Блейз Клемент - Even Cat Sitters Get The Blues

Guidry said, “Did you give Kurtz the message?”

“That’s why I called you this afternoon, to tell you about it.”

“But you didn’t tell me.”

“When you accused me of killing the guard, I forgot.”

“Kurtz doesn’t know about the call either?”

I shook my head and winced. “I should have told him. The message must have been a code about the fire. Somebody knew there was going to be a fire and wanted to warn him.”

Another thought hit me, and I sat upright so fast I felt my brain slosh. “Guidry, the man said Ziggy is no longer an option . Did anybody check on Ziggy? Is he all right?”

“The fire marshal spoke to Kurtz, but I don’t know if he specifically asked about the iguana.”

I pushed myself up and stood swaying. “I have to go see about him.”

Guidry got up and took my arm. “The only place you’re going is to your bedroom.”

My heart gulped, and I tried to think of a graceful way to say, “Sorry, but right now I’m having a concussion.”

Then I realized by the way he was guiding me toward my bed that he hadn’t meant it in a romantic way, which made me feel like weeping again.

Guidry said, “I think you can safely sleep now, but I’m going to stick around. I’ll stretch out here on your couch.”

He turned down my covers and waited until I crawled between the sheets, then tucked me in with surprising tenderness. I was too exhausted to do anything except clutch a pillow under my cheek and fall into the abyss of blessed sleep.

FOURTEEN

I woke up to birdsong and bright light and the worst headache of my life. My first thought was of Billy Elliot, who was surely waiting behind Tom Hale’s door with all four legs crossed. So were the other dogs on my list. I had broken the first rule of professional pet sitters, which is to show up, no matter what.

Groaning, I swung my legs out of bed and stood up, only to sit right back down again. One thing for sure, I wasn’t going to be running with Billy Elliot today. A movement at the bedroom door brought my head up—Paco, with a worried look in his eyes and a hopeful smile on his lips.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty. How’s your head?”

“Dire. Why are you here?”

“Guidry met me when I came home, told me what happened.”

“I have to go see to my pets—”

“Guidry said you called somebody to do that.”

Slowly, my brain crawled to the memory of talking to Tom Hale and Joe Molina.

“Oh, yeah, I did. I forgot. Does Michael know what happened yet?”

“I had to tell him. He’ll be okay.”

I winced, getting a mental image of Michael at the firehouse flinging a water hose around like a cowboy’s lariat, practicing to capture the person who’d hit me.

Paco said, “Michael will be home tonight. Since he worked somebody else’s shift last night, he has an extra twenty-four off.”

I let out a pent-up breath I hadn’t known I was holding. Until Guidry caught the person who’d killed Ramón and knocked me out, I would feel a lot safer knowing my brother was nearby.

Paco was watching me closely. “Guidry wants you to call him when you can.”

I was afraid I would bawl if I tried to talk anymore, so I said, “I need a shower.”

“Boy, I’ll say. What’s that on your sweater?”

I hauled myself to my feet and shuffled to the hall like an old woman. “You don’t want to know.”

Of all civilized inventions, hot water is the best. I stood under a steaming torrent for a long time and let its healing power work magic. When I finally stepped out, my head was still heavy, but I didn’t feel like I had feathers for brains. I pulled my wet hair back into a ponytail, catching it just below the sore spot where I’d been clobbered, and made a fast pass at my lips with rosy gloss. With a towel around me for modesty, I padded down the hall to my office-closet and shut myself inside. When I reached for a lacy bra and thong bikini, I knew I was going to live. Otherwise, I’d have settled for cotton Hanes. I listened to my messages while I pulled on clean jeans and a fresh T, holding my breath at each one for fear it was the same man who’d left the message about Ziggy.

One was from the night before. Ethan Crane, his voice warm and intimate. “Dixie, it’s Ethan. I stayed behind at the Crab House for a while and listened to the music, and when I left there were fire trucks at the Kurtz house and a Bronco that looked like yours. Are you all right? I hope you’re safe and sound in bed, but would you let me hear from you so I’ll know whether to worry?”

Oh, shit, I’d completely forgotten about the evening with Ethan Crane. Even as I dialed his number, I wasn’t sure if my memory failure had been because of the concussion or because my subconscious hadn’t wanted to remember. Since I knew he could see the call was from me, I started talking when the line clicked open.

“Ethan, this is Dixie. I’m sorry you were worried about me last night. Actually, I wasn’t in bed, I was at Sarasota Memorial. Somebody hit me in the head and I had a concussion.”

“A concussion?”

“You know, swollen brains.”

“I know what a concussion is, I’m just … how do you get mixed up in these things, anyway?”

His voice sounded a bit aggrieved, which was all I needed to blow up. “I sure as hell don’t try to get mixed up in them, Ethan. I’m sorry you were worried, sorry I didn’t call sooner, but this is the best I can do.”

I slammed down the receiver and laced up clean white Keds, ignoring the ringing phone and not listening to the recording because I’d had all of Ethan Crane I could take for the morning.

I found Paco standing in front of my refrigerator looking morosely into its innards.

“Don’t you keep any food here?”

“Guidry ate it all.”

“Is that why there were dishes in your drain?”

“He washed dishes?”

“Come on, we need sustenance.”

Since Michael was still on duty at the firehouse, that meant going to the Village Diner on Beach Drive, where I have breakfast almost every day of the year.

When we went out on my porch, a flock of robins who’d been having a committee meeting on the railing fluttered away. Funny thing about robins, while they’re visiting us in the winter they form cooperative flocks and happily feast on berries and seeds and ripening fruit. As soon as they fly back north, they revert to their old ways, squabbling over earthworms and chasing away any other robin that comes into their self-assigned domain. Human snowbirds do the same thing. Here in Sarasota, their diet is heavy on oranges, mangoes, papayas, strawberries, avocados, and guavas, and they’re as friendly with one another as a bunch of wintering robins. But in the spring, they head back home, shut themselves up in their respective houses, and go back to meat and potatoes.

Downstairs, I saw Guidry had kept his word and had my Bronco driven home. It was parked in the carport with the keys in the ignition.

Moving toward it, I said, “I’ll meet you at the diner. I’ll have to go see to the cats after we eat.”

Paco hesitated a bit and then nodded. That’s the great thing about Paco. He protects, but he doesn’t hover.

When I passed the Kurtz house, I slowed to stare at a chubby man dressed in a long brown caftan that looked like it was made with feedsack burlap. He had a giant cross hanging from a rough chain around his neck, and he was wagging a sign at passing traffic. The sign had a Bible verse in red lettering—Revelation 13:15-18. Not being one who knows Bible verses, I didn’t know what it referred to, but I wasn’t surprised to see him. Murders bring out crazies of every stripe. It’s simply something that law-enforcement people accept as part of the terrain.