Блейз Клемент - The Cat Sitter And The Canary

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Table of Contents

About the Authors

Copyright Page

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For Mom

Acknowledgments

As always, my deepest gratitude goes first to my editor, Marcia Markland (this time perhaps a little deeper, if that’s even possible), for her guidance and patience; thanks also to the rest of my team at St. Martin’s Press/Minotaur, including assistant editor Quressa Robinson, senior marketing manager Martin Quinn, and copy editor Angela Gibson. Thanks also to Dana Beck for saving the rabbit from a certain death-by-celery; to Hellyn Sher for preventing me from rearranging the Florida Keys; to William McNeil for the title; to David Urrutia for his perseverance; to Detective Chris Iorio and the men and women of the Sarasota Sheriff’s Department; to Al Zuckerman, my agent, for offering to loan me money; and finally to all of Dixie’s fans and readers, who’ve welcomed me with hearts wide open.

Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul,

And sings the tune without the words,

And never stops at all

—Emily Dickinson

1

I don’t like surprises.

In fact, I’m a lot happier when things are downright predictable … boring I guess is the right word. Not that I’ve always been like this. Once upon a time I was as carefree and breezy as the next idiot, rolling with life’s punches like a champion fighter. But a girl can only take so many hits before she starts to go a little nuts, so if you’d prefer to stay on my good side, don’t jump out of the closet and scare me, don’t surprise me with a birthday party, and for the love of God, don’t come knocking on my door without calling first.

I’m Dixie Hemingway, no relation to you-know-who. I live on Siesta Key, a little tadpole of an island that shimmies off the shore of Sarasota, about midway down the west coast of Florida.

In summer, when the sun drapes herself over our shoulders like a bear rug, we’ve got fewer than six or seven thousand permanent residents. But in season, while the rest of the country is avoiding overhanging roofs for fear of falling icicles, we’re wearing flip-flops and drinking cervezas down on the beach. That’s when our population swells to more than twenty thousand. We call them snowbirds. They come (with pets in tow) from all over the world to warm their weary, frost-nipped wings and relax with a daiquiri or two (or three) on one of our world-famous beaches.

It’s hard to imagine how our little island stays above water with all that extra weight, and us locals like to complain about the traffic and the tourists stepping out into the road like they own the place, but in truth it keeps our economy in the black. Besides, we’ve got a constant sea-kissed breeze floating through the palm fronds, dolphins playing in the clear blue ocean, and blooming bougainvillea scenting the air with just the slightest hint of honeysuckle. Who could ask for more?

I always say I’m a cat sitter because that’s how it started, but really I’m a whatever sitter. I’ll happily take care of whatever you’ve got: dogs, hamsters, parrots, fish, ferrets, iguanas—all God’s creatures, great and small.

Except snakes. If somebody calls up with a pet snake they need looking after, I try to keep my voice at a normal volume and politely refer them elsewhere. It’s not that I hate snakes, there’s just something about dropping little squirming mice into a snake’s open mouth that gives me the creeps. Plus, I’m not so sure it was God that came up with the whole idea of snakes in the first place.

I used to be a deputy with the Sarasota Sheriff’s Department. I wore a gun on my hip and a five-pointed star on my chest. I patrolled the streets in my cruiser like a blond badass. Or at least that’s what I told myself. In those days, things were pretty quiet around here. We had our share of criminals (what tourist town doesn’t?), but all in all, it was a pretty quiet life.

It’s funny, since I left the force and became a cat sitter, things haven’t always been so quiet …

* * *

The sun was starting to set by the time Charlie and I turned down Old Vineyard Lane and rolled to a stop in front of Caroline Greaver’s house. Charlie is a nine-year-old, fluffy-faced Lhasa apso who thinks he’s a much bigger, more athletic breed—like a greyhound or a German shepherd. Charlie’s humans, Otis and Deborah Weber, are a retired couple from Ontario who live on Bird Key, our smaller, fancier sister island just north of here. They’re big-time animal lovers, so the first thing they did when they moved here was drive over to the local pet shelter and ask for the dog nobody else wanted.

That’s how they got Charlie.

He’s a good boy, but before the Webers came along he’d been adopted seven times, shuttled in and out of seven different homes, with each new owner telling the shelter that he was just too destructive to be left alone. The Webers were volunteering at the Women’s Exchange, a giant consignment shop that donates all its proceeds to local charities and art programs, so Charlie was accompanying me on my rounds for the day.

Just as I reached into the backseat to unhook his harness, Charlie’s back went stiff as a board, and he let out a low, rumbling growl. I looked up to see a woman two houses down. She was untying a couple of balloons—one forest green and the other bright yellow—from the lamppost in front of her house, but then I realized it wasn’t the woman Charlie was growling at.

There was a man standing at Caroline’s front door.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, in an expensive-looking three-piece suit and tie, holding a giant suitcase with one hand and a slim black briefcase in the other. I got out of the car and shut the door before Charlie jumped into the driver’s seat and barked in protest.

I said, “Hi, can I help you?”

The man flashed a big-toothed smile and then ambled down the driveway, dragging his big suitcase behind him.

He said, “Ingrid?”

“No, I’m the cat sitter.”

“Oh.” He frowned. “There’s nobody home. I tried to call ahead but there was no answer.”

He had a thick Scottish brogue, so thick in fact that it took me a second or two to understand him. He was obviously speaking English, but what he’d said sounded more like, “ Eh troy to cull a hate, bother was naw ants uh.”

He was as handsome as a cliché: late thirties or early forties, with curly, unkempt hair, dark brown except for an even sprinkling of premature silver, and eyes a deep black. The first thing I thought was that if they held a Mr. Scotland beauty contest somewhere, he’d be the winner in a heartbeat.

“Do you know if she’s home?”

I glanced up at the house. Caroline was away with her new boyfriend on a boat tour of the Florida Keys.