Блейз Клемент - Raining Cat Sitters And Dogs

Maureen said, “Dixie pushed me overboard. I nearly drowned.”

I looked from her to Harry. I’d never thought either of them was perfect, but then who is? When you’re young, you’re more prone to overlook friends’ faults and forgive their weaknesses because you know you’re all still cooking and nobody’s done. But we were adults now. All three of us had been in life’s oven long enough to rise to our greatest heights.

I said, “I found the script Mo wrote for you to read when you made the fake ransom call. She took it from me and ran to the deck. I chased her and her foot got caught in a crab trap and she fell overboard.”

Harry said, “I saw you jump in after her. Hef and I were coming home and I saw you. I yelled for help, and those other guys came running.”

He didn’t seem to get the implication of my knowing about the note and the fake ransom call.

I said, “Maureen told me that Victor was already dead when you tied the anchor to him and took him out to the inlet.”

The corners of his lips tucked in, so I thought I might be connecting.

I said, “Unless Maureen comes clean and tells how Victor’s drug-running rival killed him, you’ll probably be charged with both kidnapping and murder.”

He looked quizzically at me. Then he turned and looked at Maureen.

He said, “Mo, are you saying you didn’t kill your old man? I mean, for real you didn’t kill him?”

She glared at him. “I told you I didn’t kill him!”

“I thought you just said that ’cause you didn’t want me to know. That’s the only reason I helped you.”

Now it was my turn to finally get it. Harry had thought all along that Maureen had killed Victor. To protect her from a murder investigation, he’d agreed to make the fake ransom call. And on the theory that nobody could prove she’d killed him if his body was never found, Harry had taken Victor’s corpse out in a boat and dumped him overboard. The poor guy had done it all to protect Maureen.

Maureen didn’t share my sympathy for him.

She shrugged. “That’s your problem, Harry. I told you. And that note Dixie found is in the water. Nobody will ever see it, and nobody can prove it ever existed. Anyway, you’re the one who made the fake kidnapping call, not me.”

Harry’s face registered shocked pain. “You told me to!”

She said, “That’s just your word against mine, Harry. Nobody will believe you.”

I had forgotten that Harry could be quick when he needed to be. He was at her side in a nanosecond, leaning over her with one big hand gripping her arm.

He said, “You’d do that to me?”

Drawing her neck back, she swung her other arm up and slapped the air under his face. “Get your hands off me! Who the hell do you think you are? You’re nobody!”

Harry flinched as if she had managed to hit him. Over her head, his eyes sought mine and sent me a look of sad acceptance. I had the feeling that Harry was more disappointed in Maureen for her hateful words than he was for her greed or dishonesty.

Hef didn’t have Harry’s old loyalty to Maureen. All Hef knew was that a person had tried to hurt his friend. Like a shot, the dog ran at Maureen with his teeth bared.

Still in Harry’s grip, she kicked at Hef. “Get that damn dog away from me!”

Every man has his limits, and Maureen had just pushed dumb, good-natured Harry over his.

White faced, he said, “You don’t kick my dog.” To me, he said, “Dixie, get the cops out here.”

She laughed. “Dummy, Dixie’s my friend. She won’t do that.”

I pulled my cellphone from my pocket and punched in Guidry’s number. This time he answered, and the sound of slapping windshield wipers told me he was in his car.

I said, “I’m with Harry Henry and Maureen Salazar on Harry’s house boat. They want to talk to you about how they faked Victor Salazar’s kidnapping. Maureen would also like to tell you about the rival drug dealer she believes killed Victor.”

“Are you speaking in code?”

I said, “Yes, his boat is in the Midnight Pass marina. Five minutes? That would be fine. We’ll wait for you.”

He said, “It’s raining. Give me fifteen.”

I slid the phone back in my pocket and smiled at Harry and Maureen. “The detective is on his way.”

Guidry actually made it in ten minutes, and considering the rain he had to drive through, that was some kind of record. I opened the door when he knocked. With a quizzical glance at my dirty, bedraggled, waterlogged self, he strode inside.

Harry’s grip on Maureen was still firm, and Maureen looked as if she would bolt in a second if she got a chance.

Maureen said, “I want my lawyer.”

Guidry nodded. “Fine with me. He can meet us at the station.”

Maureen said, “ She . My lawyer is a woman.”

She said it so defiantly that I felt sorry for her. Maureen was still stuck in an earlier time when it wasn’t so common for women to become lawyers. I guess being the in-house bimbo of a drug dealer would keep you from noticing that a lot of old ideas had changed.

She was right about one thing, though. She definitely needed a lawyer.

29

With a promise from Guidry that Hef wouldn’t have to spend the night in jail, I left the marina. Actually, I was pretty sure that Maureen’s lawyer would have them home by midafternoon. Filing a false claim of kidnapping is only a misdemeanor, and so is illegally disposing of a corpse. More than likely, they’d each get off with a fine for those crimes. On the other hand, while I believed Maureen’s story and expected the cops to eventually accept it, I expected them both to be suspects in Victor’s murder.

On the way home, I thought how freaky it was that a group of big-time drug dealers were gathered somewhere in Sarasota right that minute. Every Floridian suspects that some of the tasteless megamansions that ruin our views have been built with money made from drug trafficking, but we like to believe they’re retired drug traffickers. If what Maureen had said was true, a lot of them were still in business. I imagined their counterparts flying into Sarasota’s private airport in their personal jets, each of them as rich and well armed as some countries, all of them in silk suits and dark glasses, all of them anxious about losing power to the man who would be named the new jefe of the North American drug-trafficking business. It made me feel like an extra in The Sopranos .

By the time I got to my lane, the rain had resolved into a gentle soaker. The oaks and sea grape along my drive were drooping with the weight of water, and all the parakeets were hidden under their leaves. I parked under the carport and squished up the stairs to my apartment. Inside, I was undressed by the time I got to the stacked washer and dryer in the hall alcove. Everything went in, wet shorts, soggy T-shirt, damp underwear, water-logged Keds. I had been in so much water, I wouldn’t have been surprised if I’d sprouted fins.

I padded to the bathroom and hauled my tired self into the shower to let blessed warm water beat away the film of bay scum and disillusionment. I barely made it to bed before I fell into exhausted sleep.

I dreamed I went to a place with a lot of filmy white stuff that I guess was clouds. I was excited because I figured I was in heaven and that if I asked God nicely, he would send me to be with Todd and Christy. I came to a big golden gate with an arched top, the generic kind of gate you see in cartoons about heaven. I rang a doorbell and waited, a little annoyed that nobody was there to greet me. In a while, I heard a voice that wrapped around me with no source that I could see. It was a melodious voice that I associated with harps or cellos, the kinds of instruments you would expect in heaven.