Cat Sitter on a Hot Tin Roof (17 page)

I kept thinking about what Reba had said about their childhood experiences causing Laura and her sister to get kinks in their personalities. But there are millions of people who’ve been abused as children who don’t grow up to be liars and thieves, so what makes one person transcend damage done to her as a child, and another lets it become the central core of who she is?

When our father died, Michael was nine and I was seven. While I drew into a knot of miserable guilt, Michael had spent several months hitting or kicking things. His grades plunged and he went around with a ferocious scowl on his face. Our mother had been too stunned to deal with him, but our grandfather had finally come up with the perfect solution. He got a big football tackle bag and hung it from a tree limb in our backyard. Then he had a talk with Michael about anger. Basically, he told him that anger is a normal emotion and that hitting stuff is a normal action, but that hitting a tackle bag was a lot smarter than hitting walls. Then he gave Michael a pair of boxing gloves and let him be.

After a while, I got so used to hearing Michael thump that tackle bag that I took to hitting it myself, only I used a stick to whack at it. I even saw our mother slam her fist into it a few times. Now I wondered what would have happened to Michael’s fury if he hadn’t had that bag to hit. Maybe all that frustrated rage would have congealed and turned him into a criminal instead of a courageous fireman.

It was too much to think about. I went to the kitchen to put away my empty plate and wineglass, and dragged myself to bed. It was only eight-thirty, but my mind had gone blank. I couldn’t think anymore about what had happened.

I woke with a start, chasing remnants of a dream that escaped before my eyes were open. My bedside clock said it was quarter to four, time to get up and do my thing. I stretched and yawned, enjoying the rare feeling of being fully rested. Then I remembered why I’d gone to bed so early. Laura Halston had been murdered, and I had learned things about her that I wished I didn’t know.

I swung my feet to the floor and realized I’d slept in my clothes. I usually shower first thing when I get home at night, but last night I’d slept in my hairy clothes. Yuk. With the extra few minutes I had, I took a quick shower and shampooed my hair. Toweling my hair, I padded naked to my closet-office and pulled on underpants and shorts and a lightweight long-sleeved knit shirt. I even wore a bra. Pets don’t care if your boobs bounce or sag or swing or just lie there, but with all the stuff going on, I thought I might have to deal with men before the morning was over. Men are not as evolved as pets, they are easily distracted by loose bosoms.

I pulled my damp hair into a ponytail, used my remote to raise the hurricane shutters on my French doors, and went out to face the day. A couple of snowy egrets asleep on my porch railing watched me warily as I walked by, but it was too early for them, so they didn’t fly away. The sea air smelled of salt and life, the sky was that peculiar creamy pre-dawn color, and the sea glimmered silver white. Down on the beach, a few early gulls waded in the surf’s thin foam and searched for goodies. A pelican was asleep on the hood of my Bronco, and a great blue heron dozed on Michael’s car. They both took off with a loud thrumming when I got in the Bronco. Maybe they knew what the morning would bring.

25

T
om Hale’s condo was dark when I let myself in. Billy Elliot was waiting for me in the foyer and we kissed hello, with a lot of panting and tail wagging on his part. I snapped his leash on his collar, and we trotted out with our knees pumping like majorettes rehearsing for a parade.

The lobby downstairs was empty, with that gloomy feel that a place gets when it’s used to lots of traffic and finds itself deserted. Billy Elliot’s toenails made skittering sounds on the marble floor and his leash jingled merrily, sort of livening up the joint. We blew through the double doors and started our usual jog toward the big oval track made by the parked cars in the front lot. Just as we got to the end of the walk and stepped onto the asphalt, a whale-shouldered man stepped from behind a tall stand of cascading firecracker plants.

I jumped and gave a little
whoop!
that immediately changed to a friendly half-laugh, the way people do when they’ve been startled but they don’t want the startler to feel guilty about scaring them half to death. In the next instant, my heart clattered because the man didn’t look friendly at all. In fact, he looked menacing. He also looked like one of the mug shots Guidry had shown me—the one of Frederick Vaught, the elder-smothering nurse. If I’d had any doubts, they evaporated when he spoke.

“Dixie Hemingway, I presume. The ailurophile.”

I scrambled for the meaning of the word and, thanks to high school Latin, came up with
cat lover
. He had eyes like peeled grapes, and they were bulging down at me with glistening venom.

“Because of you, I have been questioned about a crime for which I haven’t a scintilla of involvement. You have besmirched my reputation, ruined my good name.”

His breath made low nose-whistles like the distant cooing of mourning doves.

With an effort, I found my voice. “You were involved. You were at Laura’s house. You were stalking her.”

His smile couldn’t have been any more condescending if he’d been giving lessons.

“Oh, the pretensions of those who provide services to others. You know nothing of Laura’s life or of my involvement with her. You’re a pet sitter. You were not her friend.”

My face went hot with anger and embarrassment. Somehow the man had an oily ability to make me feel small and insignificant.

“You were in Ms. Grayberg’s room at the nursing unit too. I just want to know why—”

“One of the indices of an inferior intellect is the obsession with the why of things.”

My back teeth made grinding movements, as if they had their own obsession of what they’d like to do to this condescending prick.

He said, “Your kind maintains the illusion that life is sacred, that the mere fact of having a breathing body with a beating heart somehow confers the right to continue one’s inane existence. That ridiculous worship of oxygenated flesh is an obsession to which I have never fallen prey.”

“So you killed Laura because you didn’t believe her life was important.”

“Why, Ms. Hemingway, you surprise me! You actually understood what I said. Nevertheless, I had nothing to do with Laura Halston’s murder, and if you continue to stalk me I shall have you arrested.”

“
Stalk
you?” As the words came out of my mouth, I knew he could make a good case for me stalking him. I had asked questions about him at Bayfront and at the nursing unit.

His gaze was diamond hard. “Please don’t make it necessary for me to speak to you again, Ms. Hemingway.”

With surprising agility for a man his size, he spun away from me and walked rapidly to a minivan that bore evidence of a multitude of minor scrapes and collisions. Either Guidry had been wrong about his driving ability or he’d been reduced to driving an old clunker formerly owned by a mother who did lots of stop-and-go driving.

I pulled Billy Elliot onto the asphalt track and followed him as he did his morning gallop, but my mind was on Frederick Vaught. Something wasn’t right about that man, something more than his obnoxious personality and his history of mistreating elderly patients. Whatever it was, it made my skin quiver.

After three mad laps around the track, Billy Elliot slowed to a pace that other dogs would consider a frenzied dash and allowed me to lead him back in the building. I was wheezing and wondering if it’s possible for lungs to collapse from running with a speed-obsessed greyhound. Billy was prancing and happily swishing his tail.

Upstairs, lights were on in the kitchen and I could hear a coffeemaker gurgling. I didn’t hang around, though. If I had, I might have told Tom about Frederick Vaught accosting me, and he might have felt guilty that he hadn’t been downstairs guarding me with big manly muscles. I gave Billy Elliot a quick hug and left him grinning to himself.

I wasn’t grinning. I was thinking about Frederick Vaught. I thought about him for the rest of the morning, trying to define what it was that made him so repulsive. I was at a rabbit’s house vacuuming up pellets of bunny poop when I realized what it was.

His hands were too clean! With their long thin fingers, his hands looked as if they’d been boiled until all the color had leached out. His fingernails were too pale too, and too well-defined, like an alien’s tentacles with little suckers on their tips. Ugh! The thought of being touched by those long bloodless fingers made my spine run cold.

It was near nine o’clock when I cleaned the last litter box of the morning, and I was seriously considering raiding client refrigerators. The tomato pie I’d had for dinner had been too little and too early, and I needed food. But first I popped in the Kitty Haven for a quick hello to Leo.

Marge brought him from his private room and knelt with me to gentle him on the floor. He didn’t exactly seem overjoyed to see me, but he did rub his cheek against my hand to mark it with his scent.

Marge said, “He’s such a sweetheart. What’s going to happen to him?”

I didn’t want to tell her that Laura’s sister didn’t want him. It made him seem like a reject, and I knew there were lots of people who’d love to have him. Besides, it seemed rude to say it in front of Leo.

Instead, I said, “The owner’s sister is in town. She’s at the Ritz. It will all work out okay.”

Marge may have heard the evasiveness in my voice because she didn’t ask anything else. I spent a little more time petting Leo and then kissed the top of his head.

I murmured, “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you’re with somebody as sweet as you are.”

When I left the Kitty Haven, I was torn between rushing to walk Mazie and then having breakfast, or eating first and then going to see Mazie. When I’d had that decision the day before, I’d ended up practically crawling from weakness by the time I got food. I knew Pete would have already fed Mazie and taken her outside to potty. He had probably brushed her too, because he and Mazie had come to enjoy him doing that. The only reason for me to go there was to run with her. I decided I would break my own rule and take time for breakfast before I went to Fish Hawk Lagoon, with no harm done.

Besides, I dreaded seeing Mazie’s sad face. I dreaded seeing Pete’s sad face too.

Before I went in the diner, I called Pete to tell him I’d be a little late. He sounded dispirited.

“I don’t think the drops are helping, Dixie. I don’t think they’re helping at all.”

I ended the call feeling as down as Pete sounded. Mazie’s depression was like an anvil sitting on all of us.

At the Village Diner, Tanisha waved at me as I headed toward the ladies’ room. I ducked into a stall and from the next door cubicle heard a woman with a voice like an ax splitting wood.

She said, “I was married to a man who couldn’t get it up unless you twisted his nipples. He would have liked it if I’d attached snapping turtles to them. He left me for a woman who
was
a snapping turtle, so I guess they’re happy together.”

Another woman laughed, and they both flushed and went to the sinks. When I joined them, they went silent and we avoided one another’s eyes in the mirror. I washed my hands, checked to make sure I didn’t have cat hair on my shoulders, and left them to continue their observations about love. I swear, if men knew half the things women say about them, they’d probably give up romance altogether.

Judy had already poured a mug of coffee for me, and by the time I was ready for a refill she brought my breakfast.

She said, “You okay?”

I thought, I’m not okay at all. A three-year-old child has just had brain surgery, and I don’t know if it was successful. His seizure-assistance dog is in deep depression, and I can’t make her happier. A woman I liked a lot has been murdered and her face was mutilated, and the killer is still out there. The truth is I’m scared for myself and for you and for every other woman.

I said, “I’m fine.”

She heard the dryness in my voice and did a double-take. But before she could say anything, Guidry slid into the seat opposite me.

He said, “I’ll have what she’s having, with a side of bacon, extra crisp.”

Judy said, “I’d better bring you a double. Dixie steals bacon, especially if it’s crisp.”

She gave me a quick look that said
You’re gonna tell me all about this meeting when he leaves
and swished away to get him a coffee mug, leaving us looking bare-eyed at each other.

I said, “Guidry, do you have a first name?”

I hadn’t planned to say that, it just popped out, like an embarrassing belly button.

His eyes narrowed a bit, as if I’d asked him something too personal. “Most people just call me Guidry.”

“Your mother called you Guidry?”

His eyes softened. “My mother calls me Jean-Pierre.”

He pronounced the first name
Zhahn
, like an American drunk saying
John
, but when you hook that sound to
Pierre
, I knew he wasn’t speaking like an American.

“So you’re French, right?”

“Have you taken up journalism?”

“Why are you so secretive? Got skeletons in your family closet?”

Oh, God, why did I say that?

He gave me a long look, then firmed his jaw. “My father’s a lawyer in New Orleans, heads a big law firm there.”

“What about your mother?”

He smiled. “She’s always bringing home strangers who need help, feeding them, finding jobs for them, getting them whatever they need to get back on their feet. Used to drive my father nuts, but since Katrina he’s been doing the same thing, giving his time to people who need legal help.”

Okay, so now I knew why he had a rich man’s aura. It was because he had grown up in a rich man’s house, with rich parents who had big hearts.

I said, “Did your father want you to be a lawyer too?”

He grinned. “Oh, yeah. And for a while I was. Went to law school, worked in his firm, tried to like it. But after a while we both knew I’d be a much better cop than I’d ever be a lawyer.”

There it was again, that reminder that he was a cop, along with the uncomfortable comparison with lawyers. In spite of myself, I thought of Ethan Crane. Why couldn’t my perverse body yearn to be close to an attorney instead of a cop?

Guidry said, “Dixie?”

I must have been staring over his shoulder for a while, seeing ghosts, remembering that cops get killed and leave you.

I said, “Do you know what piqueurism is?”

“Why?”

“I talked to Reba Chandler last night. She’s a psychology professor at New College. She mentioned the word. It seemed like something that fits with a scalpel stabbing.”

I buttered my biscuit and took a bite. Normal people probably wouldn’t have been able to eat while they talked about a woman being stabbed to death, but anybody who’s been trained in law enforcement has learned to disconnect their stomachs from their hearts.

Guidry reached across the table and took a round of fried potato from my plate.

Ignoring my question, he said, “We talked to Gorgon. He owns the dealership where Laura Halston bought her Jaguar. He says she paid a hundred thousand plus change—in cash. You have any idea where she got that kind of money?”

“She said she drove her Mercedes from Dallas and sold it in Arkansas.”

“Yeah, but that was a lie, since she didn’t live in Dallas and didn’t have a Mercedes.”

“What about Gorgon?”

“On the night Laura Halston was killed, Gorgon was with a woman in Naples. She backs up his story.”

Judy bustled back with Guidry’s plates—one with his eggs and fries, another with a double rasher of crisp bacon. She looked as if she wanted to say something but then seemed to think better of it and left us.

Like Pavlov’s dog salivating at the sound of a bell, I automatically raised my head at the fragrance of fried hog fat. I am convinced that heaven is a place where crisp bacon is served around the clock, anytime you want it, and that it won’t clog your arteries or go to your hips. I’ll bet angels sit around eating BLTs all day long. Probably with fries. Gives me something to look forward to.

Guidry gave me a sympathetic look and moved a couple rigid strips to my plate. I didn’t offer any protest. After the last few days I’d had, I damn well deserved bacon.

We ate silently for a while, me taking mincing bites of my bacon to make it last longer, and Guidry chomping down half a slice at a bite. I watched him chew. His lower lip had a teensy sheen of fat on it from the bacon. It occurred to me that I had never kissed a man who’d just taken a bite of bacon.

He said, “Tell me again how you came to overhear Martin Freuland threaten Laura Halston.”

The women in Guidry’s world probably never ate bacon. Probably didn’t eat any fat at all. Skinny anorexic bitches.

I said, “You know that little turtle I found?”

He shook his head, and it seemed to me that he wanted to roll his eyes.

“Well, I found this little box turtle, and I put her by a dock on Fish Hawk Lagoon. While I was there, Laura and that man came walking by on the jogging trail. I could see them through the hedge, but they didn’t see me. The man was telling her that he’d see to it that she paid for what she’d done. He said it was the worst thing she’d ever pulled. Then he said, ‘You owe me.’ She gave him the finger and walked off. He was furious. Got in his car and hauled off.”