Блейз Клемент - The Cat Sitter And The Canary

Carthage frowned, “Did you talk to her?”

“No. But Ms. Kramer said she was like a member of the family.”

“When was this?”

“When we were sitting in the living room. Rajinder had brought in some iced tea, and she said it was made with mint from the garden.”

He nodded. “The gardener’s name is Sally Ridge. She’s worked for Mr. Greco about ten years. She started out as a maid, but she hurt her back in a car accident, so now she helps with the garden, runs errands, shopping, etcetera.”

While he was talking, my eyes had fallen on a tiny yellow feather that lay at the edge of the Persian carpet closest to the door. About three feet farther in were two more feathers, one right next to the other, and then beyond that were a few more. I followed the line they made all the way across the carpet to the far wall of the study, where there was a large window—or, rather, what remained of a large window. Its splintered panes were hanging in pieces, some held in place only by the shards of glass that still clung to them, swinging gently in the breeze from outside. Along the top of the window was a brass bar, draped with folds of maroon velvet curtains so thick they would normally have blocked out every ounce of daylight, but midway down there was nothing left of them but tattered, bullet-torn shreds.

“Mrs. Hemingway?”

“Huh?”

“I asked what happened after you had tea…?”

“Sorry. I zoned out there for a minute … This is kind of overwhelming. Ms. Kramer was showing me around the pool house when it happened, but…”

He nodded. “I know. She could easily have brought you in this room first. Those curtains were closed when the gunman opened fire, so he was essentially shooting blind, but he made up for that with the sheer number of bullets he unloaded. From the pattern of the damage, we can tell he made at least three passes: one at chest level, one about waist height, and another along the floor. In other words, he made sure no one in this room got out alive. Well, that is, except…”

He directed my attention to the top left corner of the window, where there was a brass chain about three feet long hanging from the ceiling. A gold hoop, roughly three inches in diameter, dangled at its end.

“That birdcage would’ve been right above eye level.”

I said, “Which means…”

“Which means it just missed being blown to smithereens.”

I stared at the empty space where the cage would have been. Carthage was right. About a foot or so below the brass hoop, the velvet curtains hung in threads, but above they were completely intact.

I couldn’t think of anything else to say, except, “Wow.”

“Yeah. That’s one lucky canary.”

“Yeah…”

I turned away from the window to face him. Over his shoulder I could see the doorway into the room across the hall. I heard his voice echo in my head. “Until we have all the facts, I’m not closing any doors.”

He held his phone out again, and I noticed there was a little red timer on the screen, ticking away just under the cartoon microphone. “So, Mrs. Hemingway, how long would you say you were sitting in the living room before Ms. Kramer took you over to the pool house?”

I said, “Yeah,” and stepped around him into the hall.

The room directly opposite the office was a guest bedroom. There was a queen-size bed with an orange-and-yellow striped comforter spread across it, and on the far wall was a white-lacquered dresser with a fringed lamp on top. I could tell the room didn’t get used much. It seemed a little empty compared with the rest of the house. Plus, there were a few boxes sitting on the bed and a couple more stacked against the wall on the side of the dresser. There was another box standing open at the foot of the bed with a box cutter lying next to it, and inside were stacks of clear plastic boxes with various pieces of jewelry inside—brooches, bracelets, earrings—nothing that looked particularly expensive, but I could tell it was probably all handmade.

There was also a little wire birdcage on the dresser, with a single sheet of newspaper laid underneath. Attached to the side of the cage on the inside was a small acrylic-coated mirror, along with a plastic yellow perch and matching feed cups. The whole thing looked cheap and flimsy, like something you might pick up at a discount market or a dollar store. I figured it was probably the cage Ms. Kramer’s bird had come in when she bought it.

I turned to find Detective Carthage standing in the open doorway behind me. He had a slightly annoyed look on his face.

“Mrs. Hemingway, why do I think you’re not listening to me?”

I could feel my jaw tightening. I said, “Yesterday, when Ms. Kramer was showing me around the house, I didn’t see this room.”

“Yes…?”

I looked down. To the left of the doorway, lying in a wadded heap on the floor, was a thin cotton sheet. It was dark navy blue and small, like something for a child’s bed or a crib.

I said, “I didn’t see this room because this door was closed.”

He frowned slightly. “So … what are you saying?”

I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it before, but it was like something had clicked in my head. Or, more precisely, like my mind had been trapped in a deep, dark cave, miles underground, and someone had switched on a lightbulb … right in front of my face.

I felt my eyebrows creep up my forehead as I lowered my voice to a whisper.

“Is Rajinder still with Ms. Kramer?”

He shook his head. “He left a while ago. Why?”

I said, “I think we better go check on her.”

28

The first thing I saw when I opened the door to the pool house was Jane, Ms. Kramer’s canary, perched inside her gold birdcage all alone on the long glass coffee table in the living area. As I closed the door behind me, she pivoted her head from side to side and eyed me suspiciously.

There was a palpable stillness in the room. I took a couple of steps forward and tried to swallow, but my throat was so tight I could barely manage it. I peered down the hallway toward the spa area, but there was nothing I could see that would indicate anyone was there.

I stepped back slowly to the door and then heard a muffled sigh.

Elba Kramer was slumped in the near corner of the white leather sofa, still dressed in the linen slacks and gauzy blouse she’d worn when I first met her, although now there was a rust-colored smear on her right cuff. I realized with a shiver it was probably dried blood. On the floor between the sofa and the coffee table was a wineglass next to an almost empty bottle of red wine.

As I stepped closer, she opened her eyes.

“Hello, Dixie.”

I let out a sigh of relief and sat down in one of the chairs opposite her. “Hi, Ms. Kramer. How are you doing?”

She nodded. “Everyone keeps asking me that.”

“Sorry. Dumb question, I know. I came over to talk to you because … well, I was speaking with Detective Carthage, and there was something he wanted me to ask you.”

She let her head fall back against the sofa, and I noticed there were watery trails of mascara running down her cheeks. “They’re trying to get rid of me, I know. I just needed a little more time here. This was our home for so long, Albert and me. It’s hard to imagine walking away without him. There were so many things we still wanted to do. So many plans…” Tears sprung to her eyes. “I still can’t believe it.”

I leaned forward. “Elba, I wish there was something I could tell you that would help.”

She shook her head and smiled. “You’re so sweet. But don’t worry about me. I’m pretty good at dealing with this kind of stuff … I’ve been through hard times before. I’ll survive. I just wanted to sit here a little while longer, in the home we built together. I have a feeling once I leave I’ll never come back. Although I get it. I really do. I’m just in the way here. And the sooner I’m gone, the sooner the detectives can figure out what happened … why anyone would want to hurt us.”