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.”
I slid to a stop, and Billy Elliot looked back at me.
“Huh?”
He squinted at the screen. “Yep. Guatemala. Your friend just had it mixed up. They call him René in Guatemala.”
* * *
As Billy Elliot raced around the circular driveway pulling me behind him, my thoughts raced around what Tom had just told me. Instead of feeling I knew more about Corina now, I actually felt like I knew less. I had one pretty good reason why she might lie about where she was from, but I didn’t want to admit it to myself. At least not yet. So I racked my brain trying to come up with an explanation.
Why would she lie? Spain sounds glamorous, but then so does Guatemala. Hell, I’ve never been outside Florida, so Peoria, Illinois, sounds pretty glamorous to me. Was it possible that perhaps she’d just misunderstood what we were talking about? Maybe she was just struggling with the language?
No. I knew I was only fooling myself, and the sooner I owned up to it the better.
The question to ask was: What next? I wasn’t completely sure, but I knew I needed to get over to Joyce’s and talk to her as soon as possible.
As usual, Billy Elliot and I rode up in the elevator panting like two rabid hyenas. I gave him a pat on the rump and told him he was a good boy, then hung his leash up in the hallway and called out to Tom.
“Thanks for the research, Tom! See you later.”
He said, “Hey, hold on a minute. You never told me about your hot date last night.”
As I closed the door I called out, “I know!”
* * *
I raced over to Joyce’s house, trying to figure out what my game plan was. I figured she’d be upset when I told her what I thought. She and Henry the VIII had a nice life they’d set up for themselves, but I knew having Corina and the baby in the house had given their little family a much-needed jolt of excitement. Plus, I think she enjoyed having the feeling that there were people at home who needed her.
I slowed down again as I approached the place in the park where we first saw Corina. Just as I passed, a homeless man in a filthy yellow tank top and dirty white shorts stepped out of the bushes. His skin was tanned dark brown, but his face and neck had the shiny red flush of an alcoholic. He had a red bandanna tied around his head to hold his scraggly, sun-bleached hair back, and he was carrying several overstuffed garbage bags and a milk carton. He waved as I went by, and I sheepishly waved back.
As I pulled into the driveway, Joyce was unloading groceries out of the backseat of her station wagon.
She waved as I got out of the Bronco and walked over. “Whew! Perfect timing! You can help me carry all this stuff in.”
Her backseat was filled with packs of bottled water and groceries, and there was a big fat watermelon strapped into the baby chair.
I said, “Joyce. Before we go in, there’s something we need to talk about. Is Corina here?”
“Sure. She’s taking a nap with Dixie Joyce. What’s the matter?”
“Good. I need to tell you something about her, and I don’t think you’re going to like it.”
She frowned and set the bag of groceries she was holding down on the hood of the car. “Hmm, that doesn’t sound good.”
“Well, I could be wrong—but it’s something we have to consider.”
She leaned against the car and folded her arms. “I think I know what you’re going to say.”
“You do?”
She nodded. “Is it about the bird?”
“Yeah.”
“You think Corina was going to sell it.”
I nodded. “Joyce, I think she lied when she said she was from Spain, and she may be poor, but I don’t think she’s homeless. You said
that bird was from Guatemala, right?”
She nodded sadly.
“Well, my friend Tom looked it up—Kermit the Frog isn’t called René in Spain, he’s called Gustavo.”
Joyce looked down and shook her head. “Oh Lord.”
“I know. And guess what he’s called in Guatemala.”
She nodded. “I think I knew all along and I just didn’t want to think about it. She was on pins and needles the whole time that bird was at the vet’s, and if you’d seen how quickly he took to her … it was like he’d known her all his life.”
“I think maybe he has known her all his life. Poachers steal eggs from nests in the wild and then sell them for a profit to people like Corina, who hatch the eggs and raise them by hand. The more exotic and rare the bird, the more it’s worth. So Corina smuggles some birds out of Guatemala, sells them to a dealer here in Florida, and that dealer turns around and sells them to collectors and exotic pet stores for a handsome profit. Pound for pound, a bird like René is probably worth more than cocaine, gold, or even diamonds. On the black market, he could easily go for thirty or forty thousand dollars, possibly more.”
“So that explains the cash in her purse.”
“Yeah. She had probably already sold one bird, and I think she was on her way to deliver René to another dealer that morning we found her, but then there was a little snag in her plans. Remember the doctor said she was at least a month premature?”
Joyce shook her head again. “She probably thought she’d be back home in Guatemala by the time she had the baby.”
“Yeah, and with enough money stashed away to raise her right.”
She smiled wanly. “I think maybe we just figured out why they call it a nest egg.”
21
Joyce and I were perched shoulder to shoulder on the hood of her car, trying to figure out what we should do about Corina and the resplendent quetzal. I have to admit, I was at a complete and utter loss. I kept waiting for Joyce’s inner marine to take over and start handing out orders, but I think she must have been having as much difficulty as I was figuring out what in the world our next step should be.
In spite of everything, I didn’t want to make things harder for Corina than they already were, and I knew Joyce was feeling the same way. I kept thinking about what Corina’s life must have been like in Guatemala, how terrible the conditions must have been—terrible enough to compel her to take on such a dangerous, high-risk job. And what if she was caught? Smuggling an endangered species from one country to another is an international crime. I shuddered to think what would happen if Corina was arrested. She’d end up in prison, and then where would her baby be? How in the world could she have been so reckless? But I knew the answer. I would have done the same thing for my daughter if it meant the difference between feeding her or letting her go hungry.
