by Clea Simon
I should be grateful. State law allows homeowners to kill so-called problem animals. That is, animals who are simply making the best of a life that now includes us in it. And the folks around Beauville are mostly the kind who will. Fall is the big hunting season around here, but those shotguns are handy year-round—and who’s to say whether those particular animals were eating their way into the eaves or simply made good-looking targets on a boring Sunday afternoon?
In an ideal world, of course, we’d all learn to get along. Or quit leaving food out and clean our garbage cans once in a while. Barring that, we can eliminate the animal from the home. It’s a tricky business, especially this time of year. You may not care about those helpless babies, but their mother does. You lock her out of the attic where she’s nested and she’ll move hell or high water to get back to them. If she can’t? Well, I’m not sentimental, but that’s a bad way to die. Like I’ve said, nature isn’t pretty, but whenever we humans come into contact with it, we make it worse. And spring is when it’s at its peak. When I make my money. Which is why I was now staring at Alfred, waiting for my last question to sink in.
“Got a squirrel call you could take care of,” he said finally, eyes sliding up to mine. Right. Spring. I’d been out working and shed my denim jacket and the flannel that had covered my T-shirt when I’d left the house that morning. Albert doesn’t need the rising of the sap to turn his head. He’s pretty basic that way. But the warmer weather does give him more to dream about, at least when I’m around. “I don’t know if you want to…”
“Yeah, I’ll take it.” That got his attention. “What’s the address?”
He fumbled with the papers on his desk. He’d expected me to say no. I could tell. Probably only offered it because I caught him staring. I knew I’d do a more humane job than he would, though. Besides, I could use the money.
“Wilkins.” He squinted to read his own handwriting. “Laurence Wilkins? Here’s the number.”
I took the scrap of paper. “Got anything else?”
He started to shake his head, when Frank poked his head out again. I didn’t know what powers the ferret had over his human but he was staring at Albert as memory apparently dawned. “Doc Sharpe was looking for you,” he said. “Something about a kitten?”
I’d turned my cell off during the run and forgot to turn it back on. I wondered what the vet thought, leaving a message with Albert. But Doc Sharpe was an old Yankee, prone to think everyone was as attentive to detail as he was. I’d give him a heads-up about Albert when I called him back.
“Thanks.” I held my hand out to Frank for a farewell sniff.
“Kitten, huh?” His nose quivered over my fingers. “Remember, Pru, even kittens can kill.”
***
I was halfway to my car when I heard my name.
“Pru.”
One syllable: that was it. But it was enough. I knew that voice. I turned. The town shelter shares a building with our tiny berg’s police department. Sure enough, I had been spotted. Detective Jim Creighton was crossing the lot toward me. Taking his sweet time about it, too.
Tall and lean, Creighton still looked a little like the high school athlete he’d once been. A boy scout, too, I suspected. Not the kind of man I’d have had much to do with during my youth here. Since I returned and he’d become a cop, we’d had some run-ins. I didn’t think I’d done anything to get on his bad side, but then again, he picked up more than most would. More than most men, anyway.
“Hey, there,” I called back. “You need me for something?” Before I realized what I was doing, I’d run my fingers through my hair.
Creighton had the sense not to comment. He didn’t have to. Those baby-blues —almost a perfect match for my GTO—crinkled up in a smile as he crossed the parking lot to meet me.
“I’m on my way over to County,” I said by way of explanation. “I’ve got to talk to Doc Sharpe about a kitten.”
He nodded. He’d been at my house this morning when I’d gotten the call. As I’ve said, we’ve had some run-ins. “That’s what I was trying to reach you about.”
I shook my head. “Sorry, I turned my phone off.”
“Not a big deal, Pru. But there is a complication.”
I waited. Creighton may be my sometime-lover, but he is, as I’ve said, a cop. He rubbed his face, and I suppressed a smile. He does that when he’s tired. He’d been busy the past two weeks, caught up in the loose ends of a drug scam here in town. Between his court appearances and his regular workload—nuisance crimes always pick up again once the weather warms up—we’d not seen each other in a while before last night. Me? I felt refreshed.
