Блейз Клемент - The Cat Sitter And The Canary

Ms. Kramer whispered, “Albert…”

I reached for her wrist, but it was too late.

She ran.

22

As Elba Kramer rushed out of the pool house, I didn’t move. I just stood there, my feet glued to the floor. The sound we’d heard was gunfire—of that I was certain. A siren had started up in the distance, just barely audible over the chirruping of the crickets, so it was hard to tell exactly how far away it was—or from what direction—but I figured south, probably taking the longer but faster route up Midnight Pass to avoid Ocean Boulevard traffic.

I told myself to breathe. Blood was coursing through my body harder than I thought possible—I could feel it behind my eyes and in the tips of my fingers—and there was a loud banging in my ears, like a bass drum pounding to the beat of my heart.

I cursed myself for being so stupid. The moment there’d been even the slightest hint that someone was after me, I should have listened to Detective Carthage. I should have stayed home. I should have called each and every one of my clients and told them I’d have to send someone else to look after their pets until this whole thing was over.

I took a couple of feeble steps forward, but apparently the lecture I’d given myself about no longer moving through life with fear hadn’t quite yet taken effect. Every muscle in my body was telling me to turn around and run like hell in the opposite direction.

But I knew I couldn’t.

I reached into the side compartment of my backpack for my pistol, which seemed ridiculously small now given the circumstances, but I pulled it out anyway and released the safety. Then I willed myself forward, walking on rubbery legs through the pool house and out to the patio, all the while keeping my gun steady and my eyes open for any sign of movement.

It was eerily quiet.

I followed the edge of the pool and then slid in behind one of the columns by the back porch, feeling the vines brush the back of my neck. I had a feeling I knew what those louder shots had been shortly after the rapid gunfire: Deputy Morgan’s pistol. He’d followed me here, and I knew he was still outside. I just couldn’t remember if he’d driven through the gate when I arrived or if he had parked in the street.

A chill ran down my spine. I had just assumed the gunfire had come from inside the house, but it dawned on me now that it could just as easily have come from outside —from the driveway or beyond the front gate in the street. In which case, Morgan …

I shook my head.

No . I told myself not to panic, to try to concentrate and focus on one thing at a time, and for now the only thing I needed to do was find Ms. Kramer.

I peered around the column through the vines. I could see into the living room, but there was no one there. I leaned out a little farther to get a view down the long hall to the front door, but still there was nothing. Just as I was about to make a move, a gut-wrenching scream—high-pitched and piercing—echoed through the house.

I moved out from behind the column just in time to see a shadow fall across the open door of Mr. Kramer’s study, and then Ms. Kramer stepped into the hallway, cradling something in her arms. She was staring at the open door of the room on the opposite side of the hall, her back erect, her chin tipped up slightly.

Almost at the exact same moment, the front door burst open to reveal Deputy Morgan with his gun drawn. There was a look of sheer panic on his face. He shouted, “Is everybody okay?”

I said, “We’re fine, but Ms. Kramer’s husband…”

“Where is he?”

I pointed at the study.

Elba Kramer had barely moved. She was still staring straight ahead, unblinking and barely acknowledging Morgan’s presence.

He said, “Ms. Kramer, I’m Deputy Jesse Morgan with the Sarasota Sheriff’s Department. Is your husband okay?”

There was a pause, and then she turned in my direction without answering. Whatever she’d seen inside that study had thrown her into a complete state of shock.

Morgan took a couple of steps toward the door and looked inside. His face went pale. He held up one hand as he unclipped his radio. “You better take her outside.”

Ms. Kramer was moving toward me like a sleepwalker, her face an empty mask, her eyes wide open and distant, and now I could see what she was holding in her arms. It was a domed birdcage about the size of a lampshade. Inside was a small bird, although it was flinging around the cage so fast all I could see was a yellow blur. I stepped aside as Ms. Kramer came closer. I thought I heard the bird twittering, but then realized the sound was coming from Ms. Kramer. She was talking to herself, like a whimpering child.

“I should have known. We should have left this godforsaken place years ago … we could’ve gone anywhere .” Her eyes glassed over when she looked at me. “I tried to tell him. We could have gone anywhere, anywhere in the world. France or Mexico, anywhere we wanted. We could have gotten away…”

She continued out to the patio, and when the cage hit the light, it gleamed and sparkled. I remember thinking it had to be gold-plated, or maybe even solid 14-carat. I glanced at Morgan, who was still standing in the doorway. There was a trail of small yellow feathers sprinkled along the red carpet where Ms. Kramer had walked.

I said, “What happened?”

He said, “I was parked in front of the house. I heard gunfire and ran up as fast as I could. The front window was blown to bits and there was a man running around the side of the house with a rifle. I fired, but I don’t know if I hit him or not. I was climbing over the gate when I heard a car speed off.”

I said, “Ms. Kramer’s husband…”

He shook his head. “You don’t want to see it. The whole room’s been sprayed with bullets. They shot right through the curtains.”

And then it hit me: the heady, sweet smell of magnolia that had permeated the air in my driveway. Instantly, the image of Mrs. Reed’s body flashed in my mind. I bent over and put my hands on my knees. I was having some kind of hallucinatory flashback, imagining the overpowering scent of those flowers. It seemed so real I could actually taste it in my mouth.

I said, “I need some air.”

I went through the living room and out to the pool, where Elba was sitting on one of the lounge chairs in front of the pool house, slumped over the gold birdcage in her lap. For a split second, I thought the cage was empty, but then I saw the small bird sitting still on the cage floor. It was banana-yellow, with an orange beak and small eyes like black ink spots. It looked absolutely terrified, as if it had just been through the most horrific ordeal imaginable, which of course it had. It was a miracle it was still alive.

Ms. Kramer had a cold, distant expression on her face, but there were tears streaming down her cheeks. When she sensed my presence, she looked up, and even from several feet away I could see that her eyes were completely swollen and bloodshot.

She said, “He’s dead, right?”

* * *

I always say our local law enforcement has some of the best officers in the business, but even I was impressed with how quickly they arrived on the scene. Someone must have called 911 the moment that gunfire rang out, because by the time I made my way along the side of the house to the front, there were at least a half-dozen emergency vehicles surrounding the place, with all kinds of sheriff’s deputies and Sarasota policemen, as well as two guys in suits walking around looking official and flashing their badges at everyone in sight.

Detective Carthage had arrived shortly after. I waited behind some bushes until one of the deputies led him into the house where Ms. Kramer was waiting, and then I walked right across the lawn, trying to look as cool and calm as possible, which must have worked because no one seemed to notice me. I might as well have been a ghost.