The Cat Sitter’s Cradle (12 page)

Sergeant Owens picked up on the first ring. Smooth as butter, he said, “Well, hello,
Miz Hemingway. Whatcha got for me now?”

I said, “I’ve got a goddamn body at the bottom of a pool.”

There was a pause. I imagined the smile slowly fading from his face, then came his
reply: four short, businesslike words.

“I’m on my way.”

10

As soon as I hung up with Sergeant Owens, I dialed 911. I knew what I had to do, but
I wanted somebody there while I did it. I punched the speaker button on my phone and
laid it down by the edge of the pool.

“911, what is your emergency?”

“This is Dixie Hemingway. I’m at 57 Jungle Plum Road. There’s someone at the bottom
of the pool.”

“Okay, are you able to get them out?”

Kicking off my shoes, I said, “I’m way ahead of you.”

I plunged headfirst into the water and swam down to the bottom of the pool. It was
eerily quiet. I felt as if I’d entered a whole new world. The chlorine water stung
my eyes, but I could see dark pants and a dark jacket, with a blurry mass of black
hair waving gently in the water like seaweed. I grabbed on to the back of the jacket
and pulled the body along the bottom of the pool toward the steps at the shallow end.
When I couldn’t stand it any longer, I pushed off the bottom as hard as I could, bringing
the body with me. I gasped for air when my face broke the surface. Reaching out for
the edge of the pool, I pulled the body up the steps and onto the deck as far as I
could. The water was cold, but there was so much adrenaline coursing through my bloodstream
I barely felt it. I heard the 911 operator calling out from my cell phone.

“Hello? Hello?”

I shouted, “I have the body out. I’m going to perform CPR.”

It’s standard procedure to attempt revival of any drowning victim no matter how long
they’ve been underwater, because the human body is an amazing thing. We come equipped
with a mind-boggling kit of tools designed to help us through all kinds of dangerous
situations. Our faces have sensors in them that fire off a warning signal to our brain
the instant they detect water less than seventy degrees. Instantly, the heart slows
down and blood flow to the arms and legs starts to decrease, saving precious resources
for our two most important organs: the heart and the brain. People have been revived
after being unconscious for more than half an hour underwater.

I could hear the 911 operator talking on her radio to the emergency crew as I rolled
the body over and pulled the wet hair away from its face. Staring up at me, his mouth
hanging open in a silent scream, was Mr. Harwick.

Without thinking, I turned his head to the side, dug my palms into his abdomen, and
pushed with all my might, sliding my hands up toward his chest. I had expected a gush
of water to come up out of his mouth, but there wasn’t near as much as I’d thought
there would be. I kept pushing until I was sure there wasn’t any more trapped in his
lungs, and then I laced my hands together, placed them in the center of his chest,
and started pressing down firmly, allowing his chest to rise back to normal each time.
I counted each compression until I reached thirty, then I tilted his head back and
pinched his nose. I took a deep breath and blew air into his lungs. His chest rose
and fell. I tried again, but there was no response. His eyes were glassy and vacant,
and his lips were cold. I started again, this time pressing a little harder. I felt
a popping in his chest under the weight of my body, but I didn’t stop. Again I blew
air into his lungs, repeating the whole procedure several more times, but there was
nothing.

The 911 operator said, “Ma’am? What’s happening now?”

I sat back, exhausted, and tried to remember my training, anything that I was forgetting,
anything else that could be done.

I said, “There’s no response. He’s gone.”

“An ambulance is on the way.”

I dragged myself up and walked across the lanai to the sliding doors where Charlotte
was waiting inside. I slid the door open and felt the cold air-conditioning envelop
my soaked body. I picked Charlotte up and walked through the house into the main foyer.
I knew any minute now the whole place would be swarming with police officers, crime-scene
units, and forensic experts. Taking Charlotte away from the scene of the crime was
probably not the smartest thing in the world, but I wanted her out of there. Since
the Harwicks had hired me to be her guardian while they were away, she was coming
with me. I’d already handled her so much that if by chance there was some piece of
evidence on her, I had probably already contaminated it. And anyway, there was no
way I was waiting for the police by myself. She could damn well wait with me.

