The Cat Sitter’s Cradle (30 page)

Ethan jumped. “Wait! What are you doing?”

“I’m pouring it out.”

“What is this? Prohibition month? I promise you that is perfectly delicious stuff.”

I clucked my tongue at him. “Don’t be ridiculous. You have no idea where this came
from. You can’t just go around drinking whatever you find laying on your doorstep.”

He grabbed my hand and tipped the bottle back up. “Dixie, seriously, just try a little.
I promise you it’s not that bad.”

I sighed and looked him in the eye. “Ethan. It’s not from Michael. It’s from Mrs.
Harwick.”

He withdrew his hand and hopped back a little. “Oh.”

“Exactly. She must have stopped by here on her way to Kenny’s houseboat. Obviously,
she didn’t intend for her evening to end the way it did.”

I tipped the bottle back over, and we both watched the amber liquid as it gurgled
out and disappeared down the drain. As the last drop fell, we sighed in unison. I
rinsed the bottle out several times with hot water and threw it into the recycling
bin.

Ethan watched in silence. Poor sweet man. I’d promised him there wouldn’t be any more
drama, but it turned out the drama had only just begun. He pulled me close to him
and wrapped his arms around me. I put my hands on the back of his neck.

He said, “I wish I’d brought a bottle of wine for you.”

“I don’t care. I didn’t really need a drink. What I need is right here.”

He said, “Talk about corny,” and lowered his lips to mine. Again I felt that wave
of goose bumps move with lightning speed across my entire body. When I opened my eyes,
he was looking down at me and smiling.

He said, “Don’t you even want to know if she put something in it?”

I thought for a second.

Did I want to know if Mrs. Harwick had planned on killing me so I wouldn’t tell the
police about what was inside that package? Did I want to know if I had just narrowly
escaped being poisoned to death? Did I want to know if fate had dealt one card, but
I’d picked up another?

I heard a voice inside my head say,
Hell no.

28

It took a couple of days for Kenny to come out of hiding. He eventually turned himself
over to the police, but of course he waited until the news got out that Mrs. Harwick
had been arrested. I couldn’t blame him. It would have been pretty hard for a jury
to ignore the fact that Kenny had a lot to gain from Mr. Harwick’s death, both emotionally
and financially, and if there hadn’t been any evidence against Mrs. Harwick, it’s
entirely possible that Kenny might have ended up in jail for a very long time. But
Detective McKenzie had questioned him and let him go, and the last time I’d heard,
he was planning on going back to California to try to pick up his life where he left
off. As for Becca, I wondered if I would ever see her again.

I woke up early and made my regular morning rounds. At Tom Hale’s place, Billy Elliot
spotted a wild rabbit in the azalea bushes alongside the parking lot, so he’d gotten
an extra good workout. In his glory days, Billy could probably have worked up enough
speed to catch up with that rabbit, but now that he’s retired, it’s all just for fun.
I think the rabbit was probably just toying with him, too, because after zipping back
and forth in the parking lot a couple of times, it disappeared down a hole as fast
as lightning. Billy came trotting back all happy and panting nevertheless. I could
tell he was grateful to have somebody who could run at a respectable pace for a change.

After Billy Elliot I stopped at Timmy Anthem’s apartment. Timmy is a former pro hockey
player who coaches for the local high school team. They’d just won the regional playoffs,
so as a reward he had taken the whole team to Sunrise, Florida, to watch the Panthers
play. His pit bull, Zoë, was recovering from surgery to repair a torn ligament in
her leg, so we couldn’t play fetch in the courtyard like we usually did. Instead I
made up for it with some peanut butter treats and lots of tummy rubs, which I think
she was just as happy with. Pit bulls get a bad rap. She’s one of the sweetest dogs
I’ve ever known.

As I was leaving Timmy’s place, my cell phone rang. It was Kenny Newman.

“Dixie, you know … I just wanted to say, like, I’m really sorry about everything,
and I want to say thank you. I mean, no one’s ever really stood up for me like you
did.”

I said, “I knew you couldn’t have done something like that. I’m just sorry it turned
out like it did.”

“Yeah. Except maybe it’s all for the best. It turns out Roy Harwick is the name of
some dude that lives in Phoenix, Arizona. My father basically stole his identity.
The police told me the feds were about to arrest him for insurance fraud and identity
theft, but he drowned before they got to him. I don’t think he would have been too
happy in prison. I mean, he probably would have killed himself first.”

I said, “Well, your father was pretty messed up, but he certainly was an interesting
person.”

He laughed. “Yeah. He was pretty smart, too. After he faked his death, he made up
this bogus oil manufacturing company and then pretended he was looking to hire a consultant.
He did a whole nationwide search and collected tons of résumés. Then he just picked
out the one that was the closest to his own, with the same age, education, expertise,
and everything. He hired the guy over the phone, got his Social Security number, and
then disappeared into thin air. After that, he just started applying for jobs pretending
to be that guy, Roy Harwick, and that’s how he got hired by Sonnebrook. Everybody
loved him. He was smart, funny, handsome. Eventually he worked himself right up to
the top of the company.”

I said, “Impressive.”

“Yeah, except he was filing taxes the whole time. So the real Roy Harwick, he started
getting notices saying he’d paid his taxes twice, but he just ignored them. He figured
it was just some computer glitch or something. It took them almost twenty years to
finally track it down to my dad.”

I said, “Becca must be devastated.”

“Umm, yeah. She’s actually here with me now.”

That was a shock. I couldn’t think of anything to say except “Oh, good.”

