Блейз Клемент - The Cat Sitter And The Canary

I could see my reflection in the long glass wall of the living room, and I’m ashamed to admit that I noted how ridiculous I looked—still dressed in the same clothes I’d had on the day before, my hair a squirrel’s nest, not to mention the blue rubber gloves and the face mask that Detective Carthage had asked me to put on—neither of which made sense, by the way. He wasn’t wearing a mask, and I knew not to touch anything, plus I was pretty sure my fingerprints and DNA were all over the place, so it wasn’t like I could contaminate any evidence. Detective Carthage was still new on the job, though, so I figured he was probably just following the rules to the letter.

He said, “Ms. Kramer has done her best to fill me in on what she remembers, but it would be helpful if you could tell me what you saw. I know it’s difficult, but every detail, no matter how trivial it may seem, can be helpful. These situations are always hard, but I promise you’re safe. I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

I tried not to cringe. He sounded like he was reading right out of a college textbook on the proper handling of a crime-scene witness, but I didn’t want to embarrass him. I just nodded politely as he rambled on.

Inside, there were a couple of men in the hallway at the front of the house, covered from head to toe in white hazmat suits. One of them had just come out of the study and was headed straight for us, walking along a line of white drop cloths laid on the floor. As soon as I saw what he was carrying, I should have looked away, but I couldn’t stop myself.

It was a plastic bag, about the size you’d use for a kitchen trash bin, except the plastic was see-through and much thicker. Inside was a matted mess of cardboard, full of ragged holes and soaked in dark, red blood. It seemed to glimmer in the sun, as if it had been sprinkled with sequins. Just then, I felt the curling tendrils of that sweet flowery scent start to wend their way into my brain. I put my hand out on the column to steady myself and mumbled, “Oh, please. Not again…”

Carthage said, “You alright?”

I shook my head, trying to shake the scent away as I pulled the mask off my face. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me but … it’s this smell. I keep—”

“Yeah, I know,” he interrupted. “I should have warned you.” He pulled a face mask out of his back pocket. “I don’t even smell it anymore. Believe me, it’s much better now than it was yesterday.”

“Wait. What are you talking about?”

“The smell. That’s why I gave you that mask. Our crime cleanup crew is pretty good, but I don’t think they have a whole lot of experience when it comes to getting rid of perfume.”

I blinked. “Perfume. What perfume?”

His eyes widened. “Follow me.”

He led the way inside, staying in the middle of the white tarps, and I followed about five feet behind him. The closer we got to the front hall, the stronger the smell got, and by the time we stopped at the door to the study, I’d already guessed what had happened. It was those boxes I’d seen, stacked on top of the desk, plastered all over with red and white FRAGILE stickers.

Detective Carthage said, “According to Rajinder, there’d been a delivery that afternoon, not long before you arrived to meet Ms. Kramer. About five cases, from Paris. Normally, they would’ve been sent to the shop downtown, but there was a mix-up. Mr. Greco had just started unpacking them when…”

I stepped into the doorway and gasped.

For the most part, the room looked the same as I remembered it—the wall of leather-bound books, the Persian rug, the antique desk with the green armchair and the big boxy television behind it—except, now, almost every inch of it was riddled with bullet holes. There were two industrial-size flood lamps on tripods just inside the doorway, filling the room with white light and illuminating spatters of blood on almost every surface.

Detective Carthage said, “From the position of his body, we believe he attempted to crawl over his desk for the door as soon as the gunfire started, but he didn’t stand a chance.”

I nodded mutely. I’ve never been that squeamish around blood, but it took all my concentration just to keep my balance. On the desk, surrounded by several disintegrated boxes, was a leather blotter with a large dark stain at its center …

And then there was the glass.

It was everywhere—tiny shards that sparkled like glitter in the harsh light. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought they were diamonds and not the shattered remains of French perfume bottles.

As Detective Carthage pulled his cell phone out of his back pocket, I let out a heavy shudder and massaged the space between my eyebrows with the tips of my fingers. That sweet smell was almost overwhelming—a thick, heady melange of magnolia, jasmine, and honeysuckle. I could almost taste it on my tongue.

Carthage looked concerned. “You okay?”

“Nothing. I just kept smelling it. This whole time, I thought it was my imagination. It reminded me of the magnolia tree in my driveway, where they found Mrs. Reed’s body … I thought I was losing my mind.”

His lips tightened into a vague smirk, as if the status of my mental stability was still open for discussion, and then he tapped at his cell phone. A cartoon-like image of a microphone appeared on the screen as he held it out in the space between us.

“This is Detective Matthew Carthage with the Sarasota Sheriff’s Department. The time is twelve forty-five P.M. I’m at the home of Elba Kramer and Albert Greco, in the room where Albert Greco was murdered.” He turned to me. “Can you state your name, please?”

I frowned. “Huh?”

“I’m recording our interview. I just need you to state your name for the record.”

I cleared my throat, suddenly feeling like a suspect. “Dixie Hemingway.”

“Middle name?”

I paused.

No one knows my middle name, and I mean no one. I keep it safely guarded. In fact, normally Carthage would’ve needed to pull out every interrogation trick he’d learned in detective school to get it out of me—including any “enhanced techniques” he’d picked up along the way—but I think at that point I was a little off my game.

I said, “Sue.”

He leaned forward. “Sorry?”

“Sue!” I tried my best to make it sound like a powerful name—something commanding and respectable—instead of like the name of a prim and prissy Southern belle. “Dixie Sue Hemingway.”

“Okay. Can you please describe what you saw when you arrived here yesterday?”

I told him how Ms. Kramer had met me at the door, how I’d gotten a glimpse of her husband in the study, and how she’d said he wasn’t feeling too “social,” as she’d put it. And I told him how Ms. Kramer had lowered the living room windows into the floor, and how she’d asked Rajinder to go pick up a prescription for her.

“Did she say what the prescription was for?”

“No.”

“And did you see Rajinder leave the house?”

“No. I just remember Elba—I mean, Ms. Kramer—telling him he needed to hurry because the pharmacy closed at six. I didn’t see him again.”

“And did he seem nervous at all? Or distracted?”

“No. Not that I could tell. But I’d only met him the one time before, so I can’t say for sure. You don’t think he had something to do with this, do you?”

He shrugged slightly. “Elba Kramer had a lot of people in and out of the property—repairmen, hair stylists, assistants, etcetera. Until we have all the facts, I’m not closing any doors. Do you recall seeing anyone else in the house while you were here?”

I said, “Yes. When I first arrived, there was a woman in the front yard. The gardener. She was pruning those tall shrubs in the front.”