whose human was out of town for a week. The parakeet was muttering to itself when I left, and I had a feeling it was counting the hours until its human would return. I didn’t take it personally. We all like things to stay the same.
The rest of my calls were to cats, all of whom pretended not to miss their humans one iota. Cats are like that. I think it’s because they give their hearts so completely to their humans that they feel embarrassed about it. To cover the fact that they’re more sentimental than the gooiest Hallmark card, they put on a big show of indifference.
Most of the morning’s cat clients remembered me from earlier times, so they tolerated me without fearing they’d been abandoned by the ones they loved. The new ones accepted my food and my grooming with wary appreciation. It takes a cat a while to trust a new person. I’m that way myself, so I don’t take offense.
Midway through the morning, Sergeant Owens called to give me the go-ahead on having the crime-scene cleaners go to the Trillins’ house.
I said, “Do you have an identification for the murdered woman yet?”
He said, “As I recall you’re usually at the Village Diner around ten o’clock.”
I hate it when people answer a question with another implied question. Besides, I didn’t like him implying that I was the kind of person whose routine was so rigid that the entire sheriff’s department knew it. But like it or not, I had to agree that I could usually be found slurping coffee every morning at the Village Diner around ten.
He said, “An investigator working on the homicide will probably stop by while you’re there. He wants to talk to you about what you saw yesterday.”
“Your new homicide detective?”
Owns cleared his throat, mumbled something to somebody else, and said, “Gotta go, Dixie.”
He clicked off and left me with the uneasy awareness that he had avoided answering both my questions. Owens wasn’t the kind of man to get touchy about a delay in identifying a homicide victim. Furthermore, I doubted that Owens would be uncomfortable talking to me about the detective who had replaced Guidry. Which meant that what I’d suspected was true. The department knew who the woman was, but they had some reason for not releasing the information.
But when I considered all the international attention the murder had attracted, I could understand why the sheriff’s department might be reluctant to share details with the world. Especially if they were afraid their new homicide detective wasn’t up to the job.
I called the crime-scene cleanup guy, who said the timing was great because his team could start work immediately.
I said, “When can the owners come home?”
“Depends on whether we have to replace the tile. If the tile’s not contaminated, they could come back tonight. If it was me, I’d wait until tomorrow morning to let the odor of ozone and germicide spray dissipate.”
“They have cats.”
“Cats for sure will hate the smell. And, like I said, I won’t know until I see it if we’ll have to replace the tile. Check with me this afternoon and I’ll be able to tell you more.”
My next call was to the Ritz-Carlton, where I booked a suite for Cupcake and Jancey. Making hotel reservations for clients isn’t my job as a pet sitter, but in this case I did it for the same reason I’d taken Elvis and Lucy to the Kitty Haven—I knew Cupcake and Jancey were too shocked and stressed to make arrangements for themselves.
At about nine forty-five, I pulled my Bronco into the Village Diner’s parking strip. None of the other cars there looked like the unmarked sedans driven by Sarasota County detectives. Inside the diner, I waved to Judy, the waitress who’s been there forever, and headed for the ladies’ room. I knew Judy would alert Tanisha, the diner’s cook, that I was there, and that Tanisha would get on my regular order and have it ready by the time I took a seat in my regular booth. Like I said,
The rest of my calls were to cats, all of whom pretended not to miss their humans one iota. Cats are like that. I think it’s because they give their hearts so completely to their humans that they feel embarrassed about it. To cover the fact that they’re more sentimental than the gooiest Hallmark card, they put on a big show of indifference.
Most of the morning’s cat clients remembered me from earlier times, so they tolerated me without fearing they’d been abandoned by the ones they loved. The new ones accepted my food and my grooming with wary appreciation. It takes a cat a while to trust a new person. I’m that way myself, so I don’t take offense.
Midway through the morning, Sergeant Owens called to give me the go-ahead on having the crime-scene cleaners go to the Trillins’ house.
I said, “Do you have an identification for the murdered woman yet?”
He said, “As I recall you’re usually at the Village Diner around ten o’clock.”
I hate it when people answer a question with another implied question. Besides, I didn’t like him implying that I was the kind of person whose routine was so rigid that the entire sheriff’s department knew it. But like it or not, I had to agree that I could usually be found slurping coffee every morning at the Village Diner around ten.
He said, “An investigator working on the homicide will probably stop by while you’re there. He wants to talk to you about what you saw yesterday.”
“Your new homicide detective?”
Owns cleared his throat, mumbled something to somebody else, and said, “Gotta go, Dixie.”
He clicked off and left me with the uneasy awareness that he had avoided answering both my questions. Owens wasn’t the kind of man to get touchy about a delay in identifying a homicide victim. Furthermore, I doubted that Owens would be uncomfortable talking to me about the detective who had replaced Guidry. Which meant that what I’d suspected was true. The department knew who the woman was, but they had some reason for not releasing the information.
But when I considered all the international attention the murder had attracted, I could understand why the sheriff’s department might be reluctant to share details with the world. Especially if they were afraid their new homicide detective wasn’t up to the job.
I called the crime-scene cleanup guy, who said the timing was great because his team could start work immediately.
I said, “When can the owners come home?”
“Depends on whether we have to replace the tile. If the tile’s not contaminated, they could come back tonight. If it was me, I’d wait until tomorrow morning to let the odor of ozone and germicide spray dissipate.”
“They have cats.”
“Cats for sure will hate the smell. And, like I said, I won’t know until I see it if we’ll have to replace the tile. Check with me this afternoon and I’ll be able to tell you more.”
My next call was to the Ritz-Carlton, where I booked a suite for Cupcake and Jancey. Making hotel reservations for clients isn’t my job as a pet sitter, but in this case I did it for the same reason I’d taken Elvis and Lucy to the Kitty Haven—I knew Cupcake and Jancey were too shocked and stressed to make arrangements for themselves.
At about nine forty-five, I pulled my Bronco into the Village Diner’s parking strip. None of the other cars there looked like the unmarked sedans driven by Sarasota County detectives. Inside the diner, I waved to Judy, the waitress who’s been there forever, and headed for the ladies’ room. I knew Judy would alert Tanisha, the diner’s cook, that I was there, and that Tanisha would get on my regular order and have it ready by the time I took a seat in my regular booth. Like I said,
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