Guidry said, “Mrs. Ferrelli, when did you last see your husband?”
She seemed to shrink inside her skin. I wanted to rush to her and comfort her, but I stayed quiet.
She said, “Tell me what’s happened. Why are you here?”
Guidry said, “We found the dog in the wooded area beside the street. Apparently, your husband was attacked while he was walking him.”
She shook her head. “No, there must be some mistake. Conrad takes Reggie to the beach. He doesn’t walk him on the street.”
Guidry’s voice was gentle but firm. “He was in the wooded area by the street.”
She looked to me, as if I might have better news.
“Dixie? Is Conrad hurt? Is it bad?”
I said, “Stevie, I’m sorry. He was killed.”
She reacted the way civilized women do, first with disbelief and irrational insistence that it was all a case of mistaken identity, then with controlled despair, with shuddering tears, with questions, and finally with gradual acceptance and the ability to give Guidry names to call, people to notify.
There should be some kind of cosmic rule that news like that only comes when you’re alone, totally removed from civilized strictures, so you can fling yourself on the ground and howl like a wild dog. So you can beat your fists on hard surfaces and break your own bones. Civilization forces us to push our grief into our chests where it turns into a sustained moan.
I left her with Guidry and went into the kitchen where a coffeemaker was steaming on the counter, two clean coffee mugs sitting beside it. I poured coffee into one of the mugs and carried it back to the living room for Stevie. She looked up at me with blank eyes when I set it on the table next to her. Guidry got up and handed me a coaster from a stack on the coffee table, and I lifted the mug and repositioned it on the coaster. We were like fussy hosts taking care of a guest’s needs.
I went back to the kitchen and put out fresh water and dried food for Reggie, noting with approval that the food was what I had recommended, the same natural diet that Mame ate but for younger dogs. Reggie heard the plinking sound of kibble hitting his dish and trotted into the kitchen to wolf it down. I watched him closely, looking for any indication of swallowing problems or pain when he chewed. He seemed okay, and when he finished he looked up at me and wagged his docked tail.
I knelt to slip the necktie from his neck. It was peachcolored silk. Undoubtedly expensive. I could imagine Conrad putting it on him that morning, thinking it looked cool, or thinking it was funny, or thinking God knew what, since Conrad didn’t think like anybody else.
I said, “You had a bad morning, didn’t you? I’m so sorry.”
He lowered his rear end to the floor and sat with his head tilted, his dark eyes looking at me with such intelligence it seemed he might begin to speak. Too bad he couldn’t. He was the only witness who could tell us who had accosted Conrad and killed him.
I washed and dried Reggie’s food bowl and put it where it belonged. I folded the tie and put it on the shelf next to the bag of kibble, all my tidiness to make me feel I was in control of something, the same way Guidry’s fussiness with the coaster had been.
When I went back to the living room, Guidry was gently questioning Stevie, going softly but firmly into personal matters that seemed to rattle and annoy her. She said Reggie slept in the breezeway between house and carport, and that Conrad always got up early and took him to Crescent Beach to run. No, she hadn’t heard his car leave that morning, but she never did because she was asleep. When Conrad came home after running with Reggie on the beach, she was usually up and they had breakfast together unless one of them had an early appointment. No, she hadn’t been worried that he wasn’t home yet because it was still early.
As beautiful and rich as she was, Stevie had a childlike, vulnerable quality, and she looked up at me as if I might rescue her.
I pretended not to know what was happening. A man had been murdered and Guidry had to find the person who’d done it. No matter how irrelevant his questions might seem, he had to ask them.
I said, “Stevie, I fed Reggie and put out fresh water for him. Would you like me to come back tonight?”
She and Guidry both looked surprised, but I knew she would need me, even if she didn’t.
Stevie took a deep breath. “Please.”
I said, “I’ll let myself out.”
I went outside and got in my Bronco and headed for Midnight Pass Road, taking the route that avoided the crime scene. In spite of my horror at what had happened to Conrad, and my empathy for Stevie, I had a schedule to keep and I was already over an hour behind. Cats were waiting to be fed and groomed and played with, a few birds were waiting for fresh paper in their cages and fresh seed in their feeders, a lone guinea pig was waiting for food and fresh cedar shavings.
