The Cat Sitter and the Canary

by John Clement

  Garth and Edith Reed

  Underneath the signature was a telephone number with an area code I didn’t recognize, but I figured it was probably from a big northern city, like New York or Chicago.

  I don’t know why I hadn’t noticed the note before, except that I’d probably been sitting on it ever since Mr. and Mrs. Got-Rocks paid me a surprise visit that morning. “Current owners,” I muttered under my breath. “The gall of some people.”

  I remembered the man had disappeared under the carport for a few moments. He must have left the note on the front seat then, at any rate, I had no intention of calling, no matter how “convincing” their offer. I folded the note and slipped it down in my back pocket, giving Deputy Marshall a thumbs-up as I climbed in behind the wheel. He replied with a short nod, and then followed me all the way around the circular driveway and out the main road.

  My last stop of the morning was the Wincocks, a couple I’d only spoken to on the phone so far. I didn’t know much about them, other than that Daphne Wincock was an art professor at Florida State University, and her husband, Jackson, was a retired assistant district attorney for Sarasota County. They were catching a flight out of town the next day.

  I turned down Sandy Crane Street, just north of the center of town, and kept an eye out for number 27. Mrs. Wincock had told me I couldn’t miss it, and she was right. Just like all its neighbors, the house was small—probably not much more than a thousand square feet—but what it lacked in size, it made up in personality. The house was robin’s egg blue, with striped pink-and-white awnings over all the windows and a wide pebbled walkway leading to the front porch, lined on either side with devil’s-tongue cacti, marigolds, and Mexican sunflowers. On the wall next to the door was a hand-carved wooden plaque that read GUARD CAT ON DUTY—HISS OFF! And there was a white rectangular rug in front of the door with blue lettering and a blue border, like the name tags they hand out at PTA meetings and hotel conferences. It read, HI, MY NAME IS MAT.

  Before I could knock, the door opened to reveal a tanned woman in her midsixties, with a kind face and curly salt-and-pepper hair. Her dark brown eyes were magnified behind cat’s-eye glasses, and she had a slightly bemused, slightly chagrined expression on her face.

  I said, “Hi, I’m Dixie Hemingway, the cat sitter.”

  She nodded. “Well, Dixie Hemingway, the cat sitter, you’re about to get a quick education on what it’s like to live with a madman. Come on in.”

  She led me into a brightly lit living room, where a man with a bushy mustache and painter’s coveralls was on his hands and knees in the middle of a large cotton tarp, completely surrounded by small piles of dowels and knobs, along with what looked like about a hundred little wooden hammers.

  Mrs. Wincock said, “Dixie, this is my husband, Jackson.”

  He stood up and said, “Welcome to her nightmare!”

  He had a smile as wide as a ten-gallon hat, with a Texas accent to match, and everything he said seemed to end with an exclamation point and a wink.

  “Jackson Wincock. Nice to meet ya!” He shook my hand firmly. “That’s not my porn name, by the way. It’s the one my mama put on the sales receipt!”

  Mrs. Wincock shook her head at me. “I warned you.”

  There was a twinkle in the man’s eye that made me like him immediately. His face was carved with laugh lines, and I guessed he was older than Mrs. Wincock by at least a decade. Where she was neat and trim and reserved, Mr. Wincock was round-bellied and booming, like a bar extra in a John Wayne movie.

  He said, “Did you have any trouble finding us?”

  “No, sir,” I said. “I know the Key like the back of my hand.”

  He grinned. “I guess that means you’re one of them rarified full-time residents.”

  I nodded. “Yep. In fact, I still live in the house I grew up in, down Midnight Pass Road, right by Turtle Beach.”

  He said, “Well, I hope you’ll pardon the mess, Miss Dixie, but I’m smack dab in the middle of a project here.”

  Mrs. Wincock raised one eyebrow. “The middle?”

  He tilted his head from side to side like a metronome. “Well, not the very middle exactly, but definitely somewhere past the beginning, and yet not quite at the end. I’ll be done in no time, darlin’, don’t you worry!”

  She rolled her eyes. “He’s been telling me that for years.”

  I looked around at all the various piles. “What … what are you doing?”

  “It’s a harpsichord!” He pointed to two big harp-shaped pieces of wood leaning in the corner of the living room. “That’s the main body, and then these are all the little doohickeys that go inside it, in one order or another.”

  I said, “Wow, that’s impressive. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who built their own harpsichord.”

  Mrs. Wincock said, “And you still haven’t.”

  I said, “Are you a musician?”

  They looked at each other and then turned to me in unison, “No.”

  “He’s a kook is what he is.”

  Mrs. Wincock hooked her arm around mine and led me through the living room into the kitchen, where there was a wide bay window overlooking a tidy, manicured garden. Perched on top of a yoga pillow in the middle of the deep window sill was a pure-white Turkish Angora.

  I said, “Oh, my gosh. What a beautiful cat! What’s her name?”

  Mrs. Wincock smiled. “Meredith Heedles. We call her Maddy for short, but she prefers Mrs. Heedles. She owns the place. We just live here.”

  At the sound of her name, the cat looked in our direction. Her eyes were a beautiful beryl green. She appraised me up and down and then turned back to the window. Outside, there were two teak benches along a bamboo fence at the far end, nestled among pots of herbs and blooming camellias, and in the middle was a wall of carefully stacked river stones, with a stream of water spilling over the top and tumbling down into a lily pond about the size of a kiddie pool.

  Mrs. Wincock cooed. “Sweetheart, Dixie’s going to take care of you while we’re away for a couple of days.”

  I held out my hand. “Hi, Mrs. Heedles.”

  She sniffed the air tentatively and then raised herself up, pressing into my fingers as she ran her sides along the back of my hand. Her fur was thick and luxurious, and I was thinking it was probably about the softest thing I’ve ever felt in my life.

  I said, “Oh, Mrs. Wincock, before I forget, I’ll need your vet’s number, and I’ll need some contact information while you’re away.”

  Mrs. Wincock pushed her cat’s-eye glasses a little farther up the bridge of her nose and glanced back into the living room. Mr. Wincock had switched the TV on, and I could hear the theme music from our local newscast playing in the background. She said, “Oh, you can just use the number I gave you. That’s my cell phone.”

  I pulled out my notebook. “I know, but if you don’t mind, I’ve learned the hard way that it’s good to have at least one additional contact number, like the name of your hotel, maybe?”

  Her cheeks flushed as she glanced around the room. “Oh. I’ve got it written down here somewhere. It’s called the, uh … Hotel Orleans.”

  “As in … New Orleans?”

  She suddenly looked like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar. “Yes.”

  I hesitated. “Oh, I know someone who lives there, he used to live here but…” My voice trailed away as Mrs. Wincock slowly removed her glasses.

  She said, “I know, dear. It was Jean Pierre Guidry who told us about you.”

  “Oh.”

  “Before my husband retired, he and Guidry worked on a lot of cases together. We’re old friends.”

  I could feel all the muscles in my face tightening into stone as I tried to force my mouth into a polite smile.

  She said, “I’m sorry, Dixie. I should have told you when we spoke on the phone. I know all about how you and Guidry used to be…”

  I said, “Oh, please, don’t be ridiculous. It’s completely fine. Guidry and I ar
e just friends now. Are you going to New Orleans for business or pleasure?”

  She frowned. “Well … we’re going to the wedding.”

  “You mean, the wedding wedding?”

  “Yes, it’s this week.”

  I could feel my cheeks turning hot. “Oh, my gosh. I feel like a complete idiot. I didn’t realize it was already … I mean, I got the invitation and everything, but things have been so crazy. He’s probably wondering why I never responded.”

  The expression on her face spoke volumes. I cast my eyes around the room, doing my best to look as breezy and carefree as possible. “So, will it be a big wedding?”

  Mrs. Wincock slipped her glasses back on. “Well, you know Guidry. He doesn’t have a lot of friends. Always busy with work. But Monica comes from a big family, so…”

  “Monica?”

  “… that’s his fiancée.”

  I nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, right,” I said. “I totally forgot.”

  She smiled warmly. “I don’t blame you one bit. Let me show you the rest of the house.”

  After the tour, I gave Mrs. Heedles a good scratch between the ears and told her it was a pleasure meeting her, and then we went back through the living room, where Mr. Wincock was back on his hands and knees, tinkering with his harpsichord project. The TV was still on, and there was an earnest-looking woman gazing intently into the camera, jabbering away in front of a mobile news van with a big satellite dish perched on top. I remember telling Mr. Wincock that Mrs. Heedles would be in very good hands while they were in New Orleans, at which point he shot Mrs. Wincock a bewildered look, but neither of them said anything after.

  Mrs. Wincock stood in the doorway as I made the excruciating journey down the pebbled walkway to the Bronco, feeling her pitying eyes like a target on my back. The entire way, I whispered the name of Guidry’s fiancée and soon-to-be bride over and over again. Monica … Monica … Monica … Monica …

  By the time I got behind the wheel, I’d said it so many times it didn’t seem like an appropriate name for a human being at all—more like a species of lizard, or maybe a topical ointment for ringworm … Ask your doctor about Monica!

  Just as I stabbed my keys into the ignition, Mr. Wincock appeared, his face grim as I rolled down the window. He was still holding the TV remote in one hand, and the laugh lines around his eyes had fallen.

  He said, “Miss Dixie, I think you better come see this.”

  15

  As Mr. Wincock led me inside the house, Mrs. Wincock was standing slack-jawed in the middle of the living room, just next to the tarp of harpsichord innards, her arms hanging limply at her sides, her eyes fixed on the TV screen. She turned and said, “Oh, dear.”

  The reporter had perfectly coiffed brunette hair perched on top of her head like a lacquered helmet. She was gesturing at the scene behind her, which at first looked like nothing more than an empty roadside with a dense woods behind it, but then the camera panned around to reveal a deputy squad car, its lights flashing blue and red.

  The reporter stepped into the frame and nodded earnestly. “What we know so far is that a morning jogger was making his way down this peaceful stretch of road when he was nearly run down by a car that came speeding out of this driveway. It took off toward the center of town. We don’t know yet what kind of car it was, but as soon as we get more details we’ll let you know.”

  All I could think was how impossibly overinflated the woman’s breasts were. They seemed to defy all reason and logic, squeezed as they were into an impossibly tight silvery blouse like two Goodyear blimps floating side by side in front of her body. I wondered that they didn’t each have their own LED display panel, with blinking text announcing the end of dignified reporting as we know it. Surely, I thought to myself, this was not what Mr. Wincock wanted me to see.

  I said, “What’s happening?”

  He said, “A jogger found a dead body on a private lane.” He turned to me. “They said it’s down on the south end of the Key.”

  I nodded.

  “They said it’s off Midnight Pass … by Turtle Beach.”

  Just then, the reporter pointed to the driveway beyond the squad car, and I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

  Mrs. Wincock said, “Dixie, didn’t you say you live down there?”

  * * *

  I’d like to think I said something like, “Okay, thanks for letting me know,” or, at the very least, “I need to go now,” but I don’t remember saying a word. I’d also like to think I turned and walked calmly around Mr. Wincock’s harpsichord project and then made my way out the front door with measured aplomb, but I didn’t. I stormed right through all the various piles of parts and burst through the front door like a bat out of hell, where I collided into Deputy Marshall so hard it nearly toppled him to the ground.

  Blocking my way, he said, “Miss Hemingway, where are you going?”

  I said, “I need to get home.”

  He held his hands out in front of me like he was calming a rabid dog. “Now, hold on. I just received a request to keep you here until we know exactly what’s happening.”

  My eyes must have looked like they were about to pop out of my head, because he immediately took one step back and said, “Okay. Let’s don’t panic.”

  I looked down at the ground and thought for a moment. I was beginning to think somebody in the sheriff’s office had given Marshall a heads-up about me. I repeated myself, trying to keep my voice as calm as possible, “I need. To get. Home.”

  That stretch of road behind the reporter on the TV—I had recognized it almost immediately. The sea grape and moss-laden oaks should have been a dead giveaway, but as soon as I saw the rusty old PRIVATE DRIVEWAY sign that sits at the top of our lane, my body had switched into autopilot.

  Marshall adjusted his belt. “I think it’ll be safer for everyone involved if we wait right here until further notice. Got it?”

  I said, “That’s a great idea. You do that.”

  I steered past him and headed for the Bronco, but I hadn’t gotten far when I felt his hand on my left shoulder. I spun around to face him, knocking his arm out of the way.

  I said, “Deputy, everyone left on this earth that I care about is in that house. I’m going there now. You can help me, or you can arrest me for speeding when we get there.” I hadn’t felt this mix of rage and fear in a very long time. Every muscle in my body was as tightly drawn as a cat poised for attack, but when I spoke, my voice was calm and even. “Got it?”

  I didn’t even look back.

  I jumped in the Bronco and fired the engine. Pulling out of the driveway, I caught a glimpse of Mr. and Mrs. Wincock in their doorway. Mrs. Wincock had Mrs. Heedles in her arms, and they were all three watching me, motionless and wide-eyed, like they were watching the climactic scene of a horror movie.

  I screeched to a stop at the corner of the main road and took a deep breath, telling myself to keep my eyes open and my wits about me. I knew I wouldn’t be doing anybody any favors if I crashed and burned trying to get there, and I certainly didn’t want to put anybody else in danger, but every cell in my body was telling me to get home as fast as possible, no matter the cost.

  Just then, a blur of colored lights streamed by on my left, and the next thing I knew Marshall’s squad car was in the middle of the intersection, with cars in both directions rolling to a stop as the wail of his siren broke through the deafening buzz in my head. Marshall leaned out his window and pointed directly at me. Then, as if cracking an imaginary whip, he signaled me to follow, and I stepped on the gas.

  With Marshall leading the way, I’m pretty sure we shot through town faster than anyone’s ever driven from one end of the island to the other. Less than two minutes later, we’d gone through the traffic light at Stickney Point, where there was a line of cars in front of us about a half mile long, like a stalled parade headed south. There wasn’t room enough on the shoulder to pass them, so Marshall veered into the oncoming lane, his lights and sirens shif
ting into full-out emergency mode. From then on, we had a clear path.

  There were no cars coming north.

  At some point, my field of vision narrowed to a deep, dark tunnel, as if I was peering through the ragged aperture of a homemade pinhole camera and all I could see were the flashing lights of Marshall’s cruiser in front of me. Everything else turned black and fuzzy around the edges. I kept hearing Michael say he was going for a jog, and how Paco had said he’d noticed a rabbit’s nest along the driveway and that he had some carrot tops for them. As we got closer, I caught the occasional glimpse of people gathered outside their cars or standing on the sidewalk, craning their necks to see what in the world was happening up ahead.

  I saw the news van first, bathed in a sea of emergency lights. There was a cameraman with his back against the hood, his handheld video camera perched on his shoulder, an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth, and the brunette reporter I’d seen on the Wincocks’ television screen was checking her lipstick in the reflection of the van’s back window.

  As Deputy Marshall rolled up, I pulled in behind him and immediately jumped out, not even bothering to cut the engine. There were two sheriff’s cars on either side of our driveway, and a couple of Sarasota police officers holding traffic. I realized Deputy Marshall must have radioed ahead and requested they keep the northbound lane closed until we arrived.

  I hadn’t gotten ten feet when someone grabbed me from behind. It was Michael, dressed in the same shorts and tank top he was wearing that morning, and the sight of him nearly made me collapse right there in the road. Before I could even get a word out, he stopped me.

  “Okay. We’re all fine. Ethan and Paco are down at the house talking to the cops right now.”

  I said, “What happened?”

  “I don’t know yet. Somebody was jogging by and they almost got run down by a car coming out of our lane. That’s when he noticed something about midway down to the house … it’s a body.”

  I said, “You saw it?”

  “Yeah.” He paused, his eyes going glassy. “It’s a woman. Blond. Right in the middle of the lane by the magnolia. There’s blood.”