by Clea Simon
I continued to stare and with a bound, she landed on the table in front of me. “And I’m not old, I’ll have you know.”
“I know.” I stroked the subtle stripes and she arched her back in pleasure. “Dinner?”
The purr began, low and deep, and I carried my glass over to the counter. I don’t cook, not in any real sense. But Creighton had brought over a roast chicken the night before. We’d eaten some of it later, cold, along with the baguette he’d also procured. I’d liked the idea of him bringing me game.
“Does this mean you won’t bite my head off?” His tone had been playful, his words accompanied by the offering of a drumstick, torn from the carcass. I’d taken it. I’d worked up an appetite, but I’d only smiled in response. Like I said, I liked the idea of him bringing me offerings. Besides, it wouldn’t do for me to let him get too comfortable.
“Sharing the spoils?” I hadn’t heard Wallis jump down, but now she brushed against me.
“Shall I warm it up?” I looked down into glowing green eyes and watched as they closed, briefly, in satisfaction. “Okay, then, just a minute.”
A turn in the microwave brought out the glorious roasted scent, and my stomach was grumbling by the time I took my own plate over to the table. Wallis, who still preferred hers on the floor, was nearly growling.
“So, dare I ask?” I waited until we’d gone through the remaining breast and thigh. “The kitten?”
“I swear, none of my offspring were that stupid.” Wallis had sat back by this point and had begun her post-meal toilette. “Going on about smelling bad, like he couldn’t keep himself clean.”
“He is very young.” I pictured the fluffy tyke. He hadn’t woken up while we’d been eating. I was so used to Wallis fending for herself that I hadn’t left him anything. There was water out, always, but I had left the kitten kibble at the Canadays’. I hadn’t even thought to bring him a toy.
“He’s already fed.” Wallis ran her paw over her whiskers, which already looked spotless to me. Something was going on behind those smooth stripes, something she wasn’t sharing. “And that button? Talk about child’s play.”
I got it then, in full color. Wallis had caught a mouse and eviscerated it, letting the kitten watch. She’d been quick—I sensed impatience rather than mercy—and for that I was grateful. I don’t think of myself as sentimental, but compared to my cat, I was an utter softie. At least the kitten had enjoyed the spectacle. Plus, he had gorged on fresher meat than either of us had enjoyed.
“And he learned a thing or two.” Another swipe flattened a black-tipped ear. “By the way, his name is Ernesto.”
She paused. The animals I’d dealt with preferred to name themselves—choosing monikers that reflect their inner selves a lot better than our cutesy handles do. This kitten was so very young, though, I couldn’t figure out whether he’d chosen Ernesto or that distant mama had—or if Wallis, in a fit of pique, had dropped that handle on him.
“Ernesto?,” I asked.
“Ernesto Vuitton,” she said. Another swipe. “Button. Ha.”
Chapter Ten
When the next day passed without a call back from Wilkins, I had mixed feelings. No, I didn’t want to deal with vermin of any kind. But, yes, I could have used the gig. I hadn’t heard anything from any of the Canaday girls either, and I was out close to eighty bucks on them. I’d picked up more kitten kibble for the little guy by then. Wallis may have taken the kitten’s education in hand, but I wasn’t quite ready to trust her to keep him fed. Besides, I’d have to return the kitten eventually, and it would be useful to have some receipts to account for his care.
When the following day passed without a call from either client, I decided to take action. Wilkins I could take or leave, but the kitten was weighing on me. While there hadn’t been another incident like the one at the house, I wasn’t entirely easy about his health. Granted, I hadn’t known Wallis as a kitten, but this little fellow seemed too ditzy to believe. If he wasn’t going on about his button, he was calling for his mama. Even the most basic functions—a bath, a drink—brought forth an exclamation of surprise. He was young, I knew that. The world was new to him. But I couldn’t rule out brain damage, not after what had seemed like a small seizure. Especially if he was a valuable animal, I didn’t want to be responsible for him.
