Even Cat Sitters Get the Blues (22 page)

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Authors: Blaize Clement

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“Did you give Kurtz the message?”
“I did. He said they worked together on a secret project for the government. They were to create a virus that would jump from animals to humans. For espionage purposes, he said. But a tsunami hit and all the researchers drowned. He thought Jessica Ballantyne drowned with them. He seemed genuinely shocked to hear she’s alive.”
“What else did he say?”
“He said the packages that Gilda took from the refrigerator were vials of antidote for whatever his condition is. But he was lying.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t know, Guidry, I can just tell when people lie. Probably because I had to know when my mother was lying when I was a kid. It’s something I developed to protect myself.”
I doubted that Guidry’s mother had ever lied to him. He probably had a perfect mother who was always there for him, a beautiful mother who let servants do all the hard work so she could be pleasantly, lovingly available to her son.
“Guidry, what about the ballistics test?”
“Inconclusive. They don’t have a bullet, they don’t have a casing. The best they can do is give an educated guess that the bullet was a thirty-eight caliber.”
I shivered. The absence of a casing could mean the killer had used a revolver or a single-shot rifle. But a thirty-eight caliber was more likely a semiautomatic
with an attached brass-catcher—the way of a hired gun. Or somebody had collected the casing and pocketed it.
“Am I still your prime suspect?”
“Dixie, I know you didn’t kill Gutierrez. Everybody except our new hotshot DA knows you didn’t kill Gutierrez. If it should go to trial, it would all be circumstantial evidence. Don’t worry about it.”
It has been my experience that when people say, “Don’t worry about it,” worrying about it is exactly what you
should
be doing.
People are convicted of murder every day on circumstantial evidence. Half the people on death row have been found guilty because of circumstantial evidence, and a lot of them are innocent. I knew that. Guidry knew that. God knew that, and unless the new DA was an imbecile, she knew that.
I said, “I’m not feeling very good, Guidry. I’m going inside.”
He stood up while I raised the shutters with the remote. I unlocked the French doors and turned to tell him good night. The next thing I knew he was enfolding me in a tight hug and I was snuggling into it like a puppy searching for a warm nipple.
Against the top of my head, he said, “I’m sorry, Dixie. You deserve a lot better than this.”
I didn’t say anything, just stood there for a long time clinging to him while my eyes leaked all over my face. Guidry took a deep breath and tilted my chin up and kissed me. A gentle, sweet kiss that made me tremble for something more, that made my lips open with an urgent hunger. He ran his hands down my back to my
butt and pulled me closer, and the kiss deepened just long enough to leave me gasping when he stopped.
“Good night, Dixie.”
He left me standing there and took the stairs two at a time. Then he got into his car and pulled out without looking back at me.
Weakly, I stepping into my living room and dropped to the sofa. My mouth still vibrated from the kiss, as if my lips had been touched with an electric charge and all the taste buds of my tongue had been inflamed. Guidry’s taste was still with me, a clean, healthy, liquid taste, a little salty, a little tart. I covered my face with both hands and let out a small moan that was half whimper of despair and half satisfaction.
I had crossed a line from which there was no turning back, and I wasn’t at all sure I knew what the hell I was going to do about it.
When the alarm went off at 4 A.M. Saturday morning, I came awake with the gluey memory that I was having supper with Ethan that night, that it would probably get sexy, and that I was still a suspect in the murder of Ramón Gutierrez. I weighed about three hundred tons as I went down the hall to the bathroom. After I’d brushed my teeth and splashed water on my face, I was almost surprised that my reflection in the mirror over the sink looked normal. I twisted my hair into a scrunchy and slogged to the office-closet to pull on underpants, shorts, and a T-shirt. Laced up clean white Keds, grabbed my shoulder bag and all my pet-sitting stuff, and squared my shoulders. Once again, ladies and gentlemen, Dixie Hemingway is going forth into the world to act the part of premier pet sitter. She may feel like shit, she may have a few loose cogs in her machinery, but by God nobody can say she doesn’t do her job!
Downstairs in the carport, a grumpy pelican on the Bronco’s hood gave me a yellow-eyed glare before he went off to find a more hospitable roosting place. If
the parakeets in the trees noticed my passing, they decided it was too early for pretend histrionics and closed their eyes again.
My brain was still too sore to try a hard run with Billy Elliot, but I looked into the parking lot as I drove past the Sea Breeze to see if he might be taking Tom’s new girlfriend for a fast-stepping walk. All I saw in the dark lot were sleeping cars. I had to fight the impulse to pull in. Billy Elliot was probably upstairs waiting for me, all nervous and twitchy, but the adolescent ER doctor had done a good job of impressing me with the fact that a concussion wasn’t something to take lightly. I’d give my brains until Monday to finish healing, and then I’d make it up to Billy Elliot with an extra-long run.