I hesitated at the base of the stairs leading up to the second floor and considered
waking August up, but something told me it was best to leave that to the detectives.
My heart started racing. Despite the gun and his tough-guy swagger, August was just
a kid. He was in for quite a shock. On the other hand, how did I know what his involvement
was? When he showed up in the driveway, was he just coming home? Or had he fled the
scene earlier, waiting for me to show up so he could arrive and pretend he’d been
out all night drinking?

I took Charlotte and walked out the front door and down the driveway to my car, which
was still parked on the side of the road just by the entrance. I opened up the hatch
and pulled out a couple of towels and one of the cardboard pet carriers I keep in
the back. I tossed them on the passenger seat in the front and got in on the driver’s
side. My eyes glazed over and I just sat there staring straight ahead, like I was
in a movie. I didn’t even try to dry myself off yet; I just held Charlotte in my lap
and waited.

My head was spinning. Mr. and Mrs. Harwick were supposed to be in Tampa, more than
an hour away, so what was Mr. Harwick doing here? I thought of the gun that August
had, and how he’d reacted so nonchalantly at the suggestion that there was possibly
someone in the house, almost as if it were something that happened every day. I could
hear Michael’s voice saying the Harwicks’ world was filled with cutthroats and thieves
and Mr. Harwick was hated all over the world. Then, the thing that I had been avoiding
the entire time, the thing that I could hardly even thing about, hit me like a brick
to the side of the head.

Michael had said it was all over the papers that Mr. Harwick was giving a speech in
Tampa. That made his house a pretty good target, especially if someone was in the
market for some priceless artwork. If Mr. and Mrs. Harwick had come home unexpectedly
and walked in on a burglary in progress, it was entirely possible that the intruder
could have killed them. But where was Mrs. Harwick? Barely a minute passed by before
I saw a pair of flashing red and blue emergency lights coming up Jungle Plum Road.

I opened the pet carrier and gently maneuvered Charlotte inside.

“Okay, Queen B, you have to wait in the car for a little while. I’ll be back to check
on you.”

I got out of the car and toweled myself off as the police cruiser approached. It pulled
up alongside me, and the window rolled down. The man at the wheel was wearing mirrored
sunglasses that hid his eyes, but I recognized his short-cropped hair and sharp cheekbones.
It was Deputy Jesse Morgan.

He nodded at the house. “This it?”

I said, “Yeah, the owners are away, and I’m taking care of—”

He held one hand up like a school guard stopping traffic and said, “Stay right there,
please.”

Jesse Morgan is the Key’s only sworn deputy, which means he carries a gun. I didn’t
know him when I was on the force, but I’ve gotten to know him over the years since.
He’s about as fun as a root canal, but he’s an impressive figure: broad shoulders,
buzzed military haircut, a chin so sharp it looks like you could peel an apple with
it, and a diamond stud in one ear. I didn’t think he was all that surprised to see
me. In fact, it hadn’t been that long ago that he’d been the first to arrive when
I stumbled upon another crime involving a famous model and a pro football player,
but that’s another story. My work puts me in a lot of people’s homes, so it makes
sense that I might run into something fishy now and then, but I could tell Deputy
Morgan was beginning to wonder what kind of hex I had that was always plopping me
down in the center of a murder scene. I couldn’t blame him. I was beginning to wonder
myself.

He pulled the cruiser up in front of my Bronco and got out, leaving the emergency
lights flashing, and walked over. He didn’t seem one bit fazed that I was soaking
wet. I knew the 911 dispatcher would have told him everything that had happened while
she was on the phone with me.

He nodded. “Dixie.”

I smiled weakly. “Deputy Morgan.”

“You alright?”

For a moment, I thought I was going to burst into tears, but I stopped myself. I bit
the inside of my cheek and looked away, waiting for the feeling to subside. Deputy
Morgan had the grace not to notice. Instead he adjusted his belt, which was weighted
down with all the tools of his trade: nightstick, handcuffs, flashlight and a 9 mm
semiautomatic pistol, securely seated in a black leather harness.

