It illuminated an unfinished crawl space, directly beneath the big display window. It was less than two feet high, about four feet wide, and only about three feet deep. It was the perfect size for a nice kitty hideout, but as I swept the light from one corner of the space to the next, I felt a tremor start to well up from somewhere deep inside my body. The two yellow points of light weren’t cat’s eyes.
They were the shiny brass buttons on Mr. Hoskins’s shirt.
His lifeless body was folded into a crumpled pile in the corner, lying in a pool of half-dried blood, his red beret laid across his face like a death mask.
20
It’s hard to say exactly how long I sat there on the floor, my legs folded under me, leaning back against the front of the counter. A kind of calm took over my entire body, as if I were sleepwalking and everything I’d just seen was a dream.
After a while, I pulled myself up off the floor and went out on the sidewalk. My legs were rubber, and I had to lean against the side of the building to steady myself as I pulled my phone out of my pocket. I was covered in dust and cobwebs, but at that point I didn’t really care. There was pulsing reggae music playing across the street at Amber Jack’s, and the crowd of revelers there was so loud and boisterous I wondered if Detective McKenzie would think I was at a party when she answered the phone.
As usual, she picked up on the first ring. “McKenzie here.”
I took a deep breath before I realized I hadn’t figured out how to tell her what had happened. I had just dialed her number automatically without even thinking.
I said, “Detective, it’s Dixie Hemingway. I’m not sure what to say, but … I’m standing outside Beezy’s Bookstore. I just found Mr. Hoskins.”
Without skipping a beat she said, “Is he alive?”
I tried to answer as calmly as possible. All I had to do was say one word, but when I tried it choked in my throat. After a couple more tries, McKenzie said, “Oh, Dixie … I’m so sorry.”
I blinked. I hadn’t expected that. Why she was apologizing to me, I had no idea.
“Where is he?”
I swallowed hard. “He’s hidden in the crawl space beneath the display window.”
There was a long pause. Then she said, “Dixie, I don’t know how you got in that bookstore, and for the love of God I’m not sure I want to, but don’t go back in until I get there.”
She rang off, and I almost laughed out loud. The first thing that popped into my head was No problemo—from that moment on I had absolutely no intention of ever setting foot in Beezy’s Bookstore again.
* * *
It felt like an eternity, but within a few minutes one of the sheriff’s patrol cars arrived with its lights flashing red and blue, and then a deputy in full uniform stepped out and looked up and down the street. It was Morgan. He reached into the car through the open window and pulled out his deputy hat, which might have seemed strange on such a hot day, but I knew why. Except for at funerals and official events, deputies aren’t required to wear their department-issued hats, but it’s a symbol of reverence and respect. He also took his mirrored sunglasses off and slipped them down in his breast pocket.
I held my breath and kept completely still as he walked up to the front of the bookstore and looked through the window. Then he scanned the street again.
I’ll admit it wasn’t the most mature thing in the world, but I just couldn’t talk to anybody yet. I needed more time. I needed a little breathing room. At first I had considered sneaking over to Amber Jack’s and downing a shot of whiskey and a beer or two. Or three. Instead I just climbed into the backseat of the Bronco and slumped down with my legs stretched out over the center console.
Basically, I was hiding—and that’s where I stayed until McKenzie’s unmarked sedan pulled up a couple of minutes later, followed by another patrol car and an ominously silent ambulance.
The whole time, I couldn’t stop thinking about what McKenzie had said on the phone. Oh, Dixie, I’m so sorry … as if Mr. Hoskins had been my father or my dearest friend. As if finding his body would be a devastating blow to my delicate sensibilities. It was only later, when the street was cordoned off with police tape once again, and forensic workers, crime technicians, and Sarasota cops were swarming around the bookstore, that I realized: McKenzie must have thought seeing a dead body would bring up long-lost memories of Christy and Todd.
I couldn’t blame her, but it didn’t. I don’t have memories of Todd and Christy, at least none like that, and anyway, if those memories do exist they’re locked away so deep in the caverns of my mind that nothing could ever dislodge them.
