“I don’t know. Possibly.”
“Were you aware that the Harwicks’ Cadillac was in the garage?”
I said, “I didn’t even know there was a garage.”
“Yes, it’s off the service driveway at the far end of the house.”
“No, I didn’t think to look there, but Mr. Harwick did say that they were driving to Tampa.”
“Okay. And how long was August inside the house while you waited in your car?”
I said, “Less than five minutes, I think.”
“And how would you describe his mood?”
“His mood?”
“Yes. Was he happy, sad, nervous, angry?”
I was starting to wish I hadn’t said anything. I should have known the minute I revealed that August had a gun she’d latch onto him as a key suspect.
“I would say drunk and horny.”
She suppressed a smile and made a note on her clipboard. “Sounds like a typical teenager.”
“Yes.”
She paused for a moment and then looked me squarely in the eye. She said, “I was with the FBI for twenty-five years. Dallas office. My husband was murdered nine years ago. I have a sixteen-year-old daughter. Her name is Eva.”
I didn’t have to wonder anymore if Owens had told her about me. I figured he’d also told her I’d lost my husband and my child and been dismissed from the force for “mental instability.” It wasn’t that she probably thought I was a nutcase that made me want to melt into a puddle at her feet right then and there. It was hearing her daughter’s name that broke me open. Hearing her name made me want to lay my life out for this detective, tell her about my own daughter, whose name was Christy and who had died when she was three, about my husband, Todd, who’d died at the same time, tell her how my life had ended that day and how I’d built a new life from scraps and shards I’d clawed from the rubble of the old. I wanted to ask her if it had been that way for her, too.
But before I could say anything, my cell phone rang. It must have fallen out of my pocket down into the cushions of the couch. I fished it out and flipped it open, realizing before I could stop myself that it wasn’t my phone at all—it just had the same ringtone as mine.
Awkwardly, I said, “Uh, hello?”
A woman’s voice said indignantly, “Who is this?”
“Uh, this is Dixie.”
“Dixie? Dixie Hemingway?”
I said, “I’m sorry, I thought this was my phone.”
The woman cleared her throat. “This is Tina Harwick. I just woke up, and my husband isn’t here. What the hell is going on?”
My mouth fell open, and Detective McKenzie looked up from her clipboard. I stammered, trying to think of the right thing to say.
“Mrs. Harwick, I’m in your house right now…”
Detective McKenzie immediately snapped on a pair of blue rubber gloves and thrust her hand out in front of me. I laid the phone down in her open palm. I could hear Mrs. Harwick’s voice rising, “Dixie, what the hell are you doing with Roy’s phone?”
Sergeant Owens led me out of the living room. As we passed the two Roman statues flanking the archway, I heard Detective McKenzie say, “Mrs. Harwick, my name is Samantha McKenzie. I’m with the Sarasota Police Department. Is there someone there with you?”
I felt a stab in my chest, as if an arrow had hit me full force in the back and plunged all the way to my heart. Mrs. Harwick had called her husband’s cell phone only to find herself talking to a homicide detective. Of all the tricks that fate can play on a person, that had to be one of the dirtiest.
I felt a little weak in the knees, and I think Sergeant Owens knew it. He walked me all the way down the driveway to my car and even opened the door for me. Charlotte peered through one of the holes in her cardboard penitentiary with one accusing eye.
I said, “I’ll see that their cat is taken care of until the crime units are done with the house, but if Mrs. Harwick is still in Tampa tonight, I’ll need to come back to feed the fish.”
“Not a problem,” Owens said, his words thick as syrup. “I’ll let the deputy on watch know you’re authorized to enter the premises whenever you need to.”
There was a note in his voice that caught my attention. He cocked his head to one side and squinted at me. “Anything else?”
I said, “I know what you’re thinking.”
“I’m not thinking anything, Dixie, except for some reason you seem to have a remarkable talent for stumbling upon dead people.”
I sat down in the driver’s seat and sighed. “That’s what I thought you were thinking, and I would not call it a talent.”
“You did a good job back there, Dixie. You did the best anybody could’ve done.”
I stared down at my hands folded in my lap. “If I had looked out on the lanai in the very beginning, it might not have been too late to save him.”
“You don’t know that, and you can’t blame yourself.”
I nodded mutely. I could feel my cheeks getting hot. Sometimes it felt like Sergeant Owens had a twenty-four-hour security camera aimed right at the center of my brain.
He smiled and knocked on the hood a couple of times. “Alright, go home and get some dry clothes. Detective McKenzie will probably want to see you down at the station later.”
I pulled out onto the road, flashing him a pained grimace at the thought of having to spend another moment under Detective McKenzie’s magnifying glass, but in truth I didn’t want him to see the tears that were forcing their way out of my eye sockets. At the very core of any cop’s heart, any cop worth a grain of salt, is a burning desire to help people. I guess that’s true for ex-cops, too, because I felt like I had failed Mr. Harwick.
As for Detective McKenzie, I knew Owens was right. There was a lot more she would want to know, and there was a lot I hadn’t told her.
12
The Kitty Haven is a boarding kennel on Avenida del Mare, just a block from the beach in an old Florida-style house with lemon yellow siding and peeling white shutters. There’s a big bay window in the front overlooking a shady porch with a pair of white rocking chairs. Inside, it’s all burgundy velvet, overstuffed pillows, and lace curtains. I always feel like I’ve walked into the front parlor of an old-timey brothel whenever I go there.
Instead of some scantily clad ladies of the evening lounging about, there were four cats stretched out on a big puffy sofa and two more sleeping blissfully on the windowsill. One of them raised its head when I came in and squinted at me the way cats do when they can’t be bothered. The others barely moved a whisker.
A little bell over the door announced my arrival, and from the back of the house I heard Marge’s assistant call out, “Be right there!”
Marge Preston is a plump, white-haired woman with a soft voice and the patience of an angel. She started the Kitty Haven almost by accident. A stray cat had taken up residence under her porch, and Marge, being a softie through and through, decided to rescue it. She started putting out little pieces of cheese and tins of tuna to seduce the cat, whom she named Albert. Eventually Albert was sitting at the breakfast table in Marge’s kitchen and eating kibble out of the palm of her hand, although it turned out she hadn’t picked the best name in the world, since within a few weeks Albert gave birth to nine beautiful calico kittens. Marge decided to raise them all herself and find good homes for them, and in no time at all she was known all over the Key as “that cat lady.” Perfect strangers would knock on her door with cats they’d rescued, asking if she could take them in and offering donations.
The Kitty Haven is Marge’s one true passion. In all the years I’ve known her she’s never had a single vacation, and she’ll take any cat, no questions asked. In fact, business had been so good in the past few months that she’d recently hired a new assistant.
“Dixie!”
“Hi, Jaz!”
I put Charlotte’s cage down, and Jaz wrapped her arms around me in a big bear hug. When I first met Jaz, she was an angry, confused teenager who’d fallen in with a crowd of hooligans and gotten herself into all kinds of trouble. But now she’d grown into a beautiful, mature young woman, and all that anger had disappeared.