When I had gathered myself back together, he turned and walked toward the front gate,
pausing long enough for me to catch up. For a split second it felt like I was back
on the force, and this was just another day on the beat. Two deputies checking out
a crime scene. I had to remind myself that not only was I no longer on the force,
I doubted seriously that Deputy Morgan was thinking anything along those lines. Not
to mention the fact that I was as damp as a wrung-out mop from head to toe.

As we walked up the driveway he said, “So what’s the story?”

I told him all about how the Harwicks were out of town, and how they had hired me
to take care of their cat and their aquarium, and how I had noticed that the alarm
was off, even though it was super early, and how I couldn’t find Charlotte anywhere.
I told him about the fish tank, and how one of the fish had been in a state of alarm,
and how I’d gotten spooked and called Sergeant Owens.

We were almost to the front porch when he stopped abruptly.

“You called Owens
before
you found the body?”

“Yeah, I did.”

He nodded. “Go on.”

“So the Harwicks’ son came home, and he searched through the house and didn’t find
anything out of the ordinary, and it turned out Charlotte was on the lanai. How she
got out there I have no idea. But that’s when I noticed something at the bottom of
the pool, when I went out to get Charlotte.”

“And where was the son?”

“He had gone upstairs. I think he was out all night.”

He nodded. “Mm-hmm. And where is he now?”

“He’s still up there. I didn’t wake him.”

“Why not?”

“I wasn’t sure if I should.”

He nodded again, silently acknowledging what I couldn’t say out loud—that I wasn’t
completely sure August wasn’t involved somehow.

I could hear the low, distant wail of a siren, and from the direction of it I knew
it wasn’t coming from the police station but from the north, which meant it was an
ambulance dispatched from Sarasota Memorial Hospital. It had probably come over the
bridge on Siesta Drive. I hoped Charlotte wasn’t too freaked out by the noise, and
then I remembered I hadn’t yet fed her. It was too late to go into the kitchen and
grab some of her food. The entire house was a crime scene now. Soon there’d be technicians
covering every inch of the property, checking for signs of anything out of the ordinary,
brushing every surface for fingerprints, looking for any clue that might shed some
light on what had happened. A crime scene is a very delicate thing. A change to even
the smallest, seemingly unimportant object can have catastrophic effects on the outcome
of an investigation. I didn’t want to tamper with any more evidence than I already
had, so Her Highness would just have to wait a bit longer for breakfast.

We had stopped at the front door, and I realized Morgan was waiting for the other
units to arrive before we went inside.

Finally, after a few moments of awkward silence, he said, “So, how you been?”

“Good. You?”

“Good.”

I nodded. That was about the longest personal conversation I’d ever had with Morgan.

We watched as the ambulance came slowly up the driveway and pulled up alongside August’s
black sports car. A green-and-white sheriff’s van pulled in behind it, closely followed
by two squad cars and finally an unmarked sedan. Sergeant Owens got out of the sedan
and waited for the other deputies. There must have been at least eight of them. I
wondered if Owens hadn’t called up every unit in the county, trying to make up for
not taking me seriously on the phone before. They met in a group in the middle of
the circular drive and then followed Sergeant Owens up to where Morgan and I were
standing.

Owens took off his sergeant’s cap and said, “Well, Dixie, I suppose I owe you an apology.”

I could feel myself blushing. “No, it’s alright, sir. I probably wouldn’t have believed
me either.”

“Well, then, I at least owe you a beer.”

I smiled. “I’ll take you up on that, sir.”

He turned to the congregation of men behind him and said, “Gentlemen, this is Dixie
Hemingway.”

Just then, the front door opened to reveal August, bleary-eyed and shirtless in a
pair of jeans. He looked around at all the deputies and the squad cars with their
flashing emergency lights filling the driveway.

“What the hell?”

I said, “August—”

Sergeant Owens interrupted. “Sir, is this your house?”

August said, “I live here. It’s my parents’ house.”

“And your parents are away?”

“Yes, sir, they’re in Tampa.”

Owens nodded thoughtfully. “Alright. You have a number where they can be reached?”