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Authors: Blaize Clement

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BOOK: Duplicity Dogged the Dachshund
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If Judy were a dog, she’d be a beagle. She’s neat and compact, with golden-brown hair, hazel eyes, and a scattering of gold freckles over her nose. She works efficiently and cheerfully, and she’s ever ready to yap and take off after something that catches her fancy. Unfortunately, she has always gone after the wrong game, because they’ve all turned out to be sorry sons-of-bitches who didn’t appreciate her intelligence or her smart mouth.
She said, “Lord, girl, you’re red as a beet! You been standing in the sun?”
“Now and then.”
“How come?”
I took a deep breath, dreading what she would say when I told her. “A dog I was walking this morning found a dead body, and I was there when they uncovered it.”
Judy frowned and squinted at me, her eyes taking on a suspicious look.
“Terrific. You found another dead body.”
“I didn’t find it, a dog found it. I had to call nine-one-one and hang around until they uncovered it.”
“I hope this time you’ll stay out of it and let the cops handle it.”
“Of course I’m staying out of it!”
“Uh-hunh.”
Tanisha rang the bell to signal that my food was ready, and Judy went off to get it. On her way back, she picked up a
Herald-Tribune
somebody had left on a table and put it down with my food.
“Here, read the paper and get your mind off that dead body.”
She splashed more coffee in my mug and left me to mutter sweet nothings to my biscuit. I didn’t look at the paper until I’d eaten every last morsel and Judy had filled my mug two more times. Then I skimmed the front page, where some old men in Washington had sent a company of young troops off to die for some ill-defined reason, turned to the inside pages where some old men from other countries had sent their young people off to fight for equally ill-defined reasons, and finally got to the comics, which is about the only thing that makes any sense. If I ran the world—and God knows I could do a better job of it than the yahoos doing it now—any leader who sent troops off to fight would have to march at the head of the ranks. That would bring about world peace in about four weeks.
After the comics, I turned the page and started to fold the paper for the next person to read. A photograph stopped me. It was a picture of Conrad Ferrelli and a man I recognized as Ethan Crane, an attorney I’d had some dealings with regarding a cat’s estate. An accompanying article said Ethan Crane headed the board of directors of a new foundation funded by the Ferrelli Charitable Trust. Part of a drive to restore Sarasota’s long association with the circus, the foundation’s purpose was to create a retirement home for people who had dedicated a major portion of their professional lives to the circus.
Crane was quoted as saying, “It will be patterned after the Lillian Booth Actors’ Home, but we’ll begin on a smaller scale.” Those who could pay would be charged according to their income. Those who couldn’t pay would receive the same high standard of housing and assistance. Conrad was quoted too. “Circus people spend their lives
giving laughter and cheer to the world. Their last walkabout should be in comfort and dignity.”
I folded the paper around the article so it would tear more cleanly and was ripping it out when Judy came with my check.
“Why’re you vandalizing our communal paper?”
“It’s after eleven. It’s only vandalism if it’s before ten.”
“Uh-hunh. Say, who was that dead body?”
I held up the scrap of paper I’d torn out. “Conrad Ferrelli.”
“That rich guy?”
“That’s the one.”
“So what’re you going to do, put the picture in your dog scrapbook?”
Somebody at the booth in front of me asked her for more coffee, and she turned to pour it while I sat with my lips bunched together and feeling like an idiot. I didn’t have a single good reason for keeping that picture. I wadded it up into a little ball, dropped it in my plate, and covered it with my napkin. I wondered if I had become somebody whose life was so empty that I might start collecting photographs of my rich clients. It was a depressing thought.
Judy stepped back to me. “You reckon the wife killed him?”
“Why do you think that?”
“It’s always the wife that kills rich guys. Or the butler.”
“They don’t have a butler, and Mrs. Ferrelli is a nice woman. But I’m sure the detective will question her.”
“That hunky detective?”
I took out bills and put them on the check. “He’s not hunky.”
She scooped up the money and stuck it in her pocket. “Oh, yeah, he’s hunky all right.”