Maybe I was more like Wallis than I’d thought. Neither of us is cut out for parenthood, and I was getting sick of it. Besides, even if I was feeding the little guy, Ernesto—I found it difficult to call such a small animal by such a big name—I wasn’t doing him any favors by keeping him here. I needed to return him, or get him placed somewhere while he still had his kittenish good looks. I knew what Judith had said about the kitten’s—Ernesto’s—papers. I also knew how many pedigree animals—nobody uses “purebred” for a cat—show up in shelters. At best, once Ernesto outgrew his cute stage, I’d be looking for a rescue group, maybe one that specialized in white puffballs with blue eyes.
I tried Jackie first, since she was the person who had hired me, and got her voice mail. I phoned the Mont, after that. They acknowledged having a Judith Canaday registered, but the line to her room went to a recording as well. After leaving my second message, I realized I had another option—a family member who actually wanted to talk to me.
“Jill? This is Pru, Pru Marlowe.” I waited to see how she’d respond. Grief is a funny thing, and I was grateful simply to have reached a real person.
“Wow, really?” Not that funny. But before I could respond, the voice on the other end of the line came back. “I’m so glad you called, Pru. I can call you Pru, right? I’d been so looking forward to meeting you and then…”
“I understand, and I’m sorry,” I said, as Jill’s voice collapsed into a whimper. “I wasn’t sure if it was too soon to call.”
I waited while she blew her nose. “No, no, I’m glad you did.” She sounded better for the brief bout of sobbing. “You’re the main reason I wanted to spend the summer here.”
“Excuse me?”
“Didn’t that nice vet, Dr. Sharpe, tell you?”
“No.” This was getting off track. “I thought we should talk about the kitten, the one your sister bought.” I didn’t want to tell her my concerns over the phone.
“Of course.” I heard a voice behind her. One of her sisters’ I imagined. “Look, would you come to the house on Friday? We’re having people over, after the funeral. We finally got the okay, and—”
“Friday will be fine.” I cut her off. I already knew about the autopsy. I didn’t need details.
“Maybe after that you could bring the kitten by. I mean, in a day or so.” Her comment startled me into silence. “I may as well start right away.”
I had no idea what to say to that, but she didn’t seem to require an answer. I was left feeling as witless as that kitten.
I have learned to cover my own ass, however, and my next call was to Creighton.
“Hey, Jim. Just a heads-up.” He was driving—I could hear the road. That was fine. I planned on keeping it short. “I’m going to bring the Canadays’ kitten back after the funeral. Jill, the youngest daughter, just okayed that.”
“That’s fine, Pru. Turns out we don’t need him for any testing.”
“No death by kitten?” I was joking. It had been a few days, and I was enjoying my favorite cop’s voice.
“Actually, he might have been responsible.” That took me aback, but Creighton kept talking. “But I don’t think we have reason to hold him for it.”
“Excuse me?”
He laughed, and I could almost hear him sorting through his options. “Look, Pru, you know I can’t give you details, but I think it’s fairly safe to say that the lab won’t need the kitten. They’ve got enough to work with without it.”
“So, you do suspect something?”
“Pru…” His voice had the same effect as a gr
owl. Didn’t matter. I was already weighing the options. What role would a kitten have in a man’s death?
“Was he allergic?” Silence, and I asked the next question out loud. “Why would one of his daughters give him a cat if he was allergic?”
“Look, Pru.” Creighton knows me. Knows he has to give me something, sometimes, or I won’t shut up. “Nothing is official, not yet. The old guy was on a cabinet full of drugs. Plus, we found an inhaler in his bathroom—the kind that’s sold over the counter—and other stuff, too. His oldest is furious with the doctor, of course. Says her father wasn’t warned about dangerous interactions.” I could hear the wind, some distant jays. Just enough distraction to keep him talking. “Maybe it is his fault.” Creighton was musing out loud. “But it seems to me like people need to take responsibility for their own selves. At any rate, the coroner has ordered more tests.”
That was possibly the longest he’d ever talked about a case. Then again, it sounded like the death of David Canaday wasn’t going to be any of my concern. And Jim Creighton had other thoughts on his mind.
“Speaking of which,” he paused, and I was holding my breath. In this mood, who knew what he’d spill? “I don’t think I’ve met this kitten yet,” he said finally. “What say I come over tonight and you introduce me to the lethal pet?”
Chapter Eleven
Friday dawned bright and clear. Creighton was singing in the shower as Wallis jumped up on the bed, her ears ever so slightly back.
“Is this going to become a habit now?” She was referring to his staying over. She understood why I wanted him to visit, but half the bed, until recently, had been her territory.
“Don’t worry.” I kept my own voice soft as I reached to stroke her. Wallis may be able to read my thoughts, but it is easier for me if I conduct our conversation out loud. “You know I can’t let him get too close.”
“Hmm.” That seemed to satisfy her, and she began to knead the thick down comforter. “And you’re getting rid of that infant, too, I trust?”
I nodded. “I’m sorry. I never meant to dump him on you.”
“He’s fine. No less intelligent than most males, but the crying has become annoying.”
“Crying?” I hadn’t heard that last night. Instead, Ernesto had seemed to enjoy Creighton’s company.
“Oh, he likes to be played with, all right.” She kept kneading. “He’s a weak little thing, awfully dependent on humans.”
“Poor guy.” Wallis might be being, well, catty. Creighton and I had been focused on the kitten, after all. But I couldn’t discount what she was saying. Ernesto was a pedigreed animal. A show cat. He’d probably been handled since the day of his birth. Fussed over, to make sure he was socialized. Then I’d left him with no company except for Wallis until last night. He had reason to fuss. But …weak? That was worrisome. I thought of the cough. The vomit.
“Not that you’re not a great teacher,” I added, out loud and hastily, for her benefit—and to cover my own thoughts.
“I know.” She had begun to purr as she settled into the down. “But I think this is something more. Something disturbed him.”
It wasn’t like there weren’t other options. Something besides illness. For all that I found Ernesto playing, apparently carefree, he had witnessed a man’s death. I doubted that he’d had a chance to bond with old Mr. Canaday, but he might have been held by the man.
I thought of the button the kitten had been batting about when I found him, the pleas for a human playmate to kick it back. Maybe Canaday hadn’t been immune to the kitten’s charms. Maybe he’d been playing with Ernesto, making the most of an impromptu toy, when he’d started choking. When the pain began to spread. Whether the kitten had been dropped or thrown, or simply witnessed those last agonizing moments, he had seen something confusing. Something potentially terrifying. For a human-oriented animal, that was a lot to deal with.
“And I call myself a behaviorist.” I muttered, more to myself than to Wallis, although as I watched, her kneading took on the appearance of a shrug.
“Ah, I see you’ve got company.” Creighton, fresh from the shower, strode into the room. As he toweled off, Wallis eyed him up and down, and I had to resist the temptation to slap her. “How’s she getting along with the kitten?”
“Pretty well.” I contented myself with putting one hand, rather heavily on her back.
“Think they can get along a little while longer?” He reached to retrieve his shirt, and she nipped at me.
“Probably. Why?” I pulled my hand back, and Wallis and I glared at each other.
“I was wondering if you had plans for the morning.” Shirt on, he checked under the bed for the rest of his clothes. “I’ve got to represent the department, and you’ve met these people, too.”
“Wait.” I sat up, pulling the covers up against the early morning chill. “You’re asking me on a date—to a funeral?”
His head popped up. “It’s not a date, Pru. Don’t be silly.”
I watched as he retrieved his socks.
“You’re going to be meeting one of the daughters after, right?” He sat on the edge of the bed. “And, hey, it wouldn’t hurt your standing in the community to show your face. David Canaday was a big deal.”
I thought about it while he tied his shoes. He was right about the daughters—at least one of them—and I trusted him about Canaday. But even though Creighton and I had been spending more time together, I still drew the line at being seen in public together. This is a very small town, and I wanted to keep my autonomy for many reasons. He knew some of them and understood—as a cop, he saw our town at its misogynistic, macho worst. My biggest reason—the truth about my sensitivity—would have to remain a secret.
In fact, I could have used some help at this point. But Wallis was simply staring at me, green eyes wide in an expression I couldn’t quite read.
“Besides,” he added, talking to the mirror, “it would be nