The Cat Sitter's Nine Lives (13 page)

“When he said ‘soon,’ did you get the impression that he meant right away?”

“I don’t know. Not really … but maybe. Like I said, he had just handed me my book, and I knew I’d kept him past closing time, so I didn’t want to keep him any longer making small talk about where he was going or anything like that.”

“What else?”

Something in my voice must have told her there was more on my mind.

I said, “I keep thinking about how when Mr. Hoskins came out from the back of the store, he was patting his pockets and looking all around. He seemed a little distracted. I know it wouldn’t explain the blood on the counter, but are you sure it’s not possible he left the shop unlocked because he couldn’t find his keys?”

“Dixie, at this point, anything’s possible, except we can assume that he had opened the store with his keys that morning, and if he’d misplaced them, it would stand to reason that they would have turned up when we searched the store for evidence—and they didn’t.”

I said, “Okay…”

“Anything else?”

I sighed. I could swear she had a hidden camera aimed directly at my personal thoughts.

“I know it’s none of my business, but…”

“Dixie, I’ve learned from experience that just because a case isn’t your business doesn’t necessarily mean you can’t shed a little light on it.”

I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I felt my cheeks blush. I had helped McKenzie with another case not long ago, and it felt good to know she hadn’t forgotten. I said, “Why exactly is it … a
case
?”

I knew she’d know right away what I meant. When I had arrived on the scene, they’d only just discovered Mr. Hoskins hadn’t come home the night before. McKenzie had said Mr. Hoskins’s daughter had called right before I arrived. So why would they send the lead homicide detective and a retinue of deputies to investigate some bloody paw prints and an unlocked bookstore?

She sighed. “You may remember I mentioned I hadn’t gotten much sleep. A call came in at the station about midnight. A man was driving home from a party and saw someone dumping what may or may not have been a body off the Sunshine Skyway Bridge.”

My heart sank. “Oh, no.”

“Originally I was more or less certain it wasn’t related, but until we know for sure I have to follow every possible lead, no matter how far-fetched it may seem. Unfortunately, in this case, it’s looking less and less insignificant.”

I could tell by the sound of her voice that she was dead serious. The idea that someone could have killed Mr. Hoskins and dumped him off a bridge into the ocean left me speechless. It just didn’t seem possible. He was such a sweet man, I couldn’t imagine there could be anybody who would ever want to hurt him.

“Dixie, one more thing. When you left the bookshop that night, did you open the door yourself, or did Mr. Hoskins open it for you?”

I tried to re-create that moment when he had handed me the book and we were saying our good-byes. “I’m not positive, but I think I opened it myself. Why?”

“There were no fingerprints on the doorknob, or anywhere else in the store, for that matter, which is unusual. It means after you left the bookstore, someone took the time to wipe down every door handle as well as every other surface a print might have been left on.”

I remembered pushing the door open. “Even the outside?”

“Yes, your prints were on the outside handle, but that’s all we can identify. Dixie, I’d like you to do something for me. Before we meet tomorrow, I’d like you to find a quiet place somewhere. I want you to sit down and go over every moment in your head, everything that happened in that store, from the moment you went in to the moment you left.”

I thought I’d told her everything I could think of, but I knew what she meant. The mind is an incredible instrument. It can record the finest of details, even things you’re not even aware you’ve noticed. It can store them away, never to be seen again, like the contents of a long-forgotten safe deposit box. In an investigation like this, even the most seemingly insignificant detail could have a great impact on figuring out what had happened. I promised her I’d sit down and try to remember every moment, but I still had one more question.

“Has there been any sign of Cosmo?”

She sighed. “You mean the cat? No, but I promise I’ll let you know immediately if there is.”

I rang off and dropped the phone down in the side pocket of my cargo shorts. Not two seconds went by before it started ringing again. As I reached back down in my pocket I muttered under my breath, “Damn you, Michael Hemingway.”

When I had handed in my gun and my badge, I’d also handed in my cell phone. For at least a year after, possibly longer, I’d done everything in my power to avoid replacing it. Michael finally won with the argument that if he was ever hurt fighting a fire, there’d be no way to reach me except with a message on the answering machine in my walk-in closet. By then, word of mouth had spread about my pet-sitting business and I was out on calls all day instead of lying on my couch in a catatonic lump 24/7, so I’d finally caved in and gotten the cheapest cell phone I could find.

Now it was my master, and I its slave.

I figured McKenzie had probably thought of another question for me, but I was wrong. It was Sara Mem Ho again. For some reason, possibly the idea of meeting with McKenzie at her office tomorrow or maybe because I’m not a big fan of hospitals in general, seeing Sara Mem Ho on my caller ID made my blood boil. I was about to scream into the receiver, “You have the wrong number.
Do not call me again!
”

I didn’t get the chance.

“This is Vera Campbell at the Sarasota Memorial Hospital. I’m calling about your husband.”

I felt something lurch forward in my throat, and then an electric jolt traveled all the way down to my feet and my fingers started to tingle.

I said, “What?”

“He’s stable now, but he’s on a lot of pain meds, so I’m not sure he even knows what happened to him, but he’s been calling out for you in his sleep. I’m sorry to intrude, but every time we offer to contact you he forbids it, but he seems very upset, and since he’s your husband—”

I stopped her. “My husband is dead.”

“Excuse me?”

I hadn’t actually meant to say that out loud; it just came pouring out of my mouth. Five years ago. Five years, four months, and seven days ago, my husband, Todd, and my daughter, Christy, were killed. An old man plowed into them in the parking lot at the local grocery store, and they both died instantly. Todd was a sheriff’s deputy, too. His thirty-first birthday was two months away. Christy was three.

It’s safer to say it fast like that. If I let myself pause during any of the words, I’ll get sucked down into the black spaces between them, and then it’s hard to find my way back. For days, months, or even years—I don’t actually know—I lost myself. I barely ate. I barely slept. I just breathed.

I’d lie in my bed until Michael would come and tell me to take a shower. Then he’d sit at the table and watch me put one spoonful of soup in my mouth, and then another, as if he were nursing a baby bird back to life. Except I hadn’t fallen out of my nest. My nest was gone.

In other words, I was a complete wreck.

I’m okay now, except there’s an alternate universe where Todd is getting older, too, and Christy just started second grade. We still live in the same house off Cape Leyte Drive that Todd’s parents helped us buy, and that ugly palm tree that jutted out over the yard finally fell on the lanai, and we’re probably about to cave in and get Christy that kitten she’s been whining about since the dawn of time. It’s a sick way of living … but it’s the only way I know how.

My mind snapped back and I could hear the nurse’s voice through the telephone. I took a deep breath and tried to listen.

“I’m not sure I understand.”

I said, “I’m sorry. I meant to say I don’t have a husband. You have the wrong number.”

“You’re not Mrs. Vladim?”

“No. I’m not. Someone already called me about this before.”

“Oh, my goodness. I am so sorry. The police must have given us the wrong number. There’s a man here who was in a terrible automobile accident two days ago, and he’s been asking for someone named Dixie. I just assumed…”

I suddenly felt like I’d just been hit in the head with a two-by-four. Somehow I had the presence of mind to say, “Wait a minute.”

“Ma’am?”

“This Mr. Vladim … is he bald?”

There was a pause, but it didn’t matter. I already knew the answer.

She said, “Why, yes. Yes, he is.”

12

I don’t like hospitals. They give me the creeps, in much the same way that zoos give me the creeps. If I ruled the world, there’d be no zoos, there’d just be this thing called the Internet. If people wanted to see what a lion looked like, they could get on the Internet and call up as many pictures and videos of lions as their little hearts desired. That way, the lions and tigers and hippos and all the other animals in the zoo could live happily ever after in their own natural habitats.

Don’t get me wrong. When I was little, I loved zoos with a passion. I still remember visiting the monkey house and being completely enchanted with how real it all looked with the monkeys swinging through their fake trees and vines overhead. Afterward, though, my mother had asked how I’d feel if somebody came and snatched me out of my house, put me in a concrete cell fixed up to look like my bedroom, and tossed in a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and some apple juice every once in a while.