I stayed in the Bronco until I didn’t think I could hide any longer without coming off looking like a complete imbecile. One of the cops saw me approaching and said, “Sorry, ma’am, this is a crime scene, you’ll have to go around.”
I just nodded. “Yeah. Detective McKenzie is probably looking for me.”
I can barely remember what happened next, but I know I must have told McKenzie everything, how Mrs. Silverthorn had hired me to find Cosmo, and how I’d seen something move in the bookstore window as I walked by. When I told her about the bloody paw print below the counter, she just nodded quietly, watching me with a pained expression on her face, and she only asked a few short questions, which was not like her at all. I wondered if she wasn’t a little embarrassed that I’d been able to find what she and her deputies hadn’t, but I couldn’t exactly take credit.
It was just dumb luck.
After I talked to McKenzie, I stood just outside the police tape and watched the proceedings. I overheard one of the deputies saying that the panel under the display window had been attached with just a few screws, which meant that someone had opened up the crawl space, hidden the body inside, and then simply screwed the panel back in place.
Then shortly after that, one of the deputies noticed an open vent in the alley. There were cat prints inside it and in the dirt right below, which confirmed that Cosmo—at least I hoped it was Cosmo—was probably traveling around in the abandoned ductwork. I imagined he’d been going in and out of the store on his own for years, using the vent as his own private entrance. That explained why there was no litter box in the store, but it also gave me hope. It meant he might come back.
Right about then one of the deputies pulled the police tape aside, and an ambulance backed up to within a couple of feet of the front door, which meant they were about to bring the body out.
I retreated to a bench down the street, the same bench, in fact, where the burly doctor had helped me carry Baldy after the accident. A crowd had formed across the street, most of them from the bar, and I’m sure the sight of Beezy’s Bookstore surrounded with emergency vehicles—twice in a matter of days—had people coming up with all kinds of theories about what was going on. I didn’t want to hear it.
Eventually a news van from the local TV station pulled up, and a smartly dressed woman with slicked-back hair popped out with her camera-carrying minion close behind. Anybody who knows me knows I don’t have the best track record when it comes to dealing with the press, so all the better that I stayed at a safe distance from the center of things.
My mind was wandering around like a bumper car without a driver. Why? Why would anyone want to kill Mr. Hoskins? He had seemed like such a kind, gentle person. I couldn’t figure out why anyone would want to hurt him … except for the money. McKenzie had mentioned the cash register had been emptied out. Immediately my mind flashed to the woman in white.
I pictured her hiding somewhere in the store, crouching behind a box of books at the end of one of the aisles, waiting until she was certain there was no one else in the store but Mr. Hoskins. Then she surprised him just after I left, aimed a gun at his head, and told him to put all the money in a bag. Maybe he had resisted; maybe he had tried to run and she’d shot him before he could get away. Even then, she had seemed so small and frail in that video. How was it possible she could have opened up that crawl space and dragged his li
feless body …
I closed my eyes. I just couldn’t think about it anymore.
I decided it was high time I sat myself down for a little reality check. I told myself that Mr. Hoskins’s death and how it happened had nothing to do with me. For the millionth time I told myself that McKenzie was a perfectly capable detective and if anyone could figure out what had happened it was her. For the bajillionth time I told myself that I was no longer an officer of the law; I was a pet sitter, dammit, and pet sitters in their right minds don’t go around trying to solve murder cases.
I stared up at the stars and nodded. Good, then, I thought to myself. It’s settled.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and imagined myself on the gentle bank of a beautiful babbling stream, bathed in dappled sunlight with flowers and birds and butterflies flitting about all around me. I imagined there was a path of ten smooth stepping-stones leading down to the water, and with every step I imagined myself getting calmer and calmer. One, two, three … swoosh! an orange tabby shot past me and leaped over the imaginary brook, disappearing into the make-believe brush on the other side.
So much for mind control. I couldn’t stop myself. I clambered down the imaginary steps and chased after him.
