Blaize Clement - Curiosity Killed The Cat Sitter

“There was a piece of galvanized steel, too, the pipe they used for lining the brass.”

“She didn’t mention that, but she said a man drove into the driveway and took the brass pipe away from her. He was pretty nasty about it, and she’s hurt and angry. Do you have any idea who he might have been?”

“Drove in this driveway?”

“That’s what she said. She said he drove a black sports car, but she didn’t know who he was.”

“I don’t know anybody who would have done that, Dixie.”

“Do you know anybody who drives a black Miata?”

“I don’t think so. Can’t think of anybody.” Sam was standing like a soldier at attention. “Does this have anything to do with that killing? Do you think that’s what the killer used? My brass pipe?”

“I don’t know, Sam. It just seems odd for somebody to make a big scene over a piece of pipe that was left at the curb for trash pickup one night, and then the next morning a dead man is found in a neighbor’s house with his head bashed in.”

Sam winced. “God, that must have been awful for you, Dixie, finding that body.”

Apparently, he didn’t know I’d found Marilee, too.

I said, “Not as bad as finding Phillip beaten up. That was the worst.”

I gave Rufus another hug and got back in the Bronco. “I’ll see you, Sam.”

He and Rufus watched me drive away, both of them with sad expressions on their faces.

At the meandering driveway to my place, I started to make the turn and then straightened the wheel and drove straight ahead. There was one more thing I had to do before I went home.

The Crab House doesn’t open until five o’clock, so there were only a few cars at the far end of the lot, probably belonging to cooks or staff. I parked by the front door and crunched over loose oyster shell. The door was locked, and when I rapped on it, a young Latino with liquid black eyes and a scraggly attempt at a goatee opened it a crack and peered out.

“We’re not open,” he said.

“I know, I’m here to see your manager. One of your employees has been badly hurt.”

His eyes rounded and he looked uncertainly over his shoulder.

“I don’t know,” he said. I wasn’t sure if he meant he didn’t know what to do about me, or if he meant he hadn’t understood what I’d said.

“I have to come in,” I said.

He shrugged and opened the door wider, stepping aside with a shy smile as I passed him. A slight blond man in the waiters’ uniform of black trousers and white shirt was putting little vases of flowers on the tables. He saw me and stopped what he was doing, looking at me with a question on his face.

“Can I help you?”

“Are you the manager?”

“He’s not here right now. Did you want to apply for a job?”

“No, I wanted to tell him—you—something.”

I walked closer to him and saw a name tag reading RAY. I said, “Ray, Phillip Winnick was beaten up Sunday morning on his way home.”

“Who?”

“Phillip, the young man who plays piano.”

“Oh my God! Phil?”

“I found him near his house early yesterday morning. He was in pretty bad shape. He’s in the hospital now.”

He sat down at a table and stared up at me, the implications of what I was telling him playing over his face.

I took a chair across from him and said, “Do you know who Phil leaves with when you close?”

His face tightened and he shook his head. “Nobody here would have done that. Nobody who knows Phil would have done that. Everybody who knows him likes him.”

“I’m not suggesting that the person he leaves with was the one who beat him up. I’d just like to talk to him, find out if he saw anybody around when he dropped Phil off.”

The door opened and the bartender from Saturday night walked in, going straight to the bar and beginning to set out bottles and glasses. He was a tall, bookish-looking man with rimless round glasses and a frieze of short beard around his cheeks and chin. Except for shirtsleeves that bulged with muscles, he reminded me of a chemistry teacher I’d had in high school setting out Bunsen burners and vials of smelly chemicals.

Ray got up and went over to the bar and spoke quietly to him. The bartender turned and looked at me with a frown, then recognized me. He put down the towel he was using to polish a wineglass and came over to shake my hand.

“I remember you,” he said. “You’re Phil’s friend. I’m Dennis.”

“Dixie Hemingway, Dennis. The reason I’m here is that Phil’s been beaten up. I want to find out who did it.”

Twenty-Six

Ray said, “I was just telling her nobody from here would have hurt Phil.”

I said, “I think Phil leaves here with somebody who takes him home. I’d like to talk to whoever that is. He may have seen somebody in the area yesterday morning.”

Dennis got the impassive look that people take on when they have information they don’t want to divulge.

“Look,” I said, “I’m not a cop. I’m not here in any official capacity. I’m just Phil’s friend, and whatever this person told me would just be between him and me.”

Dennis and the waiter exchanged a wary look. I completely understood their reluctance. Phillip and his unknown friend were gay. Phillip was still in the closet, and the other man might be, as well. To give me the man’s name was not only to involve him in a crime, but to out him. Given the level of hysterical homophobia that still exists in this country, with its coy “Don’t ask, don’t tell” silliness, no ethical or responsible person would do that.

Dennis said, “Tell you what I’ll do, if I see somebody I think might have given Phil a ride, I’ll tell him you’re looking for him. If he knows anything, he can give you a call. How’s that?”

His voice was smooth and friendly, but I knew he would close me out if I pushed. That’s all I was going to get.

I stood up and put my hand on his arm. “Thanks. I appreciate that Phil’s a good kid, and I’m really upset about this.”

Ray whipped out an order pad and I wrote my name and business phone number on the back of a slip.

I nodded goodbye to them and started for the door. Behind me, Dennis called out, “Hey, I just remembered something. You know that bald-headed guy that tried to hit on you the other night? He was back last night, and he asked about you.”

I turned and stared at him. “About me?”

“Yeah. He wanted to know if you came here often. I told him I didn’t know you.”

“Did he know my name?”

Dennis grinned. “He just called you the blonde bitch.”

“That guy’s bad news. He chased me in the parking lot that night. I barely got in my car in time.”

“You call the cops?”

“No. I just went home. I guess I should have.”

“Damn right you should have. I’ll pass the word about him.”

I started to leave again, then turned back. “Does he come here often?”

“Never saw him before that night when you were here.”

“When he came back, did he try to hit on any other woman?”

“Not that I noticed. He stayed at the bar by himself, left when we closed.”

“Okay. I just wondered.”

I went outside and got back in the Bronco, wondering why the man had picked me out to try to pick up. Or stalk.

I finally left the whoosh of traffic and drove under a blessed quiet canopy of green oak branches to my apartment. When I rounded the last curve, I saw Paco in front of the carport. Still in disguise, he was holding a man to the ground with one hand while he held a phone to his ear with the other.

I pulled into the carport and got out.

Paco snapped his phone closed and flashed a white grin up at me. “Got a friend of yours here, Dixie.”