I finished the morning dog routine early and headed south to see to the cats. It was still that waking-up time of day, when the only people on the streets are dog walkers, delivery people, and a few enterprising early risers getting a head start on the day. Starbucks was doing a brisk business dispensing hot coffee to a line of caffeine-needy drivers, and I swerved into the turn-in to get my share. Next door, Dr. Phyllis Layton pulled into her empty parking lot and went inside her office. Dr. Layton is an African-American veterinarian of uncommon courtesy to her animal clients. She would never declaw a cat.
Once I’d got my cup of hot jolt juice, I pulled into Dr. Layton’s lot and parked next to her car. She was behind a holly-circled receptionist’s window when I went in, and for a second her face showed a trace of wariness at having such an early morning visitor. Then she saw it was me and smiled.
We exchanged good-mornings and I said, “I have a formerly feral cat client who hates being inside, and he’s spraying and clawing everything in sight. Do you know anybody who lives in the country and would like a good mouser? A kind family with maybe an enclosed porch where he could sleep?”
“And give him lots of affection and protect him from dogs and see that he gets his shots every year?”
“Yeah, that too.”
She laughed. “You can add him to the list.”
She handed me an index card and pointed toward a bulletin board on the waiting room wall where cards were arranged in neat rows.
I said, “I guess you get a lot of requests like this.”
“I do, but the surprising thing is that people read those cards and take in pets that need new homes. Pet lovers are generous.”
I wrote the particulars of Muddy, stressing that he was a nice cat, he just didn’t like being cooped up in a house, and gave my number to call.
I said, “Muddy can get cantankerous. What if somebody takes him and it doesn’t work out?”
“Then they’ll bring him back. A couple of days ago a woman took a miniature bulldog who’d been orphaned when his owner died. He was such a sweet little guy that I’d put a FREE TO GOOD HOME notice out front. She came in late in the afternoon, acted like she loved him, and took him home with her. Brought him back the very next morning. Didn’t even keep him twenty-four hours! Said, being Irish, she hadn’t felt right with such a wee dog. Took me a minute to get what
wee
meant. I
don’t think it was because she was Irish, I think she just changed her mind.”
My head felt as if it needed air holes drilled in it to keep my brains from expanding wider than my skull. I think rage does that to a brain—makes it heat up and swell. I knew before I asked the question what the answer would be.
“Was she a tall dark-haired woman?”
“You know her?”
“I met a woman like that Tuesday morning with a miniature bulldog.”
“Well, I found another home for the wee dog, so it worked out okay.”
I pinned Muddy’s card to Dr. Layton’s board and left her going through pet files.
My cell rang, and I barked “Hello!” without looking at the ID tag.
Mildly, Guidry said, “You get up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?”
“I just found out who the Irishman was who called me. It was Jessica Ballantyne faking an Irish accent.”
“My, my, imagine that. One would almost think she wasn’t an open and aboveboard person.”
I made mocking faces at the phone. “Did you call me because you felt like being an ass, or was there some other reason?”
“We got a call from a neighbor of Kurtz’s last night. He heard gunshots he thought came from Kurtz’s house and wanted us to investigate. The officers who went out found Kurtz in the driveway. He’d been chasing an intruder and collapsed out there.”
“Ken Kurtz was chasing somebody?”
“Probably more like inching along wanting to chase somebody, but he did shoot at somebody. Or at least that’s what he claimed. He said he heard a rumbling noise during the night that he recognized as the sound of one of his garage doors going up. He got up to investigate and saw a man in the courtyard carrying his iguana. The iguana was fighting pretty hard, I guess, because the guy was having trouble holding him. Kurtz fired a shot in the air and the guy dropped the iguana and ran through a garage to the driveway. Kurtz tried to follow him and collapsed. The deputy helped him back to bed and secured the garage. He looked around, but he didn’t see any intruder or evidence of one. Do you think Kurtz hallucinates?”
My heart was racing and I could feel my face growing hot.
I said, “The yard people go through the last garage to get to the courtyard. There’s a storage room in it with an access door to the courtyard.”
“You think it was a yardman?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know who it was.”
That wasn’t altogether true. I had a pretty good idea who it had been. In my head, I heard my own voice telling the crazy fanatic with the sane eyes and the manicure and the Movado wristwatch that I was going to take food outside to a pet. I remembered the little flare of light in the man’s eyes when he’d heard it.
That’s how he’d known where to find Ziggy. I had told him.
I was ashamed to let Guidry know that I’d been
played so easily. Instead, I bitched about the religious fanatics gathered outside the Kurtz house.
“Can’t you make them disperse?”
“Not unless they’re blocking traffic or harassing people.”
“They blocked the driveway and they harassed me.”
“I’ll have somebody stop by and talk to them.”
I rang off wondering why a man who only pretended to be afraid of the number 666 would want to steal Ziggy.
Rage at Jessica and chagrin at having been used by the fake monk stayed with me all morning, sitting between my ears and humming like a power line beside a country road. The cats all sensed it and stayed clear of me, which made me feel bad, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it. I was like a vibrating magnet, just waiting for the moment when Jessica Ballantyne or the man in the robe would pop up again so I could yell at them.