As I turned onto Midnight Pass Road, I saw two middle-aged female power walkers leaning over a cardboard box on the sidewalk on the Gulf side of the street. The box had a hand-lettered sign saying FREE KITTENS, and the women had the sappy Awwww grins that people get when they see the baby form of anything. I resisted an urge to stop and rant about the stupidity of putting out kittens to broil in the heat. It was still early. Maybe the kittens would be rescued before the sun was fully up. If nobody rescued them, maybe whoever had put them out would take them inside. In my rearview mirror, I saw the women turn and begin their brisk elbow-swinging walk again. They had probably ruined their heartbeat goal by pausing to look at the kittens, but maybe seeing something that makes you say Awwww is better for the heart than exercise.
I was halfway to a Siamese cat’s house when I remembered that Guidry had ridden to Stevie’s house with me. I felt a wicked grin coming on at the thought of him walking back to his own car. In those Italian leather sandals. With his linen jacket getting sweaty across the back, and his forehead getting moist from the heat … .
I slapped the steering wheel. What was wrong with me? I had just witnessed a gruesome homicide scene. I had just learned that a sweet funny man who had shown me kindness had been killed. I had just watched his widow crumble in stunned grief. And yet here I was thinking about Guidry’s body slicked with perspiration.
Then came the thought I’d been avoiding, postponing it with domestic puttering, feeding the dog, washing dishes, grousing about kittens left in the heat, imagining Guidry’s sweat. I couldn’t put it off any longer. Conrad’s killer had been driving the car I’d seen that morning. He had got a good look at me. And because I’d waved and smiled and said “Hey!” he had every reason to think I’d got a good look at him.
For the rest of the morning, I went through the motions like a robot, doing what had to be done and trying to give every pet the attention it needed. But all the time my mind was on the driver of Conrad Ferrelli’s car. He wouldn’t be dumb enough to keep the car. He had probably already parked it in front of some not-yet-open office complex or strip center.
He must have been hiding in the bushes and stepped out as Conrad and Reggie passed by. But Doberman pinschers are highly protective dogs, and Reggie would have attacked anybody hurting Conrad. Unless the killer had lured Conrad into the trees and killed him out of Reggie’s sight. But how could he have done that and then put Reggie into Conrad’s car? And when had he stopped and let Reggie out? Or had Reggie escaped? In either case, the dog would have headed home, cutting through the wooded area to reach his street.
By eleven o’clock, the temperature was climbing toward 100 degrees, and I felt like somebody was sticking the sharp point of a knife into the center of my brain. The lovebird still on my list could wait awhile longer. I needed coffee and food, in that order.
I drove straight to the Village Diner, where I’ve eaten the same breakfast so many times nobody even asks me what I want. When they see me come in, Tanisha, the cook, starts making two eggs over easy with extra-crisp home fries and a biscuit. Judy, the waitress who is a close friend even though she and I never see each other anyplace except the diner, grabs a coffeepot and
has a full mug ready for me by the time I sit down. This morning, I hustled to the ladies’ room and splashed cold water on my face and scrubbed animal off my hands before I took the booth where Judy had put my coffee. I drank half of it in one glug, and she was instantly back to refill it.
If Judy were a dog, she’d be a beagle. She’s neat and compact, with golden-brown hair, hazel eyes, and a scattering of gold freckles over her nose. She works efficiently and cheerfully, and she’s ever ready to yap and take off after something that catches her fancy. Unfortunately, she has always gone after the wrong game, because they’ve all turned out to be sorry sons-of-bitches who didn’t appreciate her intelligence or her smart mouth.
She said, “Lord, girl, you’re red as a beet! You been standing in the sun?”
“Now and then.”
“How come?”
I took a deep breath, dreading what she would say when I told her. “A dog I was walking this morning found a dead body, and I was there when they uncovered it.”
Judy frowned and squinted at me, her eyes taking on a suspicious look.
“Terrific. You found another dead body.”
“I didn’t find it, a dog found it. I had to call nine-one-one and hang around until they uncovered it.”
“I hope this time you’ll stay out of it and let the cops handle it.”
“Of course I’m staying out of it!”
“Uh-hunh.”
Tanisha rang the bell to signal that my food was ready, and Judy went off to get it. On her way back, she picked up a Herald-Tribune somebody had left on a table and put it down with my food.
“Here, read the paper and get your mind off that dead body.”
She splashed more coffee in my mug and left me to mutter sweet nothings to my biscuit. I didn’t look at the paper until I’d eaten every last morsel and Judy had filled my mug two more times. Then I skimmed the front page, where some old men in Washington had sent a company of young troops off to die for some ill-defined reason, turned to the inside pages where some old men from other countries had sent their young people off to fight for equally ill-defined reasons, and finally got to the comics, which is about the only thing that makes any sense. If I ran the world—and God knows I could do a better job of it than the yahoos doing it now—any leader who sent troops off to fight would have to march at the head of the ranks. That would bring about world peace in about four weeks.
After the comics, I turned the page and started to fold the paper for the next person to read. A photograph stopped me. It was a picture of Conrad Ferrelli and a man I recognized as Ethan Crane, an attorney I’d had some dealings with regarding a cat’s estate. An accompanying article said Ethan Crane headed the board of directors of a new foundation funded by the Ferrelli Charitable Trust. Part of a drive to restore Sarasota’s long association with the circus, the foundation’s purpose was to create a retirement home for people who had dedicated a major portion of their professional lives to the circus.
Crane was quoted as saying, “It will be patterned after the Lillian Booth Actors’ Home, but we’ll begin on a smaller scale.” Those who could pay would be charged according to their income. Those who couldn’t pay would receive the same high standard of housing and assistance. Conrad was quoted too. “Circus people spend their lives giving laughter and cheer to the world. Their last walkabout should be in comfort and dignity.”
I folded the paper around the article so it would tear more cleanly and was ripping it out when Judy came with my check.
“Why’re you vandalizing our communal paper?”
“It’s after eleven. It’s only vandalism if it’s before ten.”
“Uh-hunh. Say, who was that dead body?”
I held up the scrap of paper I’d torn out. “Conrad Ferrelli.”
“That rich guy?”
“That’s the one.”
“So what’re you going to do, put the picture in your dog scrapbook?”
Somebody at the booth in front of me asked her for more coffee, and she turned to pour it while I sat with my lips bunched together and feeling like an idiot. I didn’t have a single good reason for keeping that picture. I wadded it up into a little ball, dropped it in my plate, and covered it with my napkin. I wondered if I had become somebody whose life was so empty that I might start collecting photographs of my rich clients. It was a depressing thought.
Judy stepped back to me. “You reckon the wife killed him?”
“Why do you think that?”
“It’s always the wife that kills rich guys. Or the butler.”
“They don’t have a butler, and Mrs. Ferrelli is a nice woman. But I’m sure the detective will question her.”
“That hunky detective?”
I took out bills and put them on the check. “He’s not hunky.”
She scooped up the money and stuck it in her pocket. “Oh, yeah, he’s hunky all right.”
I slid out of the booth and grabbed my backpack. “I’ve got to go take care of a lovebird. See you later.”
She was busy gathering up my dirty dishes and only grunted good-bye. She knew she’d see me later. I’m dependable like that.
4
When my grandfather was a young man, he traveled through Florida on business and stumbled on Siesta Key. He spent a week here, and before he left he’d bought a piece of land on the edge of the Gulf. My grandmother was flabbergasted that he’d put them in debt for a thousand dollars for land that wouldn’t even grow tomatoes, but he persuaded her to bundle up my two-year-old mother and come see the key for herself. They arrived just as the sun was setting. My grandmother stood on the dazzling white beach and watched openmouthed as a molten gold sun quivered itself into the water while banners of iridescent rose and turquoise and lavender streamed in the sky.
“I’m never leaving here,” she said, and she didn’t.
My mother was probably looking the other way, because she left as soon as she got the chance. My brother and I are like our grandparents. We’re never leaving either.
I live in an apartment above a four-slot carport next to the frame house where Michael and I lived with our grandparents. I moved here after the earth cracked in my world and left me standing beside a jagged fissure that threatened to suck me in. Michael and his partner, Paco, live in the house, and except for a remodeled kitchen, they’ve left it pretty much the way it was. With Michael and Paco to remind me that I am loved, and the continuous roll of the surf to remind me that life never stops, I have survived the last few years. Barely.
