Блейз Клемент - The Cat Sitter And The Canary

I whispered, “Well, it’s worth a try.”

As soon as I got out of the car, he rolled down his window. I got the impression he was already suspecting I might try to get rid of him, but then he took off his sunglasses.

It wasn’t Morgan.

I didn’t recognize him at all. He rose out of the car, big and burly, with broad rolling shoulders and a slight paunch—the imposing body of a man who enjoys his food. There was a patch of orange freckles across his pudgy cheeks, and as he tipped his hat I saw a glint of curly copper hair peeking out from underneath. I guessed his age at about twenty-five. A rookie.

Like putty in my hands, I thought to myself.

I said, “Hi. I’m Dixie.”

He tipped his hat again. “Yes, ma’am. I know.”

“Is this really necessary?”

He looked around. “What?”

“All this.” I drew a circle in the air with his face in the center. “I know you’re just doing your job, but having an armed escort follow me around all day isn’t exactly good for business. I don’t want my clients thinking I’m some kind of criminal. And anyway, you probably don’t know this, but I’m an ex-deputy myself.”

He slipped his sunglasses back on. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I was asked to follow you.”

“By who?”

“Sergeant Woodrow Owens.”

I nodded curtly and said, “Mm-hmm.”

Sergeant Owens had been my direct superior when I was on the force. It was Owens that had called me into the station, just a few weeks after Todd and Christy were killed. It was Owens who told me I was unfit, both emotionally and physically, for further duty, and it was Owens who had accepted my badge and firearm when I handed them over. I had tremendous respect for him then, and I still do. Plus—and I’m woman enough to admit it—I’m just a teensy bit scared of him.

I said, “Mm-hmm,” again and then started to head back to the car but stopped. “And what’s your name again?”

“Hank. Hank Marshall.”

I dropped my chin and glared at him. “Seriously?”

“Yes, ma’am. Is there a problem?”

I said, “So … your name is Deputy Marshall?”

He shrugged. “That’s me.”

“Alright, then.” I turned and headed back for the Bronco, waving my hand in Deputy Marshall’s general direction like I was tossing a trail of breadcrumbs behind me. “Carry on.”

I may look like a dumb blonde, and I’ll gladly admit I sometimes act like one too, but it comes in handy on occasion. In this particular instance, for example, I commended my brain for the remarkable job it had done so far ignoring the reality of the situation I was in. But now, as I made my way up Midnight Pass to my first client with an armed guard watching my every move, I couldn’t ignore it any longer …

This was serious.

When McKenzie had asked if there was anyone who might wish me harm, I’d immediately said I couldn’t think of a single soul, but we both knew it wasn’t true. There were probably hundreds. As a deputy with the Sarasota Sheriff’s Department, I’d conducted an untold number of arrests, I’d issued hundreds of tickets for reckless behavior and DUIs, I’d testified against all kinds of burglars and drug dealers, I’d hunted down deadbeat dads, hit-and-run drivers, juvenile delinquents, scam artists, wife beaters, husband beaters … There was no telling how many people might wish me ill, out of revenge, a perverted idea of justice, or just plain evil.

I shook my head to clear it, but all that did was send my thoughts flying around like tiny plastic flakes in a snow globe, so I tried my old standby for calming frazzled nerves: I counted birds.

Our little island is only a mile wide and not more than six or seven miles long, but despite that there are about fifty miles of winding canals and waterways within its borders. That means we’ve got a whole lot of water, countless ponds and lagoons, all lush and fertile as the garden of Eden. From above, it looks like a giant green-and-blue jigsaw puzzle. If you hired a team of crack wildlife experts to design the perfect bird habitat, they’d probably come up with something very close to what we call home.

There’s just about every kind of bird you can think of: gulls, terns, white herons, brown pelicans, black-necked stilts, double-breasted cormorants, spoonbills, storks, cranes—and those are just the ones that hang out shoreside. Then there are the cuckoos, the owls, the warblers, the finches, the swallows … the list literally goes on and on.

I spotted a couple of morning doves perched on top of the traffic light at the corner of Midnight Pass and Stickney Point, and then beyond that was a flock of swallows swooping over the treetops. A little farther up, wading around in the shallow fountain in front of the Beachhead condo building, was a snowy egret, her feathered crown like a fright wig perched on top of her skinny head.

Just then, I caught my reflection in the rearview mirror and raised one eyebrow.

“And then there’s you,” I muttered out loud …

“A sitting duck .”

14

Ninety-nine percent of my days start out at Tom Hale’s condo. Tom’s an accountant and works from home, but he uses a wheelchair, so I go over twice a day—first thing in the morning and then again in the afternoon—to run with his retired racing greyhound, Billy Elliot. In exchange, Tom deals with my taxes and anything else having to do with money, which is good because I can’t balance a checkbook to save my life.

Billy and I usually do a few laps around the circular parking lot that surrounds the building, and then if there’s nobody else around, I let him off the leash so he can do a few more laps at a respectable pace. He’s not near as quick as he used to be (who is?), but when we’re riding back up in the elevator, both of us panting and grinning ear to ear, I know he couldn’t care less. He just likes to get out there and relive his glory days. I actually hate running, but I’d be a hot mess if it weren’t for Billy Elliot. He’s like my own personal trainer.

Deputy Morgan had spent another night staked out at the top of our driveway, but at some point before I left for the day, Deputy Marshall had taken his place again. I waved to him as I came out of the Sea Breeze’s lobby. He was sitting in his cruiser, parked by the curb just opposite mine. I heard his engine start up as soon as I headed across the parking lot, but when I opened the car door, something caught my eye. It was small and yellow, stuck down in the cushion behind the seat. I’d left my windows open the night before, so at first I thought it was just a leaf that had floated in, but I was wrong. It was a piece of paper from a pocket-size notebook, with words neatly written in bold, felt-tip pen …

Dear Current Owners,

My wife and I would very much like to talk to you about your house. Would you consider selling?

We are quite interested, and are prepared to make a convincing offer.

We’re here for a few more days. Please call our mobile.

Yours,

Garth and Edith Reed

Underneath the signature was a telephone number with an area code I didn’t recognize, but I figured it was probably from a big northern city, like New York or Chicago.

I don’t know why I hadn’t noticed the note before, except that I’d probably been sitting on it ever since Mr. and Mrs. Got-Rocks paid me a surprise visit that morning. “Current owners,” I muttered under my breath. “The gall of some people.”

I remembered the man had disappeared under the carport for a few moments. He must have left the note on the front seat then, at any rate, I had no intention of calling, no matter how “convincing” their offer. I folded the note and slipped it down in my back pocket, giving Deputy Marshall a thumbs-up as I climbed in behind the wheel. He replied with a short nod, and then followed me all the way around the circular driveway and out the main road.