“She’s having a pretty rough time, but she’s gonna be okay.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. He might not have realized it himself, but Kenny had
planned on doing the same thing to his baby that his father had done to him. It’s
amazing how strong those patterns can be from generation to generation. When it came
to being a father, Kenny only knew how to do one thing: run. I was glad to see he
might be breaking that cycle.

I said, “If you think she’s ready for it, I know a very good obstetrician.”

There was a pause, and then he lowered his voice. “Yeah, well, about that. She may
not be pregnant after all.”

“Huh?”

I could tell he was struggling for the right words.

“It turns out, her monthly cycle is late, and, you know, she can be kind of dramatic.”

I said, “Mmm-hmm.”

“So … we don’t really know for sure.”

I hesitated. “But … you’re staying?”

“I thought when she found out who I was, she’d never forgive me. But she lost her
father when she was young, too, so she kind of understands why I did what I did. So,
you know, we’re gonna try to work it out.”

I was smiling ear to ear. “That’s great, Kenny. I’m really glad to hear that.”

After we hung up I thought to myself that maybe all those things I’d bought for Corina
and her baby wouldn’t go to waste after all. I still didn’t know if it was Corina
who had agreed to testify against August Harwick or not. Paco wouldn’t confirm it,
but then again, he wouldn’t deny it either. When I told Joyce what I suspected, she
acted like she didn’t much care, but I knew deep down inside she felt the same way
I did. We both hoped that it was Corina, and we both hoped that one day we might see
her again.

And Dixie Joyce, too.

29

I was wandering up and down the aisles at Walmart. Ethan was coming over later, and
for once I was planning on cooking dinner with my own two hands in my own apartment
with my own pans. I had stopped by to pick up a few basic things. Like a cookbook.
And some pans.

I filled the cart up with all kinds of goodies. Some long tapered beeswax candles,
a box of wineglasses, some cornflower blue place mats with matching napkins, a couple
of nice kitchen knives, and some wooden salad bowls. In the clothing section, I threw
in a bag of white ankle socks and a couple of pairs of fresh white Keds. My supply
was getting a little low.

I wondered if I might run into the young girl that had helped me pick out all the
baby things that day I’d found Corina. I kind of hoped not. I had liked her right
away, but I knew she’d ask me how it had worked out with the pediatrician she recommended
and how the baby was doing. I imagined myself saying,
Oh, I don’t really know. I think that baby’s in Guatemala now, but I’m not really
sure.
I think she already thought I was a complete kook, and I didn’t want to make things
worse.

In the pharmacy, I grabbed some toothpaste, a bottle of lavender-scented hand cream,
and a couple of tubes of lip balm. There was an older couple standing at the end of
what they call the “family planning” aisle, and they were staring at the vast collection
of condoms in every shape, size, and color of the rainbow with bewildered looks on
their faces. As I rolled up to them, the woman stepped to the side.

She said, “Harry, move over.”

The man jumped a little when he saw me and then shuffled over next to her.

I said, “Pardon me, just rolling through.”

They both smiled pleasantly as I went by, and just as I turned the corner I reached
out and grabbed a little purple and white box with bold black lettering. It read
EARLY PREGNANCY TEST
. As if it was the most normal thing in the world to buy, I tossed it into the basket
with a flick of the wrist and headed for the registers.

*   *   *

On my way home, I pulled into the pavilion at Siesta Key Beach and walked across the
gravelly parking lot to one of the weathered plank boardwalks that hover over the
dunes. As usual, next to the steps at the end of the walkway were about two dozen
pairs of sneakers, flip-flops, and sandals that people had slipped off before they
went down to the beach. It’s kind of a tradition.

Whenever anyone asks me why I live here, I talk about the beautiful weather, all the
birds, the pure white sand, the wonderful people. In my head, though, I think of all
these shoes lined up in rows in the dunes, some of the shoes sitting next to the shoes
of their friends and family—whoever they came to the beach with—and some of them just
sitting next to perfect strangers’ shoes, just hanging out. People have been leaving
their shoes like this for as long as I can remember. I always think,
I live here because nobody wants to steal your shoes.
I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in the world.

There was a group of people playing an impromptu game of beach volleyball. I kicked
off my Keds and placed them in the sand next to all the other shoes and walked down
to the water to watch for a while. A flock of sandpipers was zipping up and down with
the waves, picking through the foamy sand for fish eggs and bits of seaweed. I sat
down and tilted my face toward the warm sun.

I thought to myself,
This is what it’s all about, just to be able to breathe in the fresh ocean air and
dig my toes in the cool sand.
All we have in this world is time, and we should be grateful for every single bit
of it.

Life is good.

ALSO BY BLAIZE CLEMENT

The Cat Sitter’s Pajamas

Cat Sitter Among the Pigeons

Raining Cat Sitters and Dogs

Cat Sitter on a Hot Tin Roof

Even Cat Sitters Get the Blues

Duplicity Dogged the Dachshund

Curiosity Killed the Cat Sitter

About the Authors

JOHN CLEMENT
is the son of BLAIZE CLEMENT (1932–2011), who originated the Dixie Hemingway mystery
series and collaborated with her son on the plots and characters for forthcoming novels.
Blaize is the author of
Curiosity Killed the Cat Sitter
,
Duplicity Dogged the Dachshund
,
Even Cat Sitters Get the Blues, Cat Sitter on a Hot Tin Roof, Raining Cat Sitters
and Dogs, Cat Sitter Among the Pigeons,
and
The Cat Sitter’s Pajamas.
Visit their Web site at
www.DixieHemingway.com
.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed
in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

THE CAT SITTER’S CRADLE.
Copyright © 2013 by Blaize and John Clement. All rights reserved. For information,
address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.