I slid out of the booth and grabbed my backpack. “I’ve got to go take care of a lovebird. See you later.”
She was busy gathering up my dirty dishes and only grunted good-bye. She knew she’d see me later. I’m dependable like that.
W
hen my grandfather was a young man, he traveled through Florida on business and stumbled on Siesta Key. He spent a week here, and before he left he’d bought a piece of land on the edge of the Gulf. My grandmother was flabbergasted that he’d put them in debt for a thousand dollars for land that wouldn’t even grow tomatoes, but he persuaded her to bundle up my two-year-old mother and come see the key for herself. They arrived just as the sun was setting. My grandmother stood on the dazzling white beach and watched openmouthed as a molten gold sun quivered itself into the water while banners of iridescent rose and turquoise and lavender streamed in the sky.
“I’m never leaving here,” she said, and she didn’t.
My mother was probably looking the other way, because she left as soon as she got the chance. My brother and I are like our grandparents. We’re never leaving either.
I live in an apartment above a four-slot carport next to the frame house where Michael and I lived with our grandparents. I moved here after the earth cracked in my world and left me standing beside a jagged fissure that threatened to suck me in. Michael and his partner, Paco, live in the house, and except for a remodeled kitchen, they’ve left it pretty much the way it was. With Michael and Paco to remind me that I am loved, and the continuous roll of the surf to remind me that life never stops, I have survived the last few years. Barely.
A wide covered porch runs the length of my apartment, with a hammock strung in one corner and a table for eating and watching the waves break on the beach. French doors open into a small living room with a sofa and chair. A oneperson breakfast bar separates the living room from a galley kitchen. My bedroom is just big enough for a single bed and a dresser. The bathroom is cramped too, but there’s an alcove in the hall for a washer and dryer, and I have a big walk-in closet. I put a desk in one side of it, and that’s where I take care of my pet-sitting business. The whole place has Mexican tiled floors and oyster-white walls. I wouldn’t call it spartan exactly, but it’s definitely no-frills.
It was nearing noon when I drove home down the twisting tree-lined lane. All the cars were gone from the carport, and only a few foolhardy seagulls wheeled in the blazing sunlight. The undulating sea glinted diamonds, and down on the beach wavelets slapped the white sand and stained it beige. I unlocked the French doors and went inside just long enough to go to the bathroom and wash my face. Then I came back out and dropped my weary self into the hammock in the shady corner of the porch. I’d been up since 4 A.M., and I was bushed. I fell asleep in seconds, rousing once to the sound of Michael and Paco’s laughter downstairs and then falling even deeper asleep knowing they were home. I always instinctively relax when I know they’re home, not even aware until then that I’ve been tense. That’s how dependent I am on them. I hate to admit it, but it’s true.
Michael is thirty-four, two years older than me, and he looks like the golden genie that would pop out of a magic lantern in an Arabian desert. He’s a firefighter, like our father and his father before him, and he is probably the best human being in the world. Paco is also thirty-four, and he looks like the camel driver who would find the magic lantern. Slim, dark, and elusive, Paco is with the Sarasota County Special Investigative Bureau, which means he does stings, drug busts, and other undercover stuff, frequently in disguises so good he could pass right by me and I wouldn’t
know him. Both Michael and Paco are so good-looking that women tend to consider hanging themselves when they learn they’re a unit, but they’ve been together twelve years and counting, which makes Paco my other brother. They’re my best friends in all the world. They protect me, they feed me, they keep me sane. Mostly.
I slept until almost two o’clock, and woke up feeling rested, hot, and thirsty. I went inside and got a bottle of water from the refrigerator and drank it as I went down the hall to my office-closet to check phone messages. There were several. You’d think my business would fall off in the summer when all the seasonals leave, but it actually gets busier. Snowbirds usually stay put when they get here, so they don’t need anybody to take care of their pets. Yearrounders, on the other hand, go traveling in the summer and leave their pets at home. I returned the calls, turned down a couple of jobs on the mainland because I work strictly on the key, gave two people my rates, scheduled a job for the following weekend with a pair of Persians, and made arrangements to go meet a couple of Lhasa apsos and get their information.
I take my pet-sitting business as seriously as I did being a deputy. In a way, the jobs are a lot alike. Whether you’re taking care of pets or enforcing the law, you’ve been entrusted with lives, and I treat that with a lot of respect. I belong to a professional association of pet-sitters that has a code of ethics as strong as the AMA’s. I’m bonded, licensed, and insured. When I take on a pet-sitting job, my clients sign an agreement detailing what they expect of me and what they agree in return. I get their vet’s name and number, any medical conditions the pet has, along with medications or vitamins or special treatments needed. I get a complete history of illnesses, injuries, and allergies. If the client has a trusted relative or friend, I get the name and number to call in an emergency. I find out the pet’s favorite foods, favorite toys, favorite games, even their favorite TV shows and favorite music. I have the owners show me where they keep the pet’s food, litter, leash, and grooming
equipment. In some cases, I agree to pay for any emergency medical treatment or any unexpected home repairs that may arise while the owners are away, and they reimburse me when they return. In other cases, especially with clients who know me well, they simply give me signed blank checks to use as needed. While I’m on duty, I keep meticulous records of what I did and when I did it. In other words, pet-sitting is my profession, and I treat it in a professional manner.
By the time I finished the calls, it was time to leave for my afternoon visits. I took a quick shower and put on fresh shorts, a clean T and clean white Keds, and slathered sunscreen on every inch of exposed skin. Except for our father’s black eyelashes, Michael and I inherited our mother’s blond coloring, so I fry after just a few minutes of sun. I grabbed my backpack, detouring through the kitchen on the way out to search for a banana or an apple. Except for breakfast an eternity ago, I hadn’t eaten all day, and hunger was sucking in my stomach. My kitchen was like Mother Hubbard’s cupboard. No cheese, no apples, not even a limp stalk of celery. All I found was a mostly empty package of whole almonds. I grabbed it and told my stomach I would give it dinner later.
By the time I was at the foot of the stairs, the almonds were all gone. I tossed the empty bag in the trash can and got in my hot Bronco. I really needed to go grocery shopping. I really needed to get my life organized. I really needed to get a life. There was fresh egret and gull poop on the hood of the Bronco. I needed to wash my car too. Jesus, if I did all the things I needed to do, I wouldn’t have time for any of the things I
had
to do.
During the summer, afternoon rain clouds start scudding in from the Gulf around four o’clock. Like free-wheeling blue aardvarks, they rumble and flick lightning tongues at golfers and swimmers and tennis players, indiscriminately loosing showers here and there to cool the air and make the foliage smile. To avoid mildew or getting struck by lightning, I try to walk all my dogs before the
rains start. Then I repeat everything I’ve done in the morning except for grooming. Mornings are for grooming and walking and playing and feeding. Afternoons are only for walking and playing and feeding. Either way, I spend the same amount of time, about thirty minutes, at each house.
Morning or afternoon, my first stop is always at the Sea Breeze, a big pink gulfside condo where Billy Elliot lives. Billy Elliot is a greyhound that Tom Hale rescued from the fate that befalls dogs who don’t win enough races. Tom’s a CPA who has been in a wheelchair since a wall of lumber fell on him at a home-improvement store. Tom and I trade services. He handles my taxes and anything having to do with money, and I go by twice a day and run with Billy Elliot.
When I got there, Tom yelled at me to come sign some papers. I went in the kitchen where he works at a center table. Tom has a thick mop of curly black hair, round black eyes behind round rimless glasses, and a plump middle. He looks like the Pillsbury Doughboy, except cuter.
He said, “Sign this form for the state, and this one for the federal government.”
I signed on the lines where he pointed, and he leaned back in his wheelchair and glared at me.
“Dixie, don’t ever sign anything without reading it.”
“I wouldn’t know what I was reading anyway, and I trust you.”
“Never trust anybody with your money.”
“It’s not my money. It’s a cat’s money. You promised me you would take care of it, and that’s all I need to know.”
