Блейз Клемент - The Cat Sitter's Cradle

“I know, I know, I know,” I said. “But there’s something else, something that explains why Kenny has led such a secretive life here.”

Michael raised his eyebrows. “What is that?”

I said, “Mr. Harwick is Kenny’s father.”

Michael had just taken a sip of coffee and almost spit it out all over the table. “What? How is that even possible?”

I told them Kenny’s entire story, and even Michael, who’s about the most skeptical person I’ve ever known, had to admit it was almost too crazy to make up. He also brought up a point I hadn’t thought of before: Even though Kenny worked for me, he didn’t have anything to gain by explaining himself. If he had been planning on murdering Mr. Harwick, why would he have called me first to warn me about it? Any fool would know that would’ve aroused suspicion about him right away.

I felt a sense of relief that Michael saw some logic in the whole thing. So much had happened in the last forty-eight hours I wasn’t sure I still had the ability to see straight. I was grateful he didn’t think I’d finally gone off the deep end.

Paco had grown more and more quiet the whole time we’d been talking. Now he was holding his newspaper out in front of him, taking an occasional sip from his coffee cup.

I said, “Paco, what do you think?”

He lowered the paper. “Hmm?”

We both saw it in his eyes immediately. Paco’s not normally one to hold back his opinions, especially when it comes to matters of law and order. There was a reason he wasn’t chiming in with his thoughts. He knew something.

I said, “What did you think of Kenny’s story about Mr. Harwick?”

He nodded nonchalantly. “Yeah. Sounds about right to me,” he said and went back to his paper.

Michael and I shared a look. As a member of the special crimes unit, Paco has a lot of experience with all kinds of investigations. One week he might be meeting with an informant to root out an illegal narcotics ring, and the next he might be working undercover as a temp in a law firm, gathering evidence for a corporate fraud investigation. If he was somehow involved in an investigation into the affairs of Sonnebrook or the Harwick family, that was about as much as we would get out of him.

Michael turned to me. “So please tell me Kenny isn’t running out of town.”

“No. By now he’s turned himself over to the police. I made him promise he’d go straight there after we talked.”

He sighed. “Good. So your work is done. Right?”

I bit into a juicy slice of mango. “Right.”

* * *

Weekends are usually busy on the Key, especially on a nice day. I was riding my bike up Midnight Pass, and I thought to myself, It’s not just a nice day. It’s a glorious day. The sky was a deep periwinkle blue, there wasn’t a cloud in sight, and the sun felt warm and healing on my body. The road was chock-full of cars and joggers and couples on bicycles. Every twenty feet or so I passed a family or a group of kids, all draped in towels and carrying chairs and coolers to the beach.

Right before I got to the village center I took a quick detour down a side lane so I could ride by a pair of ancient magnolia trees. They’ve been there for about as long as I can remember, and I always make a point of going by them when I’m on my bike. They were in full bloom, their white cuplike blossoms tilted toward the sun. Their heady, sweet perfume was so powerful I could taste it on my tongue.

I pedaled into town and found the Bronco right where I’d left it the night before, parked just a couple of doors down from Yolanda, which was in the midst of a bustling brunch crowd. There were six or seven tables on the sidewalk outside, and I saw Alfred bringing out a tray of drinks. I indulged myself in a tiny fantasy in which Ethan and I were sitting at one of the tables sharing a frozen margarita. Something about having a margarita in the middle of the day always seems so decadent and wrong. I resolved to make that happen with Ethan as soon as possible.

I threw my bike into the back of the Bronco and headed over to Tom Hale’s condo. I knew Pete had been by there earlier and let Billy Elliot out to do his business, but I had a feeling that Billy might not have gotten a good run in—Pete’s knees aren’t what they used to be. So I thought I’d stop by and take him for a short whirl around the parking lot. Plus, I had some other business I wanted to get Tom’s help with.

The entire way over I couldn’t get Ethan out of my head. Every time I blinked I saw his deep brown eyes looking into mine, and when I gripped the steering wheel and turned the Bronco into the parking lot at Tom’s, I could feel the back of his neck in my hands. I looked at myself in the mirror as I rode up the elevator to Tom’s apartment. For somebody who’d been drunk the night before and barely slept a wink, I didn’t look too bad, if I do say so myself.

I tapped on the door and opened it a peek. “Tom?”

“I’m back here, Dixie.”

I found Tom sitting in his wheelchair at the dining table with his laptop and a stack of papers laid out in front of him. Billy Elliot came racing to the door to greet me as I came in.

Tom took off his glasses. “Hey, we missed you this morning. You know Pete stopped by already, right?”

“I know. I’m sorry, Tom. I had a busy schedule today, so I had to ask Pete to fill in for me, but I thought I’d take Billy Elliot out for a jog if that’s okay.”

“Not a problem at all. We thought maybe you were sleeping in because you had a big date last night.”

Before I could stop myself, I said, “What? Who said that?” at about the highest, shrillest level my voice is capable of.

Tom’s eyes widened. “Whoa, I was kidding there, Dixie, but looks like maybe I hit on something.”

I pulled a couple of wandering strands of hair away from my face and smoothed them over my ears. “No, not at all, I’m just surprised because … because…”

He was grinning, and I’m sure my eyes were wandering willy-nilly all over their sockets as I searched for some plausible reason to be yelling like a howler monkey.

“Okay, fine. I had a date last night. Big deal!”

He chuckled. “Hey, I’m pretty good, huh? Maybe I should be a private detective.”

I said, “Huh. Funny you should mention that, because I actually have some detective work for you. I was talking to a friend of mine, and she told me that in Spain, Kermit the Frog is known as René, but last night I was at a Spanish restaurant, and the owner told me that in Spain they call him something different.”

Tom put his glasses on and slid his laptop over. “Hmmm, let’s see.”

His fingers clicked away at the keyboard. I’ve always been resistant to computers, or anything electronic, for that matter. I think I was the last person I know to even get a cell phone. I held out for as long as I could, but eventually I realized the whole world was going to leave me in the dust if I didn’t break down and get one. I was beginning to feel that way about computers.

Tom said, “Yep, he was right. They call him Gustavo in Spain.”

“Huh.”

He scrolled through a couple more screens. “That’s funny. Why don’t they just call him Kermit?”

I shrugged. “Beats me. I guess the name Kermit doesn’t translate right in Spain for some reason.”

Billy Elliot came trotting up and dropped his leash at my feet. I think he’d had enough talk about Kermit the Frog for now. I clipped his leash on his collar while he wagged his tail like a helicopter blade.

“Alright, Mr. Elliot, let’s go out for a spin, okay?”

He wiggled his whole body with excitement, and we started for the door.

Tom was still looking at his computer screen. “Yeah, here it is. This says Kermit the Frog is called René in Guatemala.”