Well, I knew the answer right away. I’d feel sad. In my heart, I knew that’s how all those animals felt, too. Now zoos give me an empty feeling in the pit of my stomach. Plus, there’s something about making money off the misfortune of living, breathing creatures that just makes me a little queasy.

I was thinking about that as I signed in with the guard at the front desk of Sarasota Memorial. Other than in a display case at the zoo, the hospital was about the last place on earth I felt like being—but when a man is lying in bed clinging to life and asking for you, wife or not, you have to go.

The guard handed me a little sticker with a blue border and my name written on it in blue ink and instructed me to wear it at all times inside the hospital. Instead of putting it on my chest the way people usually do, I stuck it on my hip. The guard gave me a look like he thought that was a little odd, but whenever I see a woman with a name tag on her chest, it always makes me think she’s named one of her breasts. If you ask me,
that’s
odd.

Even though I was technically visiting a guy who’d almost gotten me killed, it didn’t seem right to show up empty-handed, so I bought a little bouquet of slightly wilted daisies in the gift shop for twenty-one dollars. Then I made my way through all the stairs and wings and elevators of the hospital, feeling a little like a lab rat in a maze.

Meanwhile I’d figured out why Baldy was asking for me. When I’d first gotten to his car, when he was sitting there in the passenger seat covered in blood, the first thing I said to him was “My name is Dixie.” I remember he looked me right in the eye. There’s no telling what must have been going through his head at that moment. He’d just hit a two-ton truck head-on, he’d taken a massive bonk on the head, and then suddenly there I am out of nowhere. With all that white smoke pouring from under the car, he must have thought I was some kind of angel sent down to escort him to the Pearly Gates.

My name just got stuck in his head, that’s all. He wouldn’t talk, and he didn’t have any ID, and when they heard him asking for me, somebody, probably Deputy Morgan, had given the EMTs my number. He probably thought Baldy wanted to thank me for saving him.

Now, as to why the whole hospital staff seemed to think I was Baldy’s wife, I had no clue, but one thing I did know, I kind of liked the idea that somebody thought I was an angel on earth. It was too bad I’d have to disabuse him of that notion.

When I finally made it to Mr. Vladim’s room, the door was closed. I smoothed my hair back and was just about to knock when the door pulled open and a nurse stepped out. She was about five feet tall and just as wide, with a blue nurse’s smock printed all over with different-colored giraffes and crispy curls of blond hair piled on top of her head. She looked happy to see me.

“Are you Dixie?”

“Yes, are you the one that called me?”

“No, but thank God you’re here.”

She pulled the door closed and continued in a stage whisper, “Now, he’s doing much better, but don’t be alarmed. He’s on a pretty good cocktail of pain meds right now, so he may not know who you are at first.”

I shook my head. “I’m not—”

“We haven’t been able to get anything out of him except his name. He won’t talk to anybody, just asks for you over and over again. I’ll let the supervisor know you’ve arrived. He’s got a lot of questions for you.”

Before I could say anything more she took my arm and pushed into the room. It was dark except for a small lamp on a rolling table next to a raised hospital bed. There were curtains behind the bed to divide the room in two, but they were partially open, and I could see the other bed on the far side was vacant.

Baldy, or I guess I should say Mr. Vladim, was lying on his back, propped up on two square pillows with his eyes closed and his mouth slightly open. I’d only seen him covered in blood, but now that he was cleaned up I could tell he was in his mid- to late thirties. His face was long and thin, with high pronounced cheekbones, sparse blond eyebrows, and a long patrician nose that lent him an air of gravity. I winced a little when I saw the number of IV tubes and drip lines tangled all around him. There was one coming from his nose and another from his mouth, both held in place with strips of white surgical tape. Other tubes were taped to both his arms, all leading to a collection of clear, liquid-filled plastic bags hanging on hooks behind him.

In a loud, singsong voice normally reserved for five-year-olds, the nurse said, “Mr. Vladim? Your wife is here. Do you want to say hello?”

I raised one finger in the air, like a professor about to make a very important point, but I could barely get a word in edgewise with this woman.