A wide covered porch runs the length of my apartment, with a hammock strung in one corner and a table for eating and watching the waves break on the beach. French doors open into a small living room with a sofa and chair. A oneperson breakfast bar separates the living room from a galley kitchen. My bedroom is just big enough for a single bed and a dresser. The bathroom is cramped too, but there’s an alcove in the hall for a washer and dryer, and I have a big walk-in closet. I put a desk in one side of it, and that’s where I take care of my pet-sitting business. The whole place has Mexican tiled floors and oyster-white walls. I wouldn’t call it spartan exactly, but it’s definitely no-frills.
It was nearing noon when I drove home down the twisting tree-lined lane. All the cars were gone from the carport, and only a few foolhardy seagulls wheeled in the blazing sunlight. The undulating sea glinted diamonds, and down on the beach wavelets slapped the white sand and stained it beige. I unlocked the French doors and went inside just long enough to go to the bathroom and wash my face. Then I came back out and dropped my weary self into the hammock in the shady corner of the porch. I’d been up since 4 A.M., and I was bushed. I fell asleep in seconds, rousing once to the sound of Michael and Paco’s laughter downstairs and then falling even deeper asleep knowing they were home. I always instinctively relax when I know they’re home, not even aware until then that I’ve been tense. That’s how dependent I am on them. I hate to admit it, but it’s true.
Michael is thirty-four, two yea
rs older than me, and he looks like the golden genie that would pop out of a magic lantern in an Arabian desert. He’s a firefighter, like our father and his father before him, and he is probably the best human being in the world. Paco is also thirty-four, and he looks like the camel driver who would find the magic lantern. Slim, dark, and elusive, Paco is with the Sarasota County Special Investigative Bureau, which means he does stings, drug busts, and other undercover stuff, frequently in disguises so good he could pass right by me and I wouldn’t know him. Both Michael and Paco are so good-looking that women tend to consider hanging themselves when they learn they’re a unit, but they’ve been together twelve years and counting, which makes Paco my other brother. They’re my best friends in all the world. They protect me, they feed me, they keep me sane. Mostly.
I slept until almost two o’clock, and woke up feeling rested, hot, and thirsty. I went inside and got a bottle of water from the refrigerator and drank it as I went down the hall to my office-closet to check phone messages. There were several. You’d think my business would fall off in the summer when all the seasonals leave, but it actually gets busier. Snowbirds usually stay put when they get here, so they don’t need anybody to take care of their pets. Yearrounders, on the other hand, go traveling in the summer and leave their pets at home. I returned the calls, turned down a couple of jobs on the mainland because I work strictly on the key, gave two people my rates, scheduled a job for the following weekend with a pair of Persians, and made arrangements to go meet a couple of Lhasa apsos and get their information.
I take my pet-sitting business as seriously as I did being a deputy. In a way, the jobs are a lot alike. Whether you’re taking care of pets or enforcing the law, you’ve been entrusted with lives, and I treat that with a lot of respect. I belong to a professional association of pet-sitters that has a code of ethics as strong as the AMA’s. I’m bonded, licensed, and insured. When I take on a pet-sitting job, my clients sign an agreement detailing what they expect of me and what they agree in return. I get their vet’s name and number, any medical conditions the pet has, along with medications or vitamins or special treatments needed. I get a complete history of illnesses, injuries, and allergies. If the client has a trusted relative or friend, I get the name and number to call in an emergency. I find out the pet’s favorite foods, favorite toys, favorite games, even their favorite TV shows and favorite music. I have the owners show me where they keep the pet’s food, litter, leash, and grooming equipment. In some cases, I agree to pay for any emergency medical treatment or any unexpected home repairs that may arise while the owners are away, and they reimburse me when they return. In other cases, especially with clients who know me well, they simply give me signed blank checks to use as needed. While I’m on duty, I keep meticulous records of what I did and when I did it. In other words, pet-sitting is my profession, and I treat it in a professional manner.
Duplicity Dogged the Dachshund Page 3