Could it have been a different orange tabby that someone had found in the alley? Maybe Butch had figured that out, which would explain why he was snooping around the bookstore. Then again, if that was the case, why hadn’t he called me right away to let me know I should pick up my search for Cosmo again?
Right then, instead of entertaining every random thought and theory that rattled around in my head, I should have been calling Mrs. Silverthorn. I knew she was probably anxious to hear from me, especially since I’d told her I planned on heading straight to the bookstore to look for Cosmo after we met, but I’m a terrible liar, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to tell her I hadn’t found Cosmo without telling her what I had found, and I wasn’t sure Detective McKenzie would want that information public yet. Plus, there was another problem: how Mrs. Silverthorn would take the news that Mr. Hoskins had been murdered.
I decided I’d spare her the anxiety for just a little while. I told myself it was too late to call her, even though it wasn’t much past eight o’clock, but I ignored that part. I’d call her in the morning.
Just then I heard voices. A couple of frat-boy types had wandered out of the bar and were walking by on the sidewalk, their arms around each other’s shoulders. I heard one of them say, “Dude, let it go. She’s not worth it,” and the other one said, “Dude, she totally is.”
I had to smile in spite of myself. It felt like the universe was giving me yet another gift on a silver platter—a lesson on how everything in this world is random and temporary. Here were two half-drunk college boys trying to fathom the mysteries of life, and less than a hundred feet away, a sweet old man was lying in a pool of his own blood and no one knew why …
I shook my head and tried to give it one more try. I pictured that babbling brook again, but this time without the birds and the butterflies, which might attract curious cats. I took a deep breath, imagining all of the crap from the last couple of days dissolving away like grease in soapy water. I sat down at the edge of the stream and dipped my toes in. It was freezing cold, so instead I sat Indian-style and said “Ommmmmm” in a low droning voice, trying to tune out the music from Amber Jack’s wafting over me.
Wastin’ away again in Margaritaville
Ommmmmmm …
Searchin’ for my lost shaker of salt
Ommmmmmmmmm …
Thankfully after a little while McKenzie walked over. She probably figured I’d fallen asleep, but I opened my eyes as she was approaching the bench.
She shook her head. “There’s no sign of Cosmo.”
“I know. I didn’t think he’d show himself with all the people around.”
“He must have gone out to the alley. We’ll leave that vent open in the back just in case. I’ve given everyone specific instructions to call me right away if they see him. I imagine he’ll come back sooner or later … How are you?”
I pretended I didn’t hear. “I put food and water in his bowls. They’re under the desk in the back office.”
She nodded. “I saw. I’ll make sure nobody moves them. I’ve asked one of the deputies to follow you home.”
I shook my head. “No. That’s stupid. I’ll be fine.”
Just then a patrol car pulled up in the street behind her. She cocked an eyebrow. “I’ve asked one of the deputies to follow you home.”
I drove down Midnight Pass with the squad car following at a discreet distance, and when we got to my driveway, I slowed a bit and honked a short thank-you. It flashed its headlights and waited until I was well down the driveway, then pulled back out on the road and made a quick U-turn toward town. I wondered which deputy had been given the exciting task of following the poor shell-shocked ex-deputy home. I sort of hoped it was Morgan.
The carport was empty. I was so dazed I didn’t even bother to get my backpack. I just left it on the passenger seat. Walking across the driveway, my legs were so heavy that the crushed shell felt like quicksand, and the only thing that got me up the stairs was the sight of Ella Fitzgerald in my window, her tail twitching in anticipation. When I opened the door she hopped down and did figure eights around my ankles and chirped, “Mek mek mek!”
I swooped her right up and made a beeline for bed.
I could barely sleep. Every time I started to doze off I’d hear a noise, like a branch blowing in the breeze or a ship’s horn in the distance, and then I’d jerk awake and remember the sight of Mr. Hoskins, crumpled up like a bag of garbage and stuffed under that display window. I couldn’t get the image out of my head.