Still, I couldn’t ignore the fact that what Corina was doing was not only illegal, it was unethical. It went against everything I believe in. I couldn’t just stand by and do nothing while an innocent, endangered animal was passed from person to person for money with little or no regard for its well-being.
Finally we decided the best thing would be to try to convince Corina that what she was doing was wrong, and that if she agreed to stop, we would do everything in our power to help her and her baby, even if that meant letting her stay at Joyce’s rent free until she was able to get herself back on her feet.
As for whether or not it was wrong that we weren’t immediately reporting Corina to the police, we decided to leave unanswered for now.
Joyce stood up. “Alright, let’s get this show on the road. My ice cream is melting.”
We unloaded the rest of the groceries and brought them up the walk to the front porch. Joyce pushed the door open with her foot, and Henry the VIII came prancing in from the living room. He raced around our legs barking a mile a minute while we carried everything into the kitchen. I think he must have been trying to tell us what we’d missed while Joyce had been shopping.
I put the last of the bags on the counter, and Joyce fished out a pint of ice cream and put it in the freezer. “The rest of this can wait. I’ll go wake her up.”
She disappeared down the hall while I sat down on the couch and braced myself. Henry the VIII jumped into my lap and pawed at my hand, trying to get me to pet him.
From down the hallway, Joyce let out a little laugh and then I heard, “Ay dios mío.”
As I rubbed Henry the VIII behind the ears, I wondered how angry or afraid Corina would be when she heard what we had to say. I didn’t think she was capable of violence, but I also knew that anybody, animal or human, can be pretty unpredictable when backed into a corner. I hoped she would understand that we were only looking out for her best interest, but I wasn’t sure how easy it was going to be to get her to see that.
Joyce said, “Hey, Dixie, why don’t you come back here?”
Henry the VIII jumped off my lap and went scampering down the hall ahead of me. Joyce was leaning in the doorway of Corina’s bedroom with a sad smile on her face.
“She’s gone.”
The room had been meticulously cleaned. The bedspread was completely smooth, its corners neatly tucked in, and the pillows were leaned up against the headboard with their edges perfectly parallel to one another. Lined up on the edge of the bed and organized in neat piles were all of the things I had bought for the baby. The clothes, the diapers, the creams, the bottles, the blankets. Everything.
On the dresser in front of the mirror was Joyce’s antique birdcage. It was as clean as if René had never existed, and inside, leaning against one of the little wooden perches, was a plain white envelope. Joyce opened the cage door and pulled it out. Written in a childish hand on its face were the words I’M SORRY.
We both slumped down on the bed and sat numbly for a minute or so.
Finally Joyce said, “Well, I guess I better open it.”
She slid her fingers across the flap of the envelope and took a deep breath.
There was no letter inside.
Just two slightly wrinkled thousand-dollar bills.
* * *
I have a theory about cats. It’s based on my own ranking system, which I call the Kitty Craziness Factor, or KCF. It measures the level of feline loopiness in a household—like how much racing up and down the stairs there is, or climbing on furniture and pouncing on imaginary mice. The higher the Kitty Craziness Factor, the more loopiness. So in a household where the KCF is high, there might be, for example, spelunking down the living room curtains or skydiving off the refrigerator.
The process of determining the Kitty Craziness Factor is pretty simple. You just count the number of cats. A household with only one cat has a KCF of one. A household with two cats has a KCF of two. A household with three cats has a KCF of seven. I don’t know why a household with three cats has more than three times the loopiness of a household with only two cats, but it’s a scientific fact.
Betty and Grace Piker were two retired sisters who had a long-standing agreement with each other. If one found a cat and wanted to bring it home, the other would stop her—using physical force if necessary. They had seven cats, all rescues. It wasn’t even possible to measure the KCF in their household; it was completely off the charts.
The Piker sisters had gone to Orlando to visit their niece, who had just given birth. They were only staying for the day, so all I needed to do was check on the cats and feed them. The sisters were planning on being back home that evening.
All the cats were napping when I arrived, so things were relatively subdued. I washed out the food bowls and lined them up in a row on the kitchen counter. In each bowl I mixed a cup of dry cat kibble with just a little warm water from the tap. Then I opened the cabinet and pulled out a can of sardines.
Suddenly all seven cats stampeded into the kitchen, circling at my feet and bleating excitedly. I hadn’t even opened the can yet. I could swear they knew the sound it made when it clinked down on the countertop.
I said, “Anybody want to come home and help me with the laundry?”
There were no takers. They were all too busy concentrating on their yummy sardines to pay me any mind.
While they ate, I did a quick run through the house, righting overturned trash baskets and checking for any other accidents. In the guest bathroom, somebody had made confetti of the toilet paper roll, and there was a scattering of kitty litter that had been pawed out of one of the three litter boxes in the laundry room. They might not have been as neat and tidy as Dame Wiggins of Lee’s cats, but they were just as wonderful.
By the time I had cleaned the litter boxes and put everything back in order, everyone was done with dinner and the Kitty Craziness Factor was through the roof. Usually I worry about leaving my pets all alone in their houses—even if I’ve spent a good chunk of time playing with them—but these guys provided each other with so much attention and exercise that I didn’t feel guilty leaving them. In fact, I think if they’d been able to open a can of sardines by themselves, they wouldn’t have needed me at all.
I was headed out to the car when my cell phone rang. It was Detective McKenzie. I imagined Kenny had told her his story by now, and she was probably calling to find out what he’d told me and if our stories matched.
Before I answered, I took a deep breath. I wanted to be ready for whatever tricks she had up her sleeve.
The Cat Sitter's Cradle Page 17