Tom and Billy Elliot live in the Sea Breeze condos on the Gulf side of the key. As soon as I used my key and unlocked his door, I smelled fresh coffee. Tom was up and waiting for me in the living room. Tom has big round black eyes and a mop of short black curls. In his striped cotton robe and wire-rimmed round glasses, he looked like a grown-up Harry Potter.
As Billy Elliot bounded to me for his morning smooch, Tom said, “Is something wrong?”
That’s the problem with being the kind of person with a schedule so consistent that people could set their clocks by me. Be an hour late, and people notice.
Avoiding his eyes, I said, “I overslept. Forgot to set my alarm.” My head felt like mice had crawled in and built a furry nest, and my tongue tasted like birdcage carpet.
“Huh.” Somehow he managed to sound like he didn’t believe me but wouldn’t press me for the truth. That made me feel vaguely guilty because Tom only pries when he thinks I need a friend.
I clipped the leash to Billy’s collar and hustled him out the door without saying anything else. On the way to the elevator, Billy Elliot ecstatically whipped his long tail side to side while I clumped along like a malfunctioning robot. Downstairs, we whisked through the lobby and out to the parking lot.
Cars park in an oval around the perimeter of the lot, and there’s a shrubby area in the center. Between the cars and the green stuff, an oval drive makes a perfect racing track for Billy Elliot. As soon as he’d lifted his leg on several bushes and provided poop for me to collect, he tore off around the track while I ran desperately behind him. Since we were running later than usual, a few other dogs and their humans were on the track too, most of them walking sedately. We passed them all. As we did, Billy Elliot turned his head and grinned hugely at each one.
When we’d made three rounds of the track and I felt little hairline cracks opening in my skull, Billy Elliot allowed me to pull him to a brisk walk back to the lobby.
Upstairs, Tom was still in the living room. He said, “Want some coffee?”
My dead brain made a feeble beep. It needed caffeine bad. But if I had coffee, Tom was bound to quiz me about being late, and even on my best days I’m no match for Tom’s quick mind.
While I tried to decide, he said, “Looks like it’s going to be a nice day. But we could use some rain.”
I said, “Could we talk about this later? I’m sort of stupid right now.”
Tom studied me as if I were a tax form. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m just not up to talking about anything deep.”
“The weather isn’t all that deep, Dixie. Not as a topic of discussion, anyway. Now it can get deep as a reality. You take a twenty-eight-foot tidal surge, now that’s deep.”
He just can’t help himself.
I stooped and unsnapped Billy Elliott’s leash.
Tom said, “You don’t look like you slept last night.”
“Had a surprise visit from an old friend and we yakked too late. You know how you lose track of time like that.”
I tried to make it sound like two goofy women having a good time gassing about old times, not like two women planning to deliver a million dollars in ransom for a kidnapped husband.
He gave me an understanding look. I hate understanding looks.
He said, “You don’t have to tell me what it is, but you’re stressed about something.”
Like I said, Tom is sharp.
Looking at his kind eyes caused the memory of Jaz and the young men who’d come in Big Bubba’s house looking for her to come crashing back, along with my promise to stop at Hetty’s house that morning to see if Jaz had showed up. Maureen had driven them clean out of my head, but now they were back.
I went to Tom’s kitchen, poured myself a mug of coffee, and went back to the living room.
I said, “Some hood types came in a house where I was taking care of a parrot yesterday, and Lieutenant Guidry thinks they may be part of a gang that killed a guy night before last. Evidently it was a robbery that ended up a homicide.”
“Are you afraid they’re after you?”
“I’m afraid they’re after a girl I met yesterday morning at the vet’s. She was there with a hurt rabbit when I went to pick up Big Bubba. That’s the parrot. Congo African Grey, talks a blue streak. When the boys came in, they said they were there for Jaz. That’s the girl’s name. The man with her called her Rosemary, but she said her name was Jaz. Hetty Soames hired her to work part-time, so now I’m concerned about Hetty. She’s raising a new pup for Southeastern.”
Tom raised his coffee mug to his lips and took a long drink, his eyes glued to mine the entire time. When he lowered the mug, he didn’t look as fresh as he’d looked when I first arrived. I have that effect on people sometimes.
He said, “You think the guys will go to the woman’s house looking for the girl?”
“Hetty gave Jaz her address, and if Jaz is part of a gang, she might tell the boys and they’ll go there to burglarize the place.”
Tom nodded his head very slowly, sort of like a metronome ticking off beats.
He said, “I knew a girl called Jaz one time. Short for Jasmine.”
That made sense. The girl looked like she might be named Jasmine. For sure she looked a lot more like a Jasmine than a Rosemary.
Tom said, “This all happened in the last twenty-four hours?”
“Less, really. The sheriff’s department has put extra patrols in the neighborhood and I’m going to stop by Hetty’s this morning after I see to Big Bubba. Hetty lives alone, and I’m uneasy about the whole thing.”
He blinked up at me. “Does it change anything?”
“Does what change anything?”
“Being uneasy. Does it change anything?”
“I guess not.”
“Then how about letting the sheriff’s department take care of their job and letting Hetty take care of herself, and letting what’s her name, Jasmine, do whatever she does.”
I drained the last of my coffee. “You mean like mind my own business?”
“Something like that.”
“I try to do that, Tom, I really do. I don’t go around carrying a sign that says, ‘Tell me your problems,’ but somehow everybody who has one ends up on my doorstep.”
Saying doorstep made me think of Maureen and what I’d promised to do that night. I hurried to the kitchen and put my mug in the dishwasher, then told Tom and Billy Elliot goodbye.
I said, “Thanks for listening to me, Tom. And you’re right. I’m putting it out of my mind right now.”
I doubted that he believed me, but at least he didn’t know about Maureen. If I’d told Tom about our plan to stuff a million dollars in a duff el bag and give it to kidnappers, he’d have given me the lecture of a lifetime, even worse than Michael’s would be if he found out about it. Michael would be incensed that I was throwing away my good sense, Tom would be incensed at the idea of throwing away a million dollars.
The rest of the morning went smoothly, and I managed to shave off a few minutes of each visit. Big Bubba would be my last pet call of the morning, but before I went to his house I stopped at Max King’s to give an antibiotic to his cat, Ruthie. That was my sole purpose, to give Ruthie a pill. I’d done it for the last two mornings and would continue until all the pills were gone. Even though I charged my usual fee for about five minutes of work, Max thought it was worth every penny.
A retired air force colonel, Max was originally from the Bahamas, and still had a hint of island music to his voice. He looked a bit like Sidney Poitier and had a smile that made people want to give him whatever he wanted even before he asked. What he wanted was his wife back. He had become so depressed after she died that his two daughters had decided he needed a kitten, and had made a special trip to Florida to take him to the Cat Depot. Max hated cats, but his daughters had talked him into going with them anyway. The Cat Depot rescues abandoned cats, and Max had lost his heart to Ruthie.