When I finished with the last cat, I took my rage and hunger to the Village Diner and slammed myself into my regular booth. Judy was immediately there with her coffeepot and a mug for me.
She said, “Why are you frowning? Did you lose that gorgeous guy that was with you Wednesday?”
“I didn’t lose him. He’s a close friend.”
“If I had a friend like that, I’d tie him down and molest him.”
She turned to give a woman across the aisle a coffee refill and left me to cuddle my mug in peace. The woman across the aisle was reading the
Herald-Tribune
with the front page held in front of her face, so only her short blond hair was visible. My grandfather used to hold the paper like that, sort of screening out the world with newsprint. I always fold a newspaper and look down at it. Maybe it makes me feel more in control of what’s going on in the world if I’m hovering over it.
Judy returned with my usual two eggs over easy with extra-crisp home fries and a biscuit. As if she knew I was on my last nerve, she put the plate down and refilled my mug without comment.
I thanked her and fell on the food like a ravenous wolf. In the midst of mopping up egg yolk with my biscuit, I suddenly remembered my date with Ethan, which was now several hours closer than it had been the last time I thought of it. I guzzled the last drop of coffee and looked around for Judy, who was coming toward me with her pot held out like a rescue lamp.
She said, “Good grief, girl, when’s the last time you ate?”
“I know. It’s awful, isn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t exactly say it’s awful. More like a substitute for sex. If you were getting any, you wouldn’t be eating like there’s no tomorrow. That’s what I always think when I see those big fat women putting away another helping of mashed potatoes. Poor things probably haven’t had good sex in years. Maybe never. All those diet books people read, that’s a lot of hooey. Women having good sex don’t gain weight, and you can put that in your pipe and smoke it.”
With an emphatic nod, she turned away to slap down a check on the table across the aisle. I held my mug with both hands and wondered what she would say if I
told her I was probably going to have sex tonight. Good, bad, or mediocre, it was probably going to happen. I tried not to groan out loud at the thought. I hoped I didn’t make a complete fool of myself. I hoped I remembered how to act in bed.
The blonde across the aisle stood up and gathered her folded newspaper. Then in one smooth motion, she pivoted and sat in the seat across from me. I blinked at her a couple of times and then slammed my mug on the table.
“Bitch, you’re the one who called me!”
“I couldn’t think of anything else. I had to bring attention to that house. Besides, I knew if you showed up talking about an iguana named ZIGI, he would know he was in danger.”
“Anything else I can do for you? Polish your shoes? Fluff your blond wig?”
“I understand your anger.”
“Oh, great! Now you’re going to play shrink.”
She folded the edge of her newspaper into a triangle. “I have to know something. The woman who lived with him, were they lovers?”
“Does it matter?”
She sighed. “I suppose you’ve guessed that I’m new to this. I don’t imagine I’ll ever do it again.”
“Do what? Impersonate Irishmen?”
“Work as an undercover investigator.”
“For BiZogen?”
“No, the FBI. They knew Ken and I had worked together. They thought I would be able to track him down before ZIGI’s people did.”
“No offense, Jessica, but that has to mean they didn’t
think it was important enough to put one of their real investigators on it.”
She nodded meekly. “It’s the war on terrorism. All the agents who know what they’re doing are looking for men with wires coming out of their shoes.”
“You suck as an undercover investigator. I have pets that could do better.”
“Ken is right about BiZogen causing our friends to die. They drowned because of BiZogen’s negligence. I’m sure that’s why he contacted ZIGI. I find that somewhat endearing, don’t you?”
I leaned closer to her and spoke very slowly. “I don’t find any of this endearing. What about the murdered guard?”
“I don’t know who did that, Dixie, and it’s not part of my job. That’s something for the local law-enforcement people to handle.”
“What about Gilda?”
“That’s what I’d like to know. What about Gilda? Who is she? What is she to Ken? You say Ken kept my photograph beside his bed, but he apparently took another woman into it.”
“Well, to be fair, he did think you were dead.”
“I would not have taken a lover so soon if I’d thought he had died.”
Neither would I, obviously.
I said, “How did you find him?”
She looked smug. “It wasn’t hard, actually. Ken is a dedicated wine collector, and he always ordered wine from the same company. I simply went there and told them Ken had sent me to select wine to be shipped to him. Then I had them verify the address for me.”
I wasn’t surprised. Criminal investigators maintain that half their arrests are due to criminals doing something stupid. Bank robbers write demand notes on the back of personalized deposit slips. People on the lam use their credit cards at hotels and restaurants. Hardened killers survive bullets and barbed wire and snarling dogs to escape from maximum-security prisons and then head straight to their mothers’ kitchens. It’s like we all have a fatal flaw that trips us up, and if we turn to the dark side we take our fatal flaw with us.

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