Блейз Клемент - The Cat Sitter's Cradle

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For Blaize

Acknowledgments

Deepest thanks go to Marcia Markland, my mother’s longtime editor and friend, without whom this particular Dixie Hemingway mystery (and quite possibly all of its predecessors) would not exist. Marcia was the catalyst for true joy in my mother’s life—for that, and for her invaluable role in the shaping of this book, I am eternally grateful.

I am also deeply indebted to Hellyn Sher for improving my life in every way; to Dana Beck for inspiring me to dig deeper; to Mike Harder for playing the bad cop; to Detective Sergeant Chris Iorio of the Sarasota County Sheriff’s Department for his patience and insight; to the team of Linda Sher, Stanley Sher, and Jeremy Sher for their advice on immigration law; to Dr. Anna Owren Fayne for her priceless advice on veterinary medicine; to India Cooper for her extraordinary copyediting; to associate editor Kat Brzozowski for providing wise answers to my dumb questions; to Al Zuckerman, my agent at Writer’s House; to Elizabeth Cuthrell and Steven Tuttleman for their love and support; to Suzanne Beecher for being an angel on Earth; to my family for loving each other in good times and bad; to my brother Don, the only idol I’ve ever known; to Dave, who opened the window that time; and finally, to my mother’s readers, who make it possible for Dixie to enjoy yet another glorious sunset.

The best thing about the future is that it only comes one day at a time.

— Abraham Lincoln

Contents

Title Page

Copyright Notice

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Epigraph

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Also by Blaize Clement

About the Authors

Copyright

1

It was about 6:00 A.M. when Rufus and I saw Joyce Metzger on the walking path that runs around the perimeter of Glebe Park at the north end of Siesta Key. Rufus is a scruffy-faced schnauzer who firmly believes that he’s in total charge of whatever street he happens to be walking on, so he let out a little wuf! to announce our presence. Joyce had Henry the VIII on a leash, and they were both studying with intense curiosity something that was lying on the path. Joyce had squatted down low to see better, and Henry the VIII, being a tiny miniature dachshund, was already down low. When Rufus barked again they both looked up, and their faces brightened in recognition.

I’m Dixie Hemingway, no relation to you-know-who. I’m a cat sitter on Siesta Key, a semitropical barrier island in the Gulf of Mexico, just off Sarasota, Florida. It’s tiny. The whole place is less than four square miles, and probably at least one of those square miles is taken up by ponds and lagoons. Most of my clients are cats, with just a few dogs. Occasionally there’s a hamster or a bird or something with scales, although I prefer to let other pet sitters take the snakes. Don’t get me wrong, I admire snakes. In the Garden of Eden, the serpent was the only honest one. But anybody who knows me knows I can’t stand dropping live, squirming mice into a snake’s open mouth.

Until about five years ago, I risked my life every day as a deputy sheriff, but after what you might call a bump in the road of life, I went a little nuts. Well, a lot nuts. The sheriff’s department and I came to a mutual agreement: I was too messed up to wear a sheriff’s badge or carry a gun, and it was probably a good idea for me to take a break from law enforcement. That’s when I started my own pet-sitting business. Now that I’m somewhat socially acceptable again, I’m okay around guns, but I prefer working with animals to humans. Animals don’t let you down, and they’re always there when you need them.

Joyce said, “Come look at this, Dixie! I’m almost certain it’s a resplendent quetzal!”

I brought Rufus close to my side and pulled up next to Joyce. There on the ground was a parrotlike bird with bright green wings, a red breast, a banana yellow beak, and a fluffy chartreuse crest that sat atop its head like a fringed helmet. Its green tail feathers were easily three times the length of its body and looked like two long Christmas ribbons, gleaming with a violet iridescence.

I said, “Huh.”

Joyce said, “This may be the first resplendent quetzal ever seen in Florida!”

I said, “Huh?”

Rufus wagged his tail vigorously as if to make up for my ignorance.

Lord knows the Key has practically every bird known to man. They all touch down about the same time tourist season starts, so our little island’s population increases tenfold with both feathered and nonfeathered globe-trotters. Pelicans, parakeets, terns, plovers, spoonbills, egrets, herons—and those are just the ones you see every day. It’s a birder’s paradise. There are probably at least two hundred species of birds that make their way through the Key at some time of the year, so we might as well have a few resplendent whatchamacallits too.

“Resplendent quetzals, ” Joyce said. “They’re the national bird of Guatemala, and they’re on the endangered species list. The ancient Aztecs thought they were gods of light and goodness, and it was considered a mortal crime to kill them.”

Rufus made a snorting noise, and he and Henry the VIII exchanged a look.

I said, “Joyce, you do realize that bird is dead?”

“I know, but if there’s one, there could be others. It looks like some kind of parrot, but that long tail and those shiny feathers are a sure giveaway. And see the yellow beak? No, this is a resplendent quetzal alright.”

I scratched my left ankle with the toe of my right Ked. I admire and respect birders, but I’m not sure I understand their excitement when they spot something that for very good reasons probably does not want to be spotted. If I were a bird, I don’t think I’d be very happy with hordes of giddy bird-watchers turning up and pointing their binoculars at me and scribbling in their little notebooks. Not to mention hunters with pellet guns and kids with slingshots. I’d much rather flit around behind a canopy of leaves and branches and hope nobody ever noticed me.

Joyce had pulled off a white bandanna tied around her neck and laid it on the ground beside the bird.

“What the heck are you doing?”

She gestured toward her house. “I’m going to put it in my freezer.”

“Your freezer ?”

“Yep. Then I’m going to call the ornithologists at the University of Tampa. They can analyze its stomach contents and tell whether it’s been held captive or if it flew here. Maybe it got blown off course in a hurricane or something.”

She rolled the bird into her bandanna and put it in her shoulder bag. Rufus pulled on his leash and pointed his nose at the brush beside the trail; he had probably had enough talk about dead birds.

I said, “Well, you know what they say, a bird in the freezer is worth two in the—”