Блейз Клемент - The Cat Sitter's Cradle

“What the hell?”

I said, “August—”

Sergeant Owens interrupted. “Sir, is this your house?”

August said, “I live here. It’s my parents’ house.”

“And your parents are away?”

“Yes, sir, they’re in Tampa.”

Owens nodded thoughtfully. “Alright. You have a number where they can be reached?”

August looked at me. “Where’s Becca?”

I said, “August, I called the police. I went out to get Charlotte and—”

Sergeant Owens stepped forward and said, “August, would you mind waiting out here while we have a look inside?”

August began to tremble slightly as he moved out on the porch. I wasn’t sure if it was the cool morning air or the all-night drinking, but suddenly all the color seemed to drain from his face. I felt a pang of guilt for not having woken him up earlier to warn him that something was wrong, even though I knew I’d done the right thing. Now, all his swagger had fallen away. He looked like a little boy, wide-eyed and lost in the woods.

Owens glanced over at one of the deputies and said, “Kendrick, would you please get this young man a blanket while we have a look inside?”

The deputy nodded and motioned for August to follow. They walked down to the squad van.

When they were out of range of hearing, Owens turned to me and said, “Who’s Becca?”

“She’s his sister, but I don’t think she’s here.”

He nodded. “Okay, where is it?”

I said, “By the pool. Go through the archway on your right and through the living room to the big sliding glass doors. I can show you.”

Owens pointed at another deputy. “Hanson, take Dixie down and wait by the cars, and keep an eye on the front. The rest of you lock down the grounds and let me know right away if anything looks out of place. Morgan, Lyle, you’re with me.”

He pulled out some blue rubber gloves and booties and passed them to Deputy Morgan and another officer. They all slipped them over their hands and feet. Rule number one at any crime scene is to ensure the safety of both the witnesses and the responding officers. I knew Owens was going in to search every single inch of the house, not just for evidence, but for anything else that might be hiding inside. Like another victim. Or a murderer.

I shuddered at the thought that there could still be someone lurking inside. Deputy Hanson motioned to me, and I followed him down to the squad van, where August was waiting with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. I looked back to see Owens, Morgan, and the other deputy moving slowly through the front door and into the house.

I turned to Deputy Hanson and said, “I have the cat in my car. Is it okay if I just check on her?”

Hanson had jet black hair cut close to his ears and a little bit of stubble on his chin. He couldn’t have been much older than August.

He said, “Where’s your car?”

“It’s on the street, just down by the gate.”

“Let’s walk down there.”

I walked down to the gate with August and Deputy Hanson close behind me. We went around to the passenger side of the Bronco, and I opened up the door. Charlotte hissed from inside her cardboard prison, just to make a statement, not with any real ferocity behind it.

Deputy Hanson turned to August. “This is your parents’ cat?”

“Yeah,” August said. “She always acts like that.”

I said, “I think she’s probably not too happy cooped up in this box.”

Hanson walked around the back of my car, and August turned to me. “Dixie, what the hell is happening?”

“August, I’m sorry, but I really think you should let the sergeant tell you.”

Hanson had noticed Joyce’s antique birdcage in the back of the Bronco. He raised one eyebrow. “You always travel with a birdcage?”

I said, “No, sir, I was walking with a friend yesterday morning and we found an exotic bird in the woods. I’m picking it up from the vet this morning.”

August stared at the birdcage without blinking, like he was studying it with every cell in his body, but I knew better. He wasn’t stupid. I was soaking wet, and there were cops and ambulances everywhere. He was bound to have figured out by now that something very bad had happened in the pool, and I knew he must have been thinking it had something to do with Becca.

Sergeant Owens came out on the front porch and called out to Deputy Hanson, who turned and motioned for us to follow him. I could tell he didn’t want to leave me alone with August. And then I realized: For all he knew it was August that needed protecting, not me.

Until it was ruled otherwise, August and I were not only witnesses. We were suspects.

11

The scene of a murder is like the inside of a beehive. Everyone has a job to do, a job for which they are specifically trained. The body lies at the center, enshrouded in perfect stillness, while all the crime specialists buzz around it in ever-widening circles, performing their one particular skill with single-minded concentration, seemingly oblivious to everything and everyone around them. Together they operate as one efficient organism, all in service of answering a deceptively simple question: What happened here?

Sergeant Owens had asked me to wait in the living room, and even though I’d been in this kind of situation before, I felt about as out of place as if I actually was inside a beehive. I was sitting on the couch, wrapped in towels with a blanket over my legs, trying to stay warm. My hair was still damp, and my clothes reeked of chlorine.

I had a partial view of the proceedings out on the lanai. The paramedics had moved Mr. Harwick’s body onto a blue plastic tarp and were huddled over it. A photographer was circling around the edge of the pool, taking pictures from every angle. Beyond the lanai, deputies were stringing up a line of yellow police tape to seal off the entire property and more than likely the adjoining properties as well.

Sergeant Owens was talking to somebody I didn’t recognize, a rangy, long-boned woman in her midforties, with sorrel hair and skin threatening to freckle. She wore a knee-length skirt approximately the same reddish brown color as her hair, with a beige blouse that was ruffled down the front and a dull gray scarf tied in a knot around her neck. The next thing I knew she and Owens were walking up to me.

With a firm handshake, she said, “Samantha McKenzie, homicide.”

“Dixie Hemingway. I’m the pet sitter. You’re Guidry’s replacement?”

A defensive blush rose in her cheeks. “So they tell me.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll bet you get that a lot.”

“I’m used to it. Miss Hemingway, I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind answering a few questions?”

“Sure, except it’s almost nine, and I have other pets waiting for me.”

She nodded. “We won’t be long. I understand you have the owner’s cat in your car?”

“Yes, I took her with me after I tried to revive Mr. Harwick.”

“And why is that?”

I looked at the scene outside on the lanai. “I didn’t want to leave her here alone with…”

McKenzie nodded. “And how long have you known August?”

“You mean Mr. Harwick’s son? I only just met him this morning.”

She looked down at a clipboard and read from the police report.

“That’s right, he arrived when you were waiting in your car with the cat.”

“No, he came home before I found the body.”

She looked up at me. “Oh? You just told me you didn’t want to leave the cat alone in the house after you revived the body. Where was August when that happened?”

My mind was beginning to feel buttery. Detective McKenzie was frumpy and plain on the outside, but she was sharp as a razor on the inside. She was testing me. Deputy Morgan had obviously told her everything I’d said when he arrived, and now she was deliberately trying to trip me up, looking for any inconsistencies in my story. I could feel my entire body getting warm, and my armpits felt slippery.