The Cat Sitter’s Cradle (28 page)

Inside one of the bags was a collection of envelopes, exactly as Kenny had described
them. They all had a post office box here in Siesta Key for the return address, and
they had all been sent to the same person: Daniel Imperiori—Kenny’s real name. There
were probably about ten envelopes total. The other bag had only two things in it.
One was a piece of paper, like a receipt, and the other was a small, amber-colored
plastic bottle with a white label.

I brought the plastic bag up closer and squinted at the tiny print on the bottle.
It read
BUTORPHANOL,
40
ML.

I should have known.

I never aced a chemistry test in high school, and I don’t have a medical degree, but
I have spent a lot of time around animal clinics, so I know a thing or two about animal
medications. Vets use butorphanol every day. It’s powerful and relatively tasteless.
It’s mostly used for sedating animals before surgery, but I had a feeling it might
come in handy in other situations as well. For example, if you needed an animal to
be quiet for a few hours. Like, during a plane ride.

It all started falling into place. Those drugs Mr. and Mrs. Harwick had found in August’s
room—he wasn’t using them on himself, and he wasn’t dealing them, either. He was using
them to sedate the birds he was smuggling into the country, to keep them quiet so
they wouldn’t be discovered. That was why the bird Joyce and I found in the park had
been knocked out. It hadn’t flown into a window. Corina had drugged it.

I knew it didn’t take long for a narcotic like butorphanol to take effect. Corina
had probably squeezed it into the bird’s mouth with an eyedropper in the taxi or the
bus on her way to the airport in Guatemala. By the time she boarded the plane, the
bird would have been out like a light, sleeping away in a drug-induced stupor inside
her handbag.

I turned the bag around and read the faint blue machine-printed text on the receipt
inside:
ALLIED TAXI, $
79
.
At the bottom of the receipt was a Tampa address, written with a purple felt-tip
pen in round, childish handwriting, followed by a short sequence of numbers and letters,
“230A1P.”

Calmly, I folded everything back together with the rubber bands and slid the package
down into my backpack. I switched off the light in the hidden closet and pulled the
sliding door closed. My mind was racing at about a thousand miles per hour. I was
so distracted that it wasn’t until I’d gotten back in my Bronco and was rolling down
the cobblestone driveway that I realized I’d forgotten to put the mermaid back down
on her treasure chest, and I had left the wet towel lying on the floor in the access
closet behind it.

But it didn’t matter. I had more important things to do.

First, I dialed Detective McKenzie. She answered as if it was the most normal thing
in the world to get a phone call in the middle of the night.

“Dixie, thanks for returning my call. I have a question about when you tried to revive
Mr. Harwick.”

I interrupted. “You want to know if a large amount of water came out of his lungs
when I pressed on his chest.”

“Uh, yes. How did you know that?”

I said, “Because if he drowned, there would have been water in his lungs, but there
wasn’t. That means he was already dead or had stopped breathing before he went into
the pool. And they found a massive amount of narcotics in his body, right?”

“Yes, they did.”

“I know. It was butorphanol, wasn’t it?”

“Dixie, what the hell is going on?”

“Detective McKenzie, I think I know who killed Mr. Harwick. I don’t have hard proof
of it, but I think I know how we can get it. I’m on my way to Kenny’s boat at the
dock behind Hoppie’s Restaurant right now. Can you meet me there in ten minutes? I
can explain everything then.”

There was a long pause on the other end, and for a second I thought the call had dropped.

I said, “Hello?”

McKenzie said, “Okay. Listen to me. I don’t know what you’re up to, and I’m not sure
I like it, either. But I’m going to meet you at Hoppie’s in ten minutes, and I don’t
want you to do a goddamn thing or talk to anyone else until you’ve explained everything
to me first. Understand?”

I gulped. “Yes.”

She sounded relieved. “Thank you. I’m on my way now.”

Before she hung up, I thought about the gun that August carried in his glove compartment
and said, “Oh, Detective McKenzie?”

“Yes?”

“Bring backup.”

26

After meeting with Detective McKenzie, I waited in the sleeping cabin below the main
deck on Kenny’s houseboat. I had situated myself in a musty old armchair next to Kenny’s
bed. The cabin was completely dark except for the glow from the fire I’d built in
a small wood-burning stove in the corner and a faint patch of light spilling in under
the cabin door from a lantern on the dock. There was a small kitchenette next to the
stove, and lined up along the countertop was a row of canned tuna and several bags
of dried pasta.

Hung about the walls were various coils of rope, fishing rods, maps, hooks, and bags
of shells. There was a battery-operated radio hanging by a string tied around its
broken antenna, and there was a huge, yellowing map of the Gulf. Tacked in the middle
of it was an old photo of a young couple, a man and a woman, sitting in a swinging
porch chair. The caption read, “On the patio with Danny holding Tiger.” There was
a little boy sitting on the man’s lap, and he was beaming at the camera. Cradled in
his arms like a baby was an orange tabby kitten.

I took a deep breath and reached into my backpack. Pulling out the business card that
August had given me the day I met him at the Harwick house, I thought about how cocky
and sure of himself he had been. I’m sure he fantasized that if he ever got a call
from me, it would be a booty call. Never in his wildest dreams would he have imagined
the call I was about to make.

I punched his number into my cell phone. When he answered, his voice croaked and his
words were a little slurred. He was either half asleep or drunk or both.

I said, “August, it’s Dixie Hemingway. I’m sorry to call so late, but I thought your
mother would want to know. I think I’ve figured out who’s responsible for your stepfather’s
death.”

That woke him up. He said, “Excuse me?”

“I know, I’m sure it’s a shock. I found a package of letters that your stepfather
wrote. They were stashed away in your mother’s fish tank. I’ve hidden them on Kenny
Newman’s boat at Hoppie’s Restaurant. It’s the last place he’d ever think to look
for them. In the morning, I’ll turn them over to the police.”

There was a moment of silence. I could hear the wheels spinning in his head.

He said, “That’s interesting. So, you read the letters?”

I said, “Yeah. I did.”

“And what did they say?”

I said, “August, I really can’t tell you. I don’t think it would be right. Once the
police have the letters, I’m sure they’ll be very happy to explain everything to you.”

There was a long silence. “Okay. Well, I’ll be sure and tell my mother right away.”

I said, “You do that. I think she’d definitely want to be woken up for this.”

“That’s not a problem. She doesn’t really sleep anymore.”

I nodded. I could tell by the sound of his voice that he wasn’t making that part up.
“Well, now you can tell her she’ll be able to rest soon.”

He said, “I will,” and the line went dead.

The bay was calm when I had first arrived, but now the wind had picked up a bit and
the houseboat was rolling gently back and forth. I could hear the water lapping up
against the sides of the boat, and occasionally a deep, creaking moan rose up from
the hull as it nudged up against the edge of the pier. A couple of iron pots hanging
from hooks over the wood-burning stove were tapping into one another with sullen,
metallic clunks like a retarded cuckoo clock.

The fire had died down, so I got up quickly and threw in a few more pieces of driftwood
and crumpled-up newspaper from a pile that Kenny kept next to the cabin door. I wanted
to keep it burning.

As I sat back down in the chair, a slow rain began. I could hear it tapping on the
metal roof. It started with just a few drops here and there but gradually grew to
a steady hiss, like quiet static on a radio. There were two small round windows on
both the port and starboard walls, and a flash of headlights moved from one to the
other, lighting up the inside of the cabin briefly. I couldn’t hear anything but the
rain, so I wasn’t sure if a car had gone by on the road or if someone had just pulled
into the parking lot alongside the dock.

My stomach tightened into a knot, and thoughts were bouncing around inside my head
like balls in a pinball machine, but I told myself to keep calm. I took a deep breath
and allowed my eyes to close for a moment. I tried to imagine my gentle, babbling
brook with all its polished pebbles and butterflies flitting about. I tried to see
the steps leading down to the water and the flowers gently swaying in the breeze,
but then the unmistakable sound of footsteps coming down the dock broke through the
soft hum of the rain, and my eyes shot open.

When the boat tilted slowly to the starboard side there was no doubt. Someone had
stepped on board.

My heart started to pound so hard that for a moment I thought I might have a heart
attack. I heard footsteps moving slowly across the upper deck as I glanced over at
the port side window, but all I could see were tiny reflections of light in the falling
rain.

The footsteps stopped for a moment but then crossed directly over my head. There was
another pause, and then I knew someone was slowly descending the steps. A shadow appeared
in the narrow strip of light under the cabin door directly in front of me.

I moved my hand to the side and slid it down between the cushions of the armchair.
It came to rest on the barrel of my Smith & Wesson .38 pistol. I could feel its cold,
hard steel on the tips of my fingers.

Closing my eyes again, I took a deep breath. This wasn’t exactly the craziest thing
I had ever done, but it was definitely right up there in the top ten. For some reason,
though, I felt okay. I thought to myself,
No matter what happens, I’ve done the right thing.

I heard the cabin door swing open, and I raised my eyes.

Standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the light shining down from the dock, was
Mrs. Harwick.

She didn’t see me at first. She fumbled around in the outer pocket of her shoulder
bag and then pulled out a small yellow flashlight. When she flicked it on, the light
pointed directly at my face. She jumped back, and her hand flew up to her mouth, stifling
a scream.

I said, “Mrs. Harwick, it’s Dixie.”

“Oh God! Dixie, you scared me to death. What are you doing here?”

I said, “I brought the letters here to hide them. Didn’t August tell you?”

She put her hand over her heart and tried to regain her breath. “He did. That’s why
I’m here.”

“But I told August I would give them to the police in the morning.”

She said, “I know, Dixie, but I came to get them. When the police read those letters,
they’ll know why Kenny Newman killed my husband. He wanted revenge, and he wanted
money. But I’m worried about you. They already think you and Kenny are lovers. They’ll
think you were involved somehow, and I don’t want that. I should hand them over myself.”

I said, “You think it was Kenny?”

She nodded. “I do. I’m sure of it.”

I leaned over and pulled the package out of my backpack and handed it to her.

She held it to her chest. “I’m going to take this to the police right now. The sooner
they have it, the better. In the meantime, you should go home. You look like you could
use a drink, and it’s late. I don’t think we’re safe here.”

As she turned I said, “Mrs. Harwick. Do you want me to bring Charlotte back home now?”

“Oh, Dixie, I’m really not much of a cat person. Maybe your cat kennel could find
a good home for her?”

I nodded mutely. I had more or less expected her to say that, but it still made me
a little sad to hear it out loud. Charlotte had really been Mr. Harwick’s cat.

She turned toward the steps, but I stopped her again. “And you knew your husband was
Kenny’s father?”

She sighed and looked back at me. “I did. He never told me, but I figured it out long
ago.”

I could feel my heart pounding out of my chest, and for a second I worried she would
actually hear it. I said, “I remember something you told me the first time we ever
met. We had walked out to my car, and you were telling me about checking the water
in the fish tank. Do you remember? You said fish seem like such strong creatures,
but given just the slightest chemical imbalance, they can wind up dead at the bottom
of the tank.”

She had an exasperated look on her face. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because when I found that little plastic bottle of butorphanol, which I’m sure has
your fingerprints on it, I wondered if you hadn’t planned on killing your husband
for a long time.”

Her eyes turned to narrow slits. “How dare you. How dare you accuse me of such a thing.
I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You found your son’s supply of butorphanol, and you took some of it. That’s what
he meant when he accused Becca of stealing something from his room.”

Mrs. Harwick leaned against the doorway of the cabin, and I was reminded of that first
day I met her, when she stood with her arm on the back of her neck in the doorway
of the living room and looked so beautiful and elegant.

“Oh, my,” she said. “You’re such a smart girl, aren’t you? And then what happened?”

I could feel myself trembling, but I held on to the arms of the chair. I didn’t want
her to see how terrified I was. “I think Mr. Harwick did tell you he was Kenny’s father.
In fact, I think he even told you he was going home to meet with Kenny the night he
died, and I think you went home with him. You must have hid upstairs and listened.
You heard their entire conversation. You heard your husband say he wanted to give
his fortune to Kenny. You heard him say his stepchildren were useless. Then, after
Kenny left, you came downstairs and had a drink with your husband. I imagine you might
have been arguing about Kenny. At some point, when he wasn’t looking, you poured that
vial of butorphanol into his glass.”