“I’ve been on the phone for the past hour. The Canadays.” He didn’t have to say any more. When a normal Joe dies, it’s sad. You have a funeral. When a big-deal lawyer dies, people start making calls.
“He was an old man. Sick, too, from what his daughter said.” I was only repeating what Creighton already knew. “His oldest daughter had moved in with him. She wouldn’t have done that if he could have taken care of himself.”
“Yeah, well.” He rubbed the back of his neck now. I could imagine the feel of his hair back there, cut short but still soft. “The state’s calling for an autopsy, and the family is all worked up. But he died alone, so that’s the law—no matter what his history.”
I didn’t argue. I’d been through it. When my mother died, I’d been there, and so the autopsy was optional. I’d been asked, sure, but had said no. What were the doctors going to tell me? That between the cancer and her age, her body had given up the fight? I didn’t care which one or another of her organs had called it quits first.
“I’ve already spoken with the emergency room doctor,” Creighton was still talking, “the one in charge of Canaday’s care team.” I felt myself smiling again, but this time it felt bitter. My mother hadn’t had a team. She’d had me.
“Are you trying to tell me that you’re going to be working late tonight?” Better to focus on what I had now.
He shook his head. “I wanted to talk to you because I know you’re involved, Pru.”
I couldn’t help it. I caught my breath. He was wrong. This time, he was wrong
“Jim, I don’t know—”
“The kitten, Pru. The one the Canaday girl called you about? I won’t have the initial report for a few days, and the labs will take even longer. But the initial exam at the ER was pretty clear.”
I shook my head, confused.
“David Canaday died of acute myocardial infarction. A heart attack so severe he was probably dead by the time he hit the floor.” His voice was matter-of-fact, but I suddenly knew what he was going to say before he said it. “By all accounts, his heart condition was being controlled by medication. He should have been fine. But he wasn’t. He’s dead. And it may have been because of that kitten.”
Chapter Seven
“You can’t seriously blame a kitten.” Maybe sleep-deprivation was getting to me too. None of this was making sense.
“No.” Creighton shook his head, a ghost of a smile on his tired face. “That would be—No.” He paused to take a deep breath. “It’s more a question of putting together what happened. And once the initial autopsy report is back, the kitten may be needed for testing. Not likely, I know, but the medical examiner is now using the state police labs for toxicology. That means it may take a while; they’re thorough. If the family wants something definitive, well, they certainly have the right to push for any number of tests, and the resources, if it comes to that. I don’t know how you left it with them, but—”
“I took him.” This was my chance to come clean. Not my usual modus operandi, but with Creighton it just made sense. “The kitten, that is.”
“Took him?” That smile had grown larger. Didn’t mean he wasn’t waiting for more.
“The other daughter, the one who brought the kitten? She didn’t
want to deal with an animal right now. I figured nobody would.” I quickly ran through what had happened, leaving out the plea I had heard in the little cat’s plaintive mew. “I left a note.” A thought hit me. “What do you mean, testing?”
Creighton shrugged, and I realized he was staring off at something beyond my shoulder.
“Jim?” I didn’t like this.
“Pru.” He was stonewalling me. It’s a cop thing. But now he was on my territory. I trusted Jim, as much as I was able. But people can take care of themselves. Animals, not so much. Not when humans are involved.
“I’m not letting you do anything to that kitten.”
“I wouldn’t.” He started to protest.
“You know what I mean.” Curiosity overcame me. “What would you test for anyway?”
He looked as bewildered as I was. “Honestly, Pru? I don’t know. Dander, maybe? Maybe just to rule out other allergans? One of the daughters is making noise about it, and she’s got the right.”
“Jackie, right?” Personally, I’d been relieved when my mother finally died, but when you’ve been a caregiver for a while, it does tend to define you.
“The youngest.” Creighton leaned in as if he was giving me confidential info. Maybe he was.
“Judith?” She hadn’t seen her father recently, she’d said. Had just arrived that morning. Maybe she didn’t know how he’d declined.
But Creighton was shaking his head. “No, the youngest. Jill. She came in for her father’s birthday. Drove down from Vermont and ended up going straight to the hospital. And Pru? She’s heard something about what you do. She said she wants to meet you.”
Chapter Eight
Great. I watched Creighton walk to his car with his parting words echoing through my head. “Be nice, Pru,” he’d said. “She’s just lost her dad.”
This morning’s activities aside, I’m not the most social sort. Albert, the Canadays—that was work. Creighton was pleasure, but I’ve only recently started letting him stay for coffee. So when I hear that someone wants to meet me—that she’d heard about me—I get worried. Since returning to Beauville, I’d kept more or less on the right side of the law, and I keep my gift to myself. I’d done my time in a locked ward. It had been voluntary—my choice—but it had been enough. Creighton still thought it was cute that I talked to my cat. I didn’t want to know what he—or a judge—would think if they knew she talked back.
His unmarked had disappeared around a corner by the time I settled into my own car and turned on my phone. Three messages. Doc Sharpe, at the very least, deserved a call back.
“Pru? Good to hear from you.” From anyone else, that would have been sarcastic. Doc Sharpe was a straight shooter, though, if a bit stodgy.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting.” He’s also the source of most of my referrals. He’d set me up with a guide-dog group that had kept me employed over the winter. I couldn’t blame him if the Canaday gig had fallen through. “I went over to see about that kitten—”
“Terrible, terrible.” He had obviously heard the news. “But that’s why I called you. About the daughter. The youngest one.”
“Jill.” The one who had been asking around about me.
“Yes, yes, that’s her. I have some dealings with her father. Had, I mean, and he sent her to me. She called last week. Knew she was coming in. Didn’t know about her father, of course. I mean, that he….”
“I understand, Doc.” There was no sense in letting him flounder.
“At any rate, I gave her your number. Least I could do. I meant to tell you the other day, but, well, it’s spring.”
He meant he was swamped, not that the old dear would ever admit it. Spring meant kitten season. County, the animal hospital where he held sway, had been overwhelmed with unwanted animals since the second week of March.
“Thanks.” What else could I say? Maybe she knew about her sister’s gift. Maybe she’d chipped in for the little beast. “Was she asking about the kitten? I thought I’d bring him by later. See if you could check him out. He’s a cutie, but…” I didn’t have to finish. Kitten season was fraught with risks. Unvaccinated, the little creatures were vulnerable to distemper and a dozen other disorders.
“Not today, Pru. I’m…well, we’re quite busy.” That was an unusual admission for the old Yankee.
“I’m sorry, Doc.” I was. I knew I should be helping him out more. “I’ll come by later—without the kitten.” Something else was tickling at my memory. “Wait, you said you had business with David Canaday?”
“It’s nothing. I shouldn’t—” I could hear voices in the background. Voices and barking. Someone was calling Doc Sharpe’s name. “I’m sorry, Pru. I have to run. Please do give Jill Canaday a call back if she gets in touch. I got the impression that she may have a job in mind.”
Good ol’ Doc, always looking out for me. I hated to break it to him. “It probably was about the kitten, then.”
“No, I don’t think so.” Doc Sharpe doesn’t lose his patience. However, he does get pressed, and he’d come as close to interrupting me as he’d ever done. “Pru, talk to her, please? I think she might be a good contact for you.”
A good contact for me? I agreed, since it seemed important to him, and jotted down Jill Canaday’s number. I hadn’t had to. She had left the next message on my voice mail.
“Pru? Is this the Pru Marlowe?” There was a breathless quality to her voice that made me wonder just how young this third sister was. “I’m coming into town to see my dad today, and I’d really love to meet up. I guess my sister called you already, so maybe I’ll meet you at the house. If not, would you call me, if you have time?”
I looked at my phone. Eleven a.m. Her father was probably dead already, although she wouldn’t have known it yet. I thought about what Creighton had said. It was kinder, probably, not to call. I hit “erase.” With that thought in mind, the next message made me feel like a heel.
“Pru, it’s Jill again. Jill Canaday.” The breathlessness was gone, replaced by a sodden weight that made each word sound like an effort. “I guess you know…well, I know you know. Look, I’d still like to meet up, but maybe…in a few days? Anyway, I’m still planning on being here for the summer, so there’s no rush, I guess.”
No rush for what? I puzzled that one over as I pulled out of the parking lot and headed home. Animals I understand. People? Most of the time, they didn’t make sense to themselves. But that was a question for another time. Right now, I had to talk to a man about a squirrel.
Chapter Nine
Laurence Wilkins didn’t answer his phone, which added to the joy of my day. Pest animal removal is never fun, and with my sensitivity the distress is amplified. Imagine evicting a tenant without a good reason. Yes, I know—roof damage. Wiring. But that doesn’t matter to the squirrel. Plus, Wilkins was a lawyer, his voice mail had let me know. With the exception of Creighton, I prefer to avoid anybody with a legal background. Lawyers in particular. Talk about vermin, not to mention hard to get rid of.
Still, I wanted to get the job done rather than stressing about it. I’m not the kind to sit waiting at a mouse hole all day. I left a message with the basics—what I could do, how much I’d charge. A girl’s got to eat, and I’d be kinder to those squirrels than most. When he texted me back an address on the east side of town, I figured that meant he’d agreed to my terms. If I wasn’t worth phone time, that was fine by me.
I didn’t know where he was texting from, but nobody answered the door when I rang. At first, I thought he might be with a client. A shingle out by the road announced that the imposing white house at the end of the curving drive also served as his office. But as I waited, eyeing the neoclassical froufrou—the fluted columns that flanked the oversized front door, the ivy swag carved into the molding—I couldn’t help but notice why he had called. Over on the side, where a gutter had come loose, the cornice had been chewed throug
h, leaving a gaping hole. Well, I could put a one-way door on that, the kind that lets the animals leave but not come back. After a few days, I’d wire it closed for good.
I rang again and knocked for good measure. Then, since I was here, I started around the side. Yes, there was another hole toward the back, where a modern addition had ruined the big box’s symmetry. The office, I bet, seeing the oversize windows with those fancy bottom-to-top shades. Pity he hadn’t spent the money on upkeep. I continued my inspection and made some notes. I’d have to come back with a ladder to make sure I hadn’t missed anything, but those two holes were a start. I texted a preliminary report to Wilkins and asked for a deposit before I started. From the looks of this place, he could certainly afford me—and he was a lawyer, after all.
***
Wallis did not show herself when I got home. I didn’t know if that was a message or utterly unrelated, but the way the kitten was sleeping—spread out on my bed—made me suspect the former. Or, possibly, that the young one had run my resident tabby ragged. Wallis didn’t like to talk about her age, and I wouldn’t dare assume. But she’d been an adult when we began cohabiting, and that had been close to seven years ago now. An afternoon alone with a kitten just might have worn her out.
Rather than seek her out, I settled into the kitchen. I’m not good with paperwork, but I’ve learned the necessity of sending out bills. Two fingers of bourbon made my monthly invoicing a tad less unpleasant, and the promise of a refill got me to finish as the long spring twilight faded outside. The anesthetic helped, and I poured my second glass with an easy wrist. The paperwork hadn’t been that bad, but the numbers would be disheartening if I gave them any thought.
Better to sip the warming liquid and stare at the shadows.
“You know you snore when you drink too much.” The gentle pressure against my shin softened the words that sounded inside my head. “Particularly when you drink too much and don’t eat anything.”
