do for you before I go?”

“No, dear, I’m fine. I’ll just rest for a couple of days and then I’ll be ready for whatever comes next.”

“I’ll drop by tomorrow, if that’s okay.”

“That’s fine, Dixie. You’re a sweet girl.”

I didn’t feel so sweet when I drove away. I felt pretty sour, as a matter of fact. Both Phillip and Cora, two people I had come to care about, were going to have to face harsh realities in the coming days and weeks, and it wasn’t fair.

It was noon, and I was starving. I don’t do too well without food administered prior to 10:00
A.M
., preferably with lots of black coffee. I took Tamiami Trail, passing slumbering boats in the marina and following the curve of the waterfront, where large sculptures were lined up like unexpected rib ticklers. I turned right on Osprey and took the north bridge to the key, going straight to Anna’s Deli on Ocean Drive, where you can get the best sandwiches in the world.

Halfway to the take-out counter, I realized the couple ahead of me were Dr. Coffey and a young woman with frizzy blond hair hanging halfway to her butt. Her hand was raised to fiddle with a piece of hair at the back of her head, and a diamond the size of a doggy liver treat caught the light—a reminder to the rest of us that being a rich man’s bimbo might not get much respect, but it paid well. I turned aside and pretended to study the menu on the blackboard on the side wall while Coffey paid for their sandwiches.

As they walked out, I looked over my shoulder at the woman. She turned full face toward me, and I could see
what Judy had meant about her probably being a doper. Glazed eyes with pupils expanded so wide they looked like black holes you could get sucked into, skin slightly sallow under her salon tan, a general look of being lost in some private space. Coffey didn’t see me, and he put a proprietary hand on the small of her back to propel her forward.

I went to the counter and ordered baked turkey with tarragon mayonnaise on a pumpernickel roll. “And a big dill pickle and two bags of chips,” I said.

The woman at the counter laughed, showing a row of glistening white teeth that went well with her ginger skin and hazel eyes. “You sound like you’re hungry.”

“I went past hunger a long time ago. Give me a brownie, too. A big one.”

“Coffee or tea?”

“Coffee. A triple, black.”

She walked to a butcher-block counter in the back and turned in the order to a person of indeterminate sex who had dreadlocks and wore an oversized white shirt. She came back and rang up the sale while I watched the sandwich person slather tarragon mayonnaise on two thick pumpernickel halves.

Keeping my mouth firmly under control to keep from drooling, I handed over some bills and said, “You know that couple that just left?”

“Dr. Coffey? Yeah, he comes in here every week on his day off. Always gets the same thing, ham and Swiss on rye. I don’t know how people eat the same thing all the time like that. I like a little variety in my life.”

“You know her too?”

She made a mouth and counted out my change. “Not really. Don’t want to, neither. Frankly, I don’t know what he sees in her.”

She leaned over and put her elbows on the counter,
ready to get down to the nitty-gritty. “If you ask me, she’s bad news for him. He seems like a pretty nice guy, but who wants to have a man cut open your chest and mess with your heart when he’s dumb enough to hang out with a junkie like her?”

Personally, I didn’t want anybody cutting open my chest and messing with my heart, no matter who they hung out with, but I could see her point.

I said, “That’s funny, I’ve only heard about her two times, and both times people mentioned that she was a junkie.”

“Well, you can tell just by looking at her, can’t you?”

“You don’t think he uses, too?”

“He don’t seem the type, you know? That’s why it’s so weird that he’s with her. You’d think he’d have better taste. I mean, that woman is pure trash.”

The food-prep person had my sandwich assembled and was slicing it in half. He or she then wrapped it in that gray kind of waxed paper that you never see anyplace except in a deli, giving it a neat fold to keep all the goodies inside. The sandwich went in the bottom of a paper bag, with a dill pickle the size of a man’s dick wrapped and placed on top of it. Two bags of chips went in last. I was ready to leap over the counter and snatch it up, but the counter woman must have had eyes in the back of her head, because the second a stack of napkins was thrown in and the bag was neatly folded down, she went and got it.