Sometimes being alone with your thoughts is the best cure for loneliness, but lying there in the dark and staring at the ceiling, I felt more alone than I’d felt in years. I figured if I knew what was good for me I’d drag my butt out of bed and go make myself a cup of tea.
Then I remembered Ethan telling me to call him if I saw anything weird in the store. Well, I had definitely seen something weird, but I didn’t think I had the energy to explain the whole story of what had happened, at least not tonight, and I didn’t want him to worry about me, and I knew he’d just want to come over.
So instead I just lay there in bed and didn’t move a muscle—as still as a turtle. One thing I’m really good at is pulling all my protruding parts deep inside my shell.
I’ve had a lot of practice.
21
The next morning I woke to the sound of monk parakeets chattering excitedly in the treetops, which could only mean one thing. I had overslept. I jumped up and scrambled for my watch, staring with bleary eyes as I tried to focus on its face, but it was only a little past six o’clock. Sometimes the parakeets conspire to wake me up early, especially if the morning is warmer than normal or there’s an early crowd of lovebugs and dragonfly nymphs to hunt, but a bank of fog was rolling in off the gulf, and the air had enough of a chill to it that I figured something must have startled them.
I stumbled into the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face, taking care not to look at myself in the mirror. I knew I looked like crap, and I didn’t want to see it, so I just stared at the sink while I ran a brush through my hair. Then I got dressed in a clean pair of shorts and T-shirt and slipped a light sweater on just in case the fog lingered around for a while. Then on my way out, I slipped Guidry’s letter into my back pocket.
I felt like I was in a daze all morning, as if the air were thick and syrupy and I had to push my way through it just to get around. I thought about Tanisha and how she always has a smile on her face, but no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t really do it. Plus, I could barely concentrate. I drove all the way over to Tom Hale’s condo and even had my key in the door before I remembered he’d taken Billy Elliot to Lake Okeechobee to visit his brother and wouldn’t be back for a week. Then, driving down to check on a couple of blue Abyss
inians whose owners were away on a river cruise, I ran right through a four-way stop sign. Luckily it was early enough that the roads were still deserted, but I eased over to the side of the road to pull myself together.
Detective McKenzie was right. Seeing Mr. Hoskins’s body had apparently thrown me for a loop, and all I wanted to do was go home and crawl back in bed. I knew lack of sleep wasn’t the problem, though. What I needed was a good dose of old-fashioned TLC, and I knew exactly where to find it.
* * *
Judy put a hot cup of coffee in front of me as I slid into the back booth of the diner, and Tanisha threw me her customary wave and smile from the kitchen. Just seeing her face made me feel a little better. Judy plopped down into the booth opposite me and gave me her signature “WTF?” look. I knew right away the word was out.
“Dixie, was it you?”
I tried to look as innocent as possible and took a sip of my coffee.
“Was it me what?”
“Was it you that found him?”
I sighed and nodded. “Yes. The building’s owner hired me to find his cat. I was snooping around in there, and one thing led to another…”
“Oh, Dixie, I’m so sorry.”
I felt a jab in my side and sat up straight. “Why does everybody keep saying that to me?”
“Saying what?”
“That they’re sorry, like they need to treat me like I’m some sort of fragile flower. I didn’t know Hoskins from a hole in the ground! And I’ve seen a dead body before, by the way. If you’ll recall, I used to be a sheriff’s deputy. I’ve seen much worse than that.”
I knew I must have sounded like a mewling baby, but I couldn’t stop myself. The words rushed out of my throat as if they were fleeing a burning building. I could feel people turning toward me and staring.
Judy looked me straight in the eye. “Honey, nobody’s saying you’re a fragile flower. You found a dead guy. Believe it or not, that doesn’t happen every day around here, even to you. And it’s definitely not easy and it’s not good, no matter what you’ve seen or done. In my world, when something bad happens to somebody, like finding a dead body, for instance, we say ‘I’m sorry.’”
The Cat Sitter's Nine Lives Page 17