He sighed. “How is the cat, by the way?”
“We should have that cat’s life. He lives with people who spoil him rotten. He eats, he sleeps, he plays a little, he eats, he sleeps.”
Tom grinned. “He’s a damn rich cat. I’ve made a report for you, all the investments the cat has made, all his profits and expenses. Take it home with you for bedtime reading. I mean it, Dixie. I know you trust me, and I appreciate that, but you need to know what’s going on. Too many people
are too trusting when it comes to money, and I’m beginning to think half of the suckers live in Florida. I guess it’s because we’ve got so many old people.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “That’s a little ageist, don’t you think?”
“Probably, but I’ve spent all week trying to help a sweet trusting great-grandmother who’s a victim of identity theft. Somebody cleaned out her savings account and ruined her credit. I suspect she signed things she didn’t read or gave out information just because somebody asked for it.”
I stood up and grabbed the folder. “I don’t do that.”
“Good. Read those reports.”
I promised I would, but we both knew I wouldn’t. Sometimes you just have to trust people.
It was close to seven when I neared Secret Cove. The box of free kittens had been removed. Either they’d all been taken by kind Samaritans, or they’d all fried in the heat. At Mame’s house, she was waiting behind the glass by the front door with the leash in her mouth and a determined gleam in her eye. I thought that was a good sign. She was old, but she had purpose, and when you really get down to it, that’s the only thing that makes life worth living for any of us.
I hugged her hello and ignored the disappointed look she gave me when I put the leash back in the basket by the door. No way was I going to walk down that lane again today. Sheriff’s cars were still at the crime scene, and I knew that’s where Mame would want to go. I did a quick walkthrough to make sure she hadn’t had any accidents or done anything naughty. In Judge Powell’s study, the rug beside his desk had two small wet spots on it. I poured club soda on the spots and blotted them dry.
Mame came and watched.
I said, “So your bladder isn’t what it used to be. Whose is?”
She yawned and flapped her long ears as if the subject didn’t even merit conversation.
When I took her out to the lanai for a sedate game of
fetch-the-ball, she played, but I could tell she had hoped to go chew on the finger again. At around seven-thirty, I changed the TV channel—Mame liked variety—set the timed nightlight, and kissed her good-bye.
At the Ferrellis’ house, the driveway was filled with cars. I parked in the street and went to the front door and rang the bell. A flint-faced woman with black hair cut in an angled bob answered the door with a lit cigarette in her hand. She gave me a snooty glare.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m Dixie Hemingway. Mrs. Ferrelli asked me to come by tonight.”
She looked as if she didn’t believe me, and turned to yell into the living room. “Stevie, did you ask somebody named Hemingway to come by?”
Instead of answering, Stevie came down the hall. “For God’s sake, Marian, let her in!”
The woman shrugged and stepped aside, giving my rumpled shorts and T scathing looks as I went by.
Stevie said, “I’m sorry, Dixie. Things are a little bit out of control.”
I said, “If I’m in the way—”
“Oh, no. God, no. You’re probably the only person who
isn’t
in the way.”
She followed me across the living room, which was filled with people chatting and smoking and drinking cocktails. They stopped talking when they saw me, staring as if I were an alien who had just flown in.
As we left the room for the kitchen, I heard the woman who’d answered the door say, “Stevie insisted on her coming in. Don’t ask me why. You know how Stevie is.”
In the kitchen, Reggie was lying on the floor in front of the sink, sprawled on the tile as if he were cooling his belly. I knelt to feel his black nose and touch him all over again, searching for bumps or painful places. He was okay, just not frisky. Like Mame, he was dealing with the trauma of the morning in his own way.
I got his leash from its place in the pantry and took him
out the back way, through the laundry room and breezeway and carport. I didn’t want Reggie to go near the place where Conrad had been killed, so we walked north, toward the place where the street loops. Lights were on in the houses we passed, but they were like the lights at Mame’s house—on timers to fool would-be burglars into thinking the owners hadn’t left town.
BOOK: Duplicity Dogged the Dachshund
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