Блейз Клемент - The Cat Sitter And The Canary

Just then, one of the deputies trotted up to Detective Carthage. He said, “Sir, we found this.”

He was holding out a small plastic bag. Inside was a cigarette, the tip of which was smudged with pink.

Detective Carthage said, “Okay, hold on to that. We’ll see if it matches the lipstick on the body. Where’d you find it?”

He started to answer but I interrupted him. I’d seen the woman throw it in the driveway myself.

I said, “Reed.”

Detective Carthage turned to me. “What?”

“Reed. That’s the name on the rental car, isn’t it?”

His brow furrowed. “How do you know that?”

I could feel a dark, sinking feeling settling into my body as an image flashed in my mind: Edith Reed, rising out of her car the morning she and her husband had wandered around our property. I could still see the gleam of the tennis bracelet on her wrist, with its matching diamond pendants dangling from her ears.

I said, “Because they were here. Two days ago.”

“Who was here?”

“Garth and Edith Reed.” I tipped my chin at the green SUV parked in my spot. “That’s their car.”

Michael’s jaw dropped open, and for a split second I wondered what my grandfather would make of the story that was currently unfolding on the very spot where he and my grandmother had built their lives … and whether or not he’d buy it.

I reached into my back pocket and pulled out the little piece of yellow paper I’d found wedged under my car seat.

“And here’s their cell phone number.”

17

It was her.

Mrs. Reed.

Detective Carthage wanted me to confirm beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was the same woman I’d seen the other morning, and I knew it would have been ludicrous to refuse. The woman’s face had lost the smoothness I remembered when I’d spied her from my hiding place in the hammock. Now, it had loosened and sagged, the skin of her left cheek almost melting into the crushed shell of the driveway, her silvery blond hair flattened on one side. I nodded quietly, and then Detective Carthage pulled the tarp back over her face.

I didn’t want to be there when her husband arrived, but, still, it was hard to drive away. Except for Ella, I was the only female left on the scene. Silly, I know. Such a small thing. I hadn’t known Mrs. Reed. I couldn’t have saved her.

Still, it felt like a betrayal, to leave with all those strangers stepping around her body. Less than three hours earlier, she’d been touring the Key without a care in the world, scoping out potential sites for her future home, and now she was on her side, under a blue plastic tarp littered with fallen magnolia petals, while a crowd of technicians, deputies, photographers, and investigators milled about, talking quietly and making notes. Sipping at their coffees. But mostly, and I’m ashamed to admit it, I didn’t want to see the look on her husband’s face when he saw her— really saw her—for the last time.

I know what that’s like, and it’s no fun.

In exchange for letting me get back to work, Detective Carthage had asked that I meet him later, which I readily agreed to at the time, but I was already trying to come up with ways to get out of it. I didn’t much feel like talking to anybody, at least not any humans.

Luckily, I had a stable of cats waiting to help distract me …

* * *

Betty and Grace Piker are two retired sisters who’ve come to a mutual agreement. If one of them finds a cat that needs a home and wants to adopt it, the other is to do everything in her power to prevent it, including physical force if necessary. Fortunately, at least for homeless cats everywhere, the Piker sisters’ resolve is as weak as their hearts are large. They have ten cats, all rescues, and they’d recently added yet another feline to the family: an elderly calico named Lucy.

As soon as I opened the door, I heard a furry-footed stampede coming up the hallway from the kitchen, and then I spent a good ten minutes rolling around on the floor greeting everybody. Then they all scampered after me into the kitchen, where I slid my backpack off my shoulder and zipped it open a little further. Gigi was inside, half-asleep in his makeshift bed of socks and underwear.

“You okay in there?”

He wriggled his nose, which I took to mean yes, and then I propped the bag up on one of the bar chairs, looping the shoulder straps over the chair to secure it. The cats’ food supplies were lined up on the counter next to the refrigerator, which was covered with family photos—class pictures and wedding shots—along with roughly a thousand refrigerator magnets. One read, MAKE YOURSELF AT HOME: CLEAN MY KITCHEN. Another displayed a cheerful woman in a red bandanna, holding a slice of chocolate pie to her lips. The caption read, STRESSED IS DESSERTS SPELLED BACKWARDS.

I thought about sitting down right there on the floor and wasting an hour or two reading them all, but I knew those cats wouldn’t be too happy with me if I did that, plus I still had lots of other pets to tend to. I prepared ten individual bowls of kibble with a little bit of warm water, then I distributed them all around the kitchen so everybody had enough room to eat in private. Then I did a thorough run-through of the house and found Lucy in one of the bedrooms, sunning herself on a windowsill.

When I came in, she rose up on all fours, pressing the tips of her toes down and arching her back, purring like a tiny storm generator as I ran my fingers from the scruff of her neck to the tip of her tail, leaving little furrows in her plush, silky fur. I bent down and pressed my forehead into hers.

She said, “ Thrrrrp …?”

I said, “Yes, ma’am.”

I’d brought her bowl with me, specially prepared with her prescription senior kibble, plus a little canned wet food on top to make it extra tempting. As I put it down on the carpet, she hopped off the sill and took a few dainty bites. I sat down on the edge of the bed and sighed. I knew I needed to give the Wincocks a call. I realized I’d left them so abruptly, and I was pretty sure those reporters had probably broadcast video of Michael and me sitting on the side of the road outside the crime scene.

Mrs. Wincock answered on the first ring.

“Dixie, are you okay?”

“I’m totally fine. I just wanted to apologize for running out of there so fast. That private lane where they found the body…”

She said, “I know, we saw everything on the news. Do you know who she was?”

“A tourist, visiting the island looking for a place to buy. But I just called to let you know I’ll be at your house tomorrow to take care of Mrs. Heedles just like we planned.”

I heard a sigh of relief. “Oh, that’s good to hear. I knew you’d call if there was a problem. We leave for New Orleans bright and early in the morning.”

I said, “Okay, well, have a good time at the…”

I stopped myself from saying the word wedding and opted for “trip” instead.

She hesitated. “Dixie … if you need to talk, you know you can call me anytime.”

I wasn’t sure what she meant by that, so I just said, “Okay, sounds good!” and hung up the phone.

By then, Lucy had scarfed up all her food and was sitting next to me on the bed, gazing into my eyes and kneading my thigh with her paws. I usually don’t have to worry about spending a ton of time with the Piker cats, mainly because there are so many of them they do a perfectly fine job of keeping each other entertained, but Lucy seemed to be taking a little longer getting used to her new family.

I cupped her chin in the palm of my hand and said, “Let’s go take a look at the pond.”

She padded after me into the kitchen, where I shook my head thinking about Mrs. Wincock’s offer. What did she mean, if I needed to talk ? Talk about what? Guidry? Did she think I cared? That I gave a rat’s ass about that stupid wedding? That I’d want her to report what Guidry’s tuxedo looked like, or the flower arrangements, or how many people were there, or what the cake looked like, or whether Monochrome had chosen to wear a white gown?