Cat Sitter on a Hot Tin Roof (12 page)

19

I
was so hungry the palm fronds hanging over the street were beginning to look tasty, but I pulled into Dr. Phyllis Layton’s parking lot and hurried inside. I wasn’t sure I’d been right when I told Pete there was nothing more he could do to make Mazie happy. If anybody knew better, it would be Dr. Layton.

I charged up to the receptionist’s desk so fast that my Keds probably made skid marks when I stopped.

I said, “I don’t have an appointment, but if Dr. Layton has a minute, I need to ask her advice about a dog I’m taking care of. She’s the dog’s vet. The dog is Mazie, belongs to Hal and Gillis Richards.”

Behind the receptionist, Dr. Layton’s head popped around a corner, with a look in her eyes that said she was a damn busy woman and didn’t have time for pop-in visits from pet sitters, but that she knew me well enough to know I must have good reason to be interrupting her schedule. Waggling her fingers at me, she came around to open the door into her inner sanctum.

A comfortably plump African-American woman roughly my age, Dr. Layton has the ability to soothe and command at the same time. I felt more confident the moment we stepped into a treatment room.

She leaned against a metal table and said, “There’s a problem with Mazie?”

“She’s terribly depressed, has been ever since Jeffrey left to have surgery.”

She looked surprised. “I thought that was scheduled for next month.”

“It was, but there was a cancellation or something and the hospital got him in a month early, and the surgery was Monday morning. He’s out of ICU and in a room, which I hope means the surgery was a success, but Mazie is distraught. She’s not eating or drinking much, she’s panting and sighing a lot, and she runs around the house all day looking for Jeffrey. I have a full-time sitter with her, a sweet man—he’s reading to her and playing the saxophone for her—but she’s more agitated every day.”

Dr. Layton smiled. “He’s playing the saxophone for her? That’s nice.” More somberly, she said, “A pet’s grief can be so intense it can cause them to become ill.”

“Jeffrey will be home in a week or so.”

“But Mazie doesn’t know that. Besides, the future doesn’t exist for a pet. All they know is right now, and right now Jeffrey is gone.”

Briskly, she went to a wall cabinet and moved some small dark bottles around.

“If this were a permanent separation, I might give her something stronger, like Prozac. But I don’t like to medicate an animal unless it’s absolutely necessary.” She chose a bottle and handed it to me. “This is an herbal supplement that might help calm her. Put ten drops in her water bowl every time you give her fresh water. If that doesn’t help, call me and we’ll try something stronger.”

I thanked her and slipped the bottle in my pocket. Guiltily, I wished I had talked to Dr. Layton sooner. I was letting other things distract me and make me less focused on my work than I should have been, and I didn’t like that about myself.

Since it was on my way, I made a fast stop at the Kitty Haven to check on Leo.

Marge Preston took me back to Leo’s private suite, a cubicle furnished with a litter box, climbing tower, and a small TV set that played kitty fantasies all day. It was actually a jail cell, and Leo knew it, but it was a posh jail cell with the best food and tenderest jailers any incarcerated cat could ever hope for.

He looked healthy and well fed, but pissed. I didn’t blame him. Through no fault of his own, he’d been whisked away from a spacious house and a loving human to this small world with strangers taking care of him. He didn’t know me any better than he knew Marge and her assistants, but I spent a few minutes with him anyway. I told him that Laura’s sister was coming, and that she would soon take him to a new home. I told him that his world was going to get better in time, and that he would one day be as happy as he had been with Laura.

Marge heard me. As I was leaving, she said, “I hope you were telling Leo the truth.”

“I hope so too.”

Marge never quizzes me about the cats I bring her, she never pries into their home lives. This time, though, I’d brought her a cat with dried blood on his paws, and she would surely have guessed that the “death in the family” I’d mentioned had been the murder all over the papers and news shows.

She said, “I’m giving Leo vitamin C supplements for stress.”

“That’s good, Marge. I’ll let you know when his family arrives.”

The cats in Marge’s front room gave me looks of sweet disdain as I left. They probably considered me underprivileged because I wasn’t lucky enough to live full-time at the Kitty Haven.

I was now beyond famished, but my rule for myself is that I don’t eat breakfast until I’ve finished every pet call. I still had to take Mazie for a run, and I particularly wanted to give her the drops from Dr. Layton.

At Fish Hawk Lagoon, the crime-scene people were still at Laura’s house, and Guidry’s Blazer was among the cars at the curb. I parked in Mazie’s driveway and rapped on the door before I opened it and went in.

Pete sat on the sofa with his saxophone in his lap as if he’d just finished playing it. Mazie lay on the floor in front of him.

With an edge to my voice, I said, “Pete, it’s not a good idea to leave the door unlocked.”

He shot me an annoyed look. “I never lock doors.”

“There’s a killer loose, maybe you should.”

We stared at each other for a beat, each of us defensive and tense. Mazie got up from her spot and made a soft whining noise. Her distress at our snippy voices made me feel like an idiot.

I said, “I’m sorry, Pete. I’ve let it all get to me.”

“I guess I have too. But it can’t go on, Dixie. It just can’t go on much longer.”

He looked close to tears, and I knew he wasn’t concerned about a killer. He was distressed because it had been necessary for Jeffrey to undergo major surgery. He was distressed because Mazie was so sad. He was distressed because he was a man accustomed to making people laugh and feel better, and he felt helpless.

I said, “I stopped at Mazie’s vet this morning and talked to her about Mazie. She said it’s normal for Mazie to be grieving, because she thinks Jeffrey has gone away forever.”

I pulled the bottle from my pocket and headed for the kitchen.

“She gave me these drops to put in her water bowl. I’ll put some in now, and next time you give her fresh water, put ten drops in. Dr.

Layton says that will help calm her. If it doesn’t, she’ll give her something stronger.”

Pete followed me, skepticism and uneasiness making his eyebrows shimmy. “The doctor sent
drugs
?”

“No, it’s something herbal. From flowers, I think. She knows Mazie. She wouldn’t give her anything that wasn’t safe.”

I rummaged around in a junk drawer, found a marking pen, and wrote
10 drops
on the bottle.

“I’ve marked the number of drops. Just put them in every time you give her fresh water.”

“She’s not drinking much water.”

“I know, but let’s give it a try.”

With Pete suspiciously examining the label on the bottle, I got Mazie’s leash and led her outside. We both needed to run off our tension, so as soon as she was willing, I took off at a fast clip. As we ran, I kept glancing right and left, peering into the thick foliage beside the sidewalk and then across the street at the hibiscus hedge that hid the jogging path. Laura’s killer could be hidden nearby, watching all the crime-scene activity and feeling proud of himself for causing it.

We ran hard for about five minutes, then stopped to pant awhile before we started back at a more leisurely pace. Mazie seemed less tense, but her forehead was still furrowed in doggy concern.

As we approached her driveway, I saw Guidry and Pete standing next to my Bronco. Pete looked defensive, and Guidry was pulling his notebook from his pocket as if ready to take notes.

As usual, Guidry looked like he was about to give last-minute instructions to the lackeys who ran his mansion. Black linen jacket that I could imagine being cut by an Italian tailor with a thin mustache and an attitude, chocolate trousers with enough wrinkle to let you know they weren’t made from the cheap crap that doesn’t crease, and a soft charcoal shirt open at the collar. I hated that look. It made me want to go open his jacket and lay my ear to his heart just to listen to it beat. I should have been locked up.

When he heard me and Mazie scuffing up the walk, he looked up and gave me a slight nod. He looked grim, and all the questions I wanted to ask him turned to dust in my throat.

He said, “I’m just verifying some information from Mr. Madeira, and then I need to talk to you.”

My heart skipped a beat, but I waited demurely while he and Pete went on with their conversation. It only took a second to know Guidry was asking him about seeing Laura on the day she was killed.

Pete said, “She had a cap pulled down low, one of those baseball caps women wear with their ponytails sticking out.”

“You saw a ponytail?”

Testily, Pete said, “I didn’t
say
I saw a ponytail, I said that’s what women do. Unless they have short hair.”

His voice became uncertain as he remembered Laura’s short hair. Guidry waited, watching Pete’s face.

Pete said, “You know, it may not have been her after all. Come to think of it, I think I did see some hair poking out of that cap. Not a ponytail, but more hair than Laura had. I guess it was some other woman going for a run. They all look alike, with their caps and jogging shorts.”

Guidry snapped his notebook closed. “Thanks, Mr. Madeira. That clears up a point we couldn’t understand.”

Pete looked embarrassed. “Don’t think it’s because I’m old that I mistook one woman for another. It’s the way women dress nowadays.”

He and Guidry looked my way, and I drew my knees together under my cargo shorts and T-shirt, and above my Keds—the same kind of running clothes that Laura wore. But I never wore baseball caps.

Guidry said, “It’s an understandable mistake.”

He gave me a pointed look that meant it was my turn to be questioned.

I handed Mazie’s leash off to Pete, told him I’d be back in the afternoon, and waited until he and Mazie had gone inside the house.

Guidry said, “Tell me again when you had dinner with Laura Halston.”

“Early Sunday night. I left sometime around seven-thirty, seven-forty-five.”

“Pasta?”

“Fetuccini Alfredo and salad.”

“Do you mind going in her house and see if you notice anything missing?”

I minded very much. “Guidry, I was only in her house that one time.”

“That’s one time more than anybody else.”

I couldn’t argue with that. Numbly, I walked down the sidewalk beside Guidry, waited while he noted the time on the Contamination Sheet by the front door, and then stepped into the house.

Except for black print-lifting dust on every surface, everything in the living room looked pretty much the same as when I’d left Sunday night. In the kitchen, every evidence of our dinner had been cleaned and put away. No wineglasses sitting out, no pasta pot, no salad bowl. Our lipstick-smeared napkins had disappeared, and I didn’t need to open the dishwasher to know that our plates were neatly rinsed and filed inside. Women who live alone don’t run their dishwashers every day.

On the counter, a box of dried cat food, with a Post-it note attached. The note had an exclamation point on it, a memo Laura had left herself to buy more. My eyes burned at the memory of how alive Laura had been, how we had both laughed and talked and eaten and drunk as if we had infinity stretched before us.

Guidry looked closely at me. “What is it?”

I cleared my throat. “Nothing. I don’t see anything unusual or out of place.”

“What’s the deal with the cat food?”

“She’d run out, so she put the box there to remind herself to buy more.”

He said, “What was she wearing that night?”

I took a minute to think. “Drawstring pants, T-shirt. She was barefoot.”

His jaws worked for a second as if he were gnawing on invisible gristle. “That was in the clothes hamper in the bathroom.”

I had to ask the question. “Where did he get her?”

“In the shower. Looks like she was taken by surprise.”

“He stabbed her?”

“Yep.”

I took a deep breath and asked the question I already knew the answer to.

“There was more, wasn’t there?”

A shadow crossed Guidry’s face, and his lips tightened as if I’d uttered the unsayable. He said, “Her face was disfigured.”

I crossed my arms over my chest and looked away from him while I fought to control hot tears that had suddenly filled my eyes. Deputy Morgan had thrown up after he’d seen Laura, and Sergeant Owens had wanted to spare me from seeing her. Laura had been an unusually beautiful woman. Whoever had killed her had wanted to destroy her beauty along with her life.

Carefully, Guidry said, “The mutilation was done postmortem.”

I said, “Laura Halston’s husband is a sick, sadistic surgeon. He throws scalpels at the ceiling for fun. Mutilating Laura’s face is the kind of thing he would do, and have fun doing it.”

Guidry didn’t respond, just looked at me with level gray eyes.

I said, “She wasn’t raped?”

“No rape. And no theft that we know of. She wore some gold and diamond bracelets, and we found a diamond necklace that was pretty valuable.”

I understood the implication. Her killer hadn’t been a robber or a rapist, he’d been somebody who killed in a furious rage. But the ritualistic cutting was something else. That wasn’t rage, it was psychopathic deliberation. And where there is psychopathic ritual, it points to a serial killer. Laura might not be the first person this killer had murdered, nor the last.

I cleared my throat. “What about prints on her body? Deep-tissue X-rays?”

“Negative and negative. Most likely the killer wore gloves.”

I closed my eyes against the image of Laura in the shower. She had probably left the bathroom door open, the way women do when they live alone. The killer had probably slipped in while she was showering, pushed the shower curtain aside, and stabbed her while the water continued to run. Laura would have tried to shield herself, would have put up her hands to deflect the blows, but it would have been too late.