Блейз Клемент - The Cat Sitter's Whiskers

It was probably naive of me, but I just didn’t think Ethan could be right—that because Mona was capable of such violence to herself, it naturally followed she was capable of murder. In fact, if anything I wondered if it wasn’t the exact opposite: Instead of directing that rage at someone else, she’d pointed it inward.

There was a time—it probably didn’t last more than a few hours—when I felt that kind of passionate rage myself. I don’t like to think about it because deep down inside I know it was wrong, but more than that, I don’t like to think about it because I’m not ashamed.

It was after I left the hospital, after Todd and Christy were taken to the county coroner. I was on my way home. I had driven my department cruiser instead of the Bronco to the hospital. I wanted to get there fast, so I had my lights and sirens going full-blast the whole way. Afterward, once I pulled out of the parking lot of the hospital, after it was over, I kept them off. I wanted to draw as little attention to myself as possible.

I’d gotten info on the man who was driving the car from the responding deputy, and I’d run it through the mobile laptop in my cruiser. I’ve forgotten it now, or I’ve pushed it down so far I can’t remember it, but I knew his name. I also knew where he lived, and I had a screen-capture of his driver’s license.

That night, I drove to his house.

He was ninety years old. It happened in the parking lot at the Publix grocery store. He said he’d accidentally hit the gas instead of the brake, and that he felt terrible about it. At the funeral later, his son told me his father had cried every day since, but sitting outside his house I didn’t know any of that yet, and if I had I’m not sure it would have mattered.

The last words I said to Todd were just before he’d gone to pick up Christy at day care. I said, “We need some milk and Cheerios, and I think we’re out of orange juice, too.”

The last thing he said to me was, “See you a little after six.”

I don’t pretend to know how I got there, but I do know what I was doing outside that old man’s house at three in the morning.

I was going to kill him.

I feel guilty about a lot of things. I wish I hadn’t asked Todd to stop and get stuff for breakfast. I wish I’d gotten it myself earlier in the day. Or, I wish I’d gone to pick up Christy from day care instead of Todd, but I had a headache and I didn’t feel like it. I wish I’d told Todd I loved him after he said, “See you a little after six.” I wish I had kissed Christy on both cheeks instead of just one when she left for school that morning … I could go on and on and on.

But I don’t feel guilty about what I wanted to do to that man.

I don’t.

* * *

As soon as I swung around the dogleg on Higel Avenue toward the bridge to the mainland, I let up on the gas a little bit. I love this stretch of road, mainly because it’s festooned with blooming jacarandas and big giant palms that sway in the breeze, their fronds splayed out like fingers. They look like they’re handing out high fives to everyone who enters the island, or maybe waving farewell to everyone who leaves it. I always have the urge to stick my arm out the car and wave back, but I know I’d look crazy if I did that, so I keep it inside and wave with my hand below the windows where no one can see.

The homes on either side of the road along here are mostly bungalows and modest shore houses (with a few mansions sprinkled here and there just to remind you where you are) and they’re all painted in the powdery palette of the beach—sky-blue, shell-pink, sandy yellow—like the baubles hanging from a baby’s nursery mobile or a box of colored chalks.

About the time I got even with Bay Island Park, I heard the distant clang of a bell and sighed. When tourists hear that bell for the first time, they probably look around for the train that’s about to cross the tracks up ahead, but the closest thing we have to a train around here is the old “Cherry the Choo Choo” kiddie ride bolted to the sidewalk outside the Village Ice Cream Shop. The bell is the signal the bridge-keeper uses to let everybody know he’s about to raise the drawbridge.

There were a few cars in front of me that had already rolled to a stop, so I pulled in behind them and switched off the ignition as the bridge began its slow salute. To my right were five or six sailboats in the bay, lumbering around in a wide circle with their sails furled, waiting to pass through to the Gulf. Luckily, the whole process is surprisingly quick, but it still meant I’d have a good ten to fifteen minutes before I’d be moving again.

I tilted my seat back and considered taking a quick catnap, but I figured now was as good a time as any to call Detective McKenzie. I’m not sure why, but I’d been avoiding it … probably because every time I talked to her I felt like a six-year-old on her first day of kindergarten.

She answered on the second ring with a curt, “McKenzie.”

I said, “Detective, it’s Dixie Hemingway.”

“You must have read my mind, Dixie, I was just about to call you. There’s something I want to show you. I’m wondering if you’re able to meet me at Levi Radcliff’s trailer first thing in the morning.”

The thought of going back to that trailer made me sick to my stomach, but I said, “Sure, I’d be happy to.”

“Excellent. 5:15 alright?”

“Umm, 5:15 … a.m.?”

“No. 5:15 p.m. When I use the term ‘first thing in the morning’ I generally mean at the end of the day.”

I stammered, “No, it’s fine I…”

“Considering your hours, I just assumed—”

I said, “No, no. Of course, it’s not a problem. I forget I’m not the only person who’s up that early.”

“Great. See you there.”

I think I managed to say, “Uh,” before the line went dead, but that was about it. I sat there staring at my phone in disbelief. Sometimes I wonder how McKenzie ever manages to solve a single case, and not just because she has the social skills of a skunk with OCD, but because she seems entirely incapable of paying attention to anything in the world except what goes on inside her own damn head.

Just then the phone rang again. It was McKenzie.

“Dixie, I believe you called me?”

I rolled my eyes. “Yes. I did.”

“Was there something you wanted?”

I thought for a second. “No, I just wanted to hear the sound of your voice.”

I heard her laugh, which I think may have been a first for me, and then she sighed. “You’ll have to forgive me. It’s been a very busy week. What can I do for you?”

“Well, it may not be very useful, but something happened this morning that I think you should know about … Mona Duffy was waiting for me at the Village Diner.”

I paused for dramatic effect, thinking McKenzie would interject with a Wow! or a Gosh! to show her surprise, but apparently she wasn’t playing along.

I said, “So, I have breakfast there every morning, and Tanisha, the cook, told her what time I’m usually there. Of course, when I walked in and saw her, I was terrified. I thought maybe she was still thinking I was somehow involved with Levi’s death in some way, but I was wrong. She just wanted to apologize, sort of … Well, to be honest I think she just needed somebody to talk to. But she told me something you should know. She loved Levi, but I’m not sure he felt the same way. They weren’t engaged.”

I paused again and tried to catch my breath. I realized I was rambling a little, but surely that little tidbit of information warranted some kind of acknowledgment on her part. Finally, I said, “Hello?”

“Yes, Dixie, sorry. I was just thinking. I had difficulty getting Ms. Duffy to talk at all, except to remind me that she has free speech and we live in a free country, so I wasn’t expecting this. I was certain you were going to tell me she said something about about Levi’s stepbrothers.”