I said, “I’m fine … sort of.”
“You’ve got a pretty good bump there.”
I reached up and ran my fingers through my hair. There was a tender bulge the size of a small plum on the very top of my head.
I said, “Yeah, I was here taking care of the Kellers’ cat, and somebody snuck up and hit me.”
He frowned. “Somebody hit you?”
“Yeah, with a statue. It was a fat bald woman, and her toes were painted red.”
He raised an eyebrow. “A fat, bald woman with red toes hit you?”
Morgan’s not the brightest bulb in the box. I shook my head. “No, the statue. Dick Cheney hit me.”
He squinted his eyes and nodded. “Uh-huh.”
“He was about my height, more or less, and dressed head to toe in black.”
“Dick Cheney.”
“Yeah, one of the masks … he had one of the masks on. And I left the front door unlocked, so I don’t know if he was already here or if he snuck in after me.”
He nodded. “Okay, I think we better get you to a hospital.”
“No!”
I pushed over to my side and tried to stand up, but Morgan held me there. “Whoa, slow down now, little lady, let’s call an ambulance first.”
I decided to ignore the “little lady” comment and suppressed the desire to sock him in his little man parts. I said, “No. No way. I am not going to the hospital. And we need to make sure he’s not still hiding in the house somewhere!”
Morgan put his hands on both my shoulders and looked me squarely in the eye. “Dixie. You’ve got a concussion. Believe it or not, the first thing we did was search the house. There’s nobody here.”
I squeezed my eyes shut a couple of times and then nodded. “Okay, good. But I don’t have a concussion, so no hospital.”
“I’m pretty sure you do, and anyway that’s my call, not yours.”
“Believe me, I’d know if I had a concussion, and I don’t.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You told the 911 operator you’re a sheriff’s deputy.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yeah. You did.”
I didn’t remember doing that, but then again, I didn’t remember not doing it, either. I shook my head slowly. “No. She must have heard me wrong.”
“You mean he?”
“Yeah. He. Whatever.”
Morgan’s sharp features seemed to soften and he tilted his head to one side, the way you might do if you were trying to soothe a small child. “Dixie … you reported an 11-99.”
That stopped me. 11-99 is scanner code for “Officer Needs Assistance.” I didn’t remember saying that, either, but I tried to shrug it off. I said, “Well, what was I supposed to say? There’s no scanner code for ‘Cat Sitter Needs Assistance.’”
Just then, Deputy Beane appeared in the doorway to the laundry room. I probably wouldn’t have recognized her but I remembered her hair—straight and jet-black, cut in a short bob that framed her face like a helmet. We had met before.
Morgan looked up at her and said, “Anything?”
She shook her head. “No. And I talked to a couple of neighbors. Nothing.”
“Okay,” Morgan said. “Dixie, I believe you know Deputy Beane.”
She nodded at me. “Hi. You all right?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
Morgan said, “Dixie was just filling me in on all the details. Seems she reported an 11-99 because a fat, bald, naked woman with red toes broke in and hit her over the head with a statue.”
I started to interject but he held up one finger. “Oh sorry, no, I got that wrong. It was Dick Cheney. Dick Cheney broke in and hit her on the head with a statue. He was wearing a mask, and he had red toes. I forget, was he naked, too?”
Beane’s eyes widened as she looked at me expectantly. I couldn’t tell if she was thinking I needed immediate medical attention, or if she was waiting to find out if Dick Cheney had been naked, too.
I sighed. “No, he was not naked. And it wasn’t actually Dick Cheney. He was wearing one of Mrs. Keller’s masks that reminds me of Dick Cheney, so that’s what I call it. And he hit me with this little statue that had red toes.”
They both just stared at me with blank expressions.
“I know it sounds crazy, but I’m telling you the truth. I admit I must have been a little loopy when I called 911, but if I had a concussion, would I be sitting here talking to you like a normal person?”
Morgan’s eyes narrowed a bit. “I’m not so sure you are, but let’s try this. What’s your name?”
“Huh?”
“You heard me, what’s your name?”
“Oh, give me a break. You know exactly who I am.”
His expression didn’t change. “What is your name?”
I knew what he was up to. A person with a concussion can seem perfectly normal on the outside, while on the inside circuits can be overloading and burning out and blood can be pooling up in all corners of the brain and then before you know it you’re a vegetable. One way to determine if someone’s had a concussion is if they have trouble answering basic questions.
“I’m waiting.”
I sighed. “All right. My name is Dixie Hemingway.”
“And where are you?”
“I already went over this with 911. I’m in the laundry room.”
“Funny. I mean what town are you in?”
I blinked. “Oh. I’m in Siesta Key.”
“What state?”
“Florida.”
“Who’s house is this?”
“Buster and Linda Keller’s.”
He nodded. “Okay. So far, so good. What’s one hundred minus thirty-seven?”
My eyes glazed over. Math is not exactly my best subject. I can barely balance a checkbook.
I said, “Uh…”
Morgan stood up. “Yeah, we’re calling an ambulance.”
“Wait a minute, I got this … seventy-three?”
He nodded at Beane, “Go ahead and call Dispatch while I start a report.”
She pulled her radio out of its holster while I swiped at Morgan’s ankles, feeling like Barney Feldman under the hall credenza. “Sixty-three! Sixty-three!”
Morgan looked down and sighed. “Dixie, are you sure you’re okay?”
I looked around and thought for a second. I had mistaken my flashlight for a pistol, I’d told the 911 operator I was a sheriff’s deputy, my head was throbbing, the room was rotating slightly, and there was a distant ringing in my ears that sounded a little bit like the coronation bells at a royal wedding.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m totally fine, and I promise if I notice anything weird I’ll go straight to the doctor.”
He shook his head slightly. “Okay. I don’t like it, but I guess I’ll just have to trust you on this one.”
I held out my arms. “I could use a little help getting up, though.”
Beane stepped in and they both pulled me to my feet and stood on either side while the blood rushed back into my legs.
He said, “You good?”
I gave him a nod and a smile. “I’m good.”
“Okay, let’s have a look around and see if you notice anything out of place.”
I steadied myself with one hand on his shoulder. “Well, I can tell you right off the bat, those candles in the living room … they weren’t there before.”
Morgan glanced at Beane and then frowned. “What candles?”
4
I was standing at the entry to the living room just beyond the Kellers’ kitchen, with Deputy Morgan on one side of me and Deputy Beane on the other. Luckily the ringing in my ears had subsided a bit and the room was only barely rotating now, but my eyes were wide as saucers. I was holding one arm out in front of me with an open palm, like I was about to shake hands with a ghost.
“They … they were right there.”
Morgan said, “A candle.”
“Two candles. And they were both lit.”
The coffee table was one of thos
e big square modern things you see in fancy catalogs, with iron legs and a massive slab of white stone polished to a glassy finish, and just like everything else in the Kellers’ house it was completely clutter-free—no old magazines piled up, no TV remotes, no half-finished crossword puzzles, and most importantly, no tapered candles in the middle.
Morgan walked around to the other side and squatted down to peer underneath it. “And when did you see these candles?”
“Right when I woke up. The first thing I noticed were those curtains moving in the wind, but then…”
I glanced over at the curtains. They were not moving in the wind. Not even slightly. They were not moving in the wind because there was no wind. The doors to the garden outside were completely closed.
Morgan folded his arms over his chest and looked down at his shoes. “You saw the curtains moving?”
“Yeah, because those doors were open…”
“And where was the cat?”
“I don’t know.”
“And you saw all this before or after you got the concussion?”
I cast him a sidelong glance. “I do not have a concussion. And I told you, it was after.”
He studied my face for a moment and then said, “Bright red toes, huh?”
I sighed. “Look, I know it sounds crazy, but I’m not making this up. As sure as I’m standing here, those doors were open and there were two lit candles on that table.”
He looked around the room. “Well, I hate to tell you, Dixie, but I’m standing here, too, and I don’t see any candles anywhere.”
I tried to think of a smart-ass reply—something I’m normally pretty good at—but my brain just wasn’t cooperating. “Well, they must have … taken them when they left…?”
Even as I said it I knew how ridiculous I sounded, but there had to be a logical explanation and that was the only thing I could come up with. Deputy Beane went over and parted the curtains with the back of her hand.
She said, “These doors are all locked. And they’re latched from the inside.”
Morgan nodded. “Okay, it’s all starting to make sense now.”
I turned to him. “It is?”
“Yep. Somebody snuck in here and clobbered you over the head with a statue. Then they opened these folding doors. Maybe they needed some fresh air or something.” He pointed toward the laundry room. “Then, while you were taking your beauty nap in there, they came in here and lit a couple candles.” He looked around and nodded with a smug grin. “Now, as to why they lit those candles, I have no idea. Who can say what motivates the mind of a criminal? All I know is, when they got done doing whatever they were doing, maybe they took a nap or watched a movie, they locked everything up and took the candles with them. Happens all the time.”
I rolled my eyes. “What are you trying to say, that I was hallucinating?”
“Dixie, you have to admit, none of this makes sense. And there’s nothing missing.”
I said, “What do you mean, there’s nothing missing?”
“Look around. There’s expensive artwork all over this place and none of it’s been touched. There’s even a jewelry box in the master bedroom full of stuff that no criminal in his right mind would leave behind. I’m sorry, but this just doesn’t look like a burglary.”
“Then how do you explain what happened to me?”
He paused for a moment. “Dixie, how were you feeling before you got here?”
“Huh?”
“You know, how were you feeling? Like, light-headed or dizzy or anything?”
I folded my arms over my chest. “Seriously. You think I fainted?”
“Well, don’t take this personally, but you don’t look too good.”
I raised my finger and wagged it in his face. “Really? You wouldn’t look too good, either, if you’d been knocked out cold and left for dead!”
“Listen, I’m just saying it’s a possibility, that’s all. If you blacked out, that might explain all the, uh … visions.”
“Visions…”
“The fat lady and the red toes and the candles and everything. Maybe you hit your head when you went down.”
I nodded. “So you’re saying the whole thing was a dream.”
“Yeah. Basically.”
I sighed. There was no point arguing with him, and also I had to admit he was right: none of it made any sense.
He came over and gave me a little pat on the shoulder. “Look, if it’ll make you feel better, we can go through the house one more time and look for anything missing, and I can always check for fingerprints.”
“Wait!” I put both hands up like I was stopping traffic. “Barney Feldman!”
Morgan shot Beane a worried look. “Barney Feldman?”
I rushed over to the folding doors and looked outside. “Yeah. The Kellers’ cat. He’s spoiled rotten but if there’s an open door he’ll go busting out like an escapee from a torture chamber. I guarantee you, if these doors were open at any point, he’ll be outside hunting around in the garden and then we’ll know I didn’t make this whole thing up.”
As I ran into the kitchen I heard Morgan say, “What ever happened to names like Whiskers and Tommy?”
I got down on my hands and knees and peered under the cupboard. “Barney?”
All I could see were a few cat hairs and the stubby eraser end of a pencil, so I rushed back into the living room and checked under the couch and both armchairs, but he wasn’t there, either. Morgan and Beane were still standing right where I’d left them, watching me like I was some kind of lunatic.
I said, “Hello? A little help?”
They followed me through the living room, and as soon as I turned the corner down the hallway I saw a flash of something under the antique credenza. I stopped about a foot from its edge, and sure enough a single black paw took a couple of swipes at the tips of my toes. I knelt down and held out one hand like a peace offering, and Barney came squeezing out from under the credenza, as sweet as can be and purring like an electric razor.
Deputy Beane adjusted her belt and said, “Well, mystery solved.”
I stood up and leaned over the credenza while Barney rubbed up against my shins. Maybe Morgan was right, maybe the whole thing was a dream. I must have looked like I was about to burst into tears, because Beane started rocking on her heels while she tried to think of the right thing to say.
Morgan said, “Listen, Dixie, people faint all the time. It happens to the best of us, right?” He looked over at Beane for support, but she just widened her eyes and shook her head slightly. He frowned. “Okay, maybe not Beane here, but it’s definitely happened to me.”
I rolled my eyes. “Oh, please. You’ve never fainted in your life.”
He glanced down and mumbled, “When my wife was giving birth, she was in labor for sixteen hours. I went down about hour nine.”
“Okay, but that’s not exactly the same thing.”
He shook his head. “Look, the point is it’s no big deal. You came in, you saw all these creepy masks everywhere, you got a little woozy, and then, bam, you hit your—”
“Ha!”
I cut him off. Something about the way he said “creepy masks” had loosened something in the back of my mind. I clapped my hands together triumphantly. “Dick Cheney!”
He frowned. “Now we’re back on Dick Cheney?”
“Yes! I just realized, Mrs. Keller told me that mask cost her a small fortune. It’s rare, and it’s probably worth a hell of a lot more than anything she’s got in that jewelry box. I can’t explain the candles or the curtains or how the guy got in here yet, but I can tell you one thing for certain: I know exactly why he was wearing that mask—he stole it!”
I swooped Barney up in my arms and marched down the hall toward the front door with Morgan and Beane following close behind.
I said, “I guarantee you, with that mask and the right connections somebody could make a killing on the black market. Whoever it was knew exactly what they were doing.”
As I ca
me to a stop in the foyer, my throat made a little squeak, kind of like the sound sneakers make on a hardwood floor. Morgan and Beane said in unison, “What?”
I pointed up at the wall just opposite the front door, directly at the spot where Dick Cheney had been hanging when I first came in.
He was still there.
5
I’ve always loved animals, but pet sitting just sort of fell in my lap. A friend had the cutest tomcat, Rudy, a tiger-striped fellow she’d found under an RV parked behind her apartment building, and she asked if I might be able to stay with him while she went on a business trip to San Francisco. It took my brother Michael about two days to talk me into it. The thought of leaving the house made me sick to my stomach, but I knew he wouldn’t give up, so I packed an overnight bag with the bare essentials—toothbrush, sunglasses, Prozac—and stayed with Rudy in a condo on the bay for five days.
I spent most of my time lying in a chaise lounge on the balcony, gazing out at the water and wondering what in the world I was going to do with the rest of my life, while Rudy stood squarely on my chest and gazed into my eyes, purring like a squeeze-box stuck on the same low, growly note. To this day, I’m completely convinced it was Rudy who planted the idea in my head of starting a pet sitting business. The thought of returning to law enforcement was about as attractive as a root canal, and I remember thinking at the time how much quieter and simpler life would be as a cat sitter.
It hasn’t really turned out that way.
As I rolled my bike down the Kellers’ driveway, I couldn’t stop shaking my head. I like to think I’m not a dainty, delicate flower susceptible to the occasional bout of swooning or case of vapors because of my dainty, delicate composition. I may not exactly look like an Amazonian warrior, but I’m no lightweight. I mean, I’m an ex–sheriff’s deputy, for God’s sake.
I don’t faint.
In fact, I couldn’t think of a single solitary time I’d even come close to fainting … well, except maybe once at church when I was about thirteen years old, but that doesn’t really count. I was in the throes of puberty, plus I’d eaten so many gingerbread cookies I think my body had gone into sugar shock. Still, when I turned south on Island Circle Road and made my way along the sandy edge of the neighbors’ yards, I wondered if maybe something like that hadn’t happened again.
The Cat Sitter's Whiskers Page 3
