Blaize Clement - Curiosity Killed The Cat Sitter

After his walk and brushing, I put my bill on the kitchen counter, along with a note asking the Graysons to call me as soon as they got back that afternoon. Otherwise, I would make an evening call to take care of Rufus, and they’d get billed whether they were home or not. You have to be strict about these things. Sometimes people don’t notify their pet-sitter that their flight has been delayed or that they’ve decided to extend their trip for a few days. I don’t intend to neglect any of my charges, and I don’t intend to pace around wondering if their owners might not have returned when they said they would. Ergo, they have to verify they’ve returned or pay for an unnecessary trip. I gave Rufus an extra-big hug when I left. I was going to miss him.

When I let myself into Tom Hale’s condo, Tom and Billy Elliot looked up at me and Tom waved, but then their attention went back to the TV. A woman with spiky black hair and ruby red lips was holding a blue-balled microphone close to her lips and speaking low, the way sportscasters do at a golf match. Behind her was a wide wrought-iron gate, through which one could see a massive house.

“Mrs. Frazier hasn’t made a statement yet, and so we’re just waiting here to see what the next development will be. From what the Sarasota County Sheriff’s Department has reported to us, the medical examiner’s office has not yet released the body to the family.”

A man’s off-camera-voice said, “Any new information about the connection between Harrison Frazier and the woman whose house he was found in?”

“Well, that’s the interesting thing, Joel. According to the Frazier family spokesperson, there is no connection between the two at all. The family believes he must have been killed somewhere else and moved to the house.”

Tom hit the mute button on his remote and said, “Well, there’s a classic case of denial.”

“That dead man in Marilee’s house was Harrison Frazier?”

“Yep, and if he wasn’t dead already, getting caught in Marilee’s house would kill him.”

Harrison Frazier was one of Florida’s wealthiest men, with a family that practically went back to Ponce de León. The epitome of good breeding and good taste, the name Frazier graced an opera house or botanical garden or library in almost every city in Florida.

“You think Harrison Frazier and Marilee knew each other?”

“Come on, Dixie, why would somebody dump a dead body in Marilee’s house? Of course they knew each other.”

“You think she killed him?”

“Marilee never seemed the type.”

“Anybody’s the type, Tom. Any one of us could commit murder.”

His face tightened. “I’ve sure had moments when I could.”

“We all have. Most of us are just lucky enough that the moments pass.”

“Still, Marilee’s a gentle soul. I just can’t see her shooting somebody.”

“Is that what they said? That he’d been shot?”

“I just assumed. Wasn’t he?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. He might have been.”

It seemed like the time to get out, before he could quiz me about what I had seen. I snapped Billy Elliot’s leash on his collar and started toward the front door. Tom said, “Dixie, did you call Cora Mathers?”

I shook my head. “I haven’t had a chance yet. I’ll do it later.”

Ten

Billy Elliot and I took the elevator downstairs, and when we came out the front door he leaped forward in a headlong dash. I welcomed the hard run. It helped get the cobwebs out of my head from my night of dissipation. We tore around the paved parking lot enough times to equal at least a mile before he slowed to a satisfied trot. For once, he had been able to run as long as he wanted to. I was half-dead and my thigh muscles were burning like a hot poker had been stuck to them, but at least I had sweated out the vestiges of alcohol.

Back upstairs, I let Billy Elliot inside and yelled goodbye to Tom, then drove to Marilee’s house and sat in the driveway looking at the blank house. There was no deputy in sight, but the crime-scene tape was still up. I looked toward the Winnick house, but it looked as closed down as Marilee’s. I decided to stop by again after I’d finished for the morning. If Guidry wasn’t there, I would call him and find out when I could bring Ghost home.

I backed out of the driveway and headed toward Midnight Pass Road. In the rearview mirror, I saw the Winnicks’ garage door rise and a white Jeep Cherokee back out. At the intersection, I stopped, and the Jeep drew up close behind me. The Winnick kid was driving, and his face in the rearview mirror looked desperate. He braked and jumped out of the car and ran to my side. I put down my window and looked into scared red eyes.

“On your way to school?”

“No, ma’am, today’s Saturday.”

God, I had reached the age when I didn’t know what day it was! Not only that, but people taller than me called me “ma’am.”

The kid looked apprehensively toward his house. “Would it be all right if we went someplace and talked?”

I had cats to take care of, but I didn’t have the heart to refuse him. Besides, cats don’t have to be fed at exactly the same time every day. If they were living in the wild, they’d be on a random bird and rodent schedule. Okay, the truth is that I wanted to hear what he had to say.

I said, “I’ll meet you at the Village Diner.”

He followed close behind me and we both nosed into parking spaces in front of the diner. He opened the diner door for me without any uncertain diffidence, and I wondered which of his parents had taught him proper manners. Probably his father. The man had the soul of a sea slug, but he probably held out women’s chairs. The kid was wearing jeans and a neon yellow waffle-knit shirt with a blue-and-white-striped collar and trimmed pocket. I would have bet good money that his mother had chosen it and that he didn’t know how nerdy it was.

Judy gave me a questioning look when she saw me with another person of the male persuasion. I waggled my fingers in a wave and we took the same booth that Detective Guidry and I had sat in. Judy was right behind us with coffee and mugs.

Deadpan, she said to the kid, “You want coffee, sir?”

He blushed and shook his head. “Apple juice, please.”

Apple juice had been Christy’s favorite, too. For a minute, I saw him as his mother probably saw him, two or three years old and just learning to speak up to strangers. It’s probably those cute overlaid memories that allow parents to look at their gangly adolescents without stabbing themselves.

Judy said, “You ready to order?”

“I’m not hungry,” he said.

I understood how he felt. I never can eat when I’m worried, either.

Judy knew what I wanted, so she gave me another look and left us alone.

A woman came in dragging a whining little boy who looked about three years old. Cute kid. Skin the color of a Starbucks Frappuccino and a mass of dark curls flopping over round black eyes. The woman had the same coloring and silky black hair, but she was carrying close to two hundred pounds of puffy fat on a five-foot frame, and she had sour, angry lines etched into her face. She had a death grip on the child’s hand, alternately jerking and dragging him the way you have to pull a twisted garden hose. She stopped at a booth across the aisle and snarled, “Shut up and get in there!”

The Winnick kid and I watched the little boy try to scrabble onto the plastic-covered seat. His legs were too short and the plastic didn’t give him anything to grab, so his feet flailed the air. The woman smacked his bottom with the flat of her hand, which caused him to jerk his head up and bang it on the underside of the table. Most kids would have cried, but he didn’t, and the fact that he didn’t was telling. This kid was accustomed to pain, and he knew that crying would only bring more of it.