The Cat Sitter’s Cradle (22 page)

Michael and I shared a look. As a member of the special crimes unit, Paco has a lot
of experience with all kinds of investigations. One week he might be meeting with
an informant to root out an illegal narcotics ring, and the next he might be working
undercover as a temp in a law firm, gathering evidence for a corporate fraud investigation.
If he was somehow involved in an investigation into the affairs of Sonnebrook or the
Harwick family, that was about as much as we would get out of him.

Michael turned to me. “So please tell me Kenny isn’t running out of town.”

“No. By now he’s turned himself over to the police. I made him promise he’d go straight
there after we talked.”

He sighed. “Good. So your work is done. Right?”

I bit into a juicy slice of mango.
“Right.”

*   *   *

Weekends are usually busy on the Key, especially on a nice day. I was riding my bike
up Midnight Pass, and I thought to myself,
It’s not just a nice day. It’s a
glorious
day.
The sky was a deep periwinkle blue, there wasn’t a cloud in sight, and the sun felt
warm and healing on my body. The road was chock-full of cars and joggers and couples
on bicycles. Every twenty feet or so I passed a family or a group of kids, all draped
in towels and carrying chairs and coolers to the beach.

Right before I got to the village center I took a quick detour down a side lane so
I could ride by a pair of ancient magnolia trees. They’ve been there for about as
long as I can remember, and I always make a point of going by them when I’m on my
bike. They were in full bloom, their white cuplike blossoms tilted toward the sun.
Their heady, sweet perfume was so powerful I could taste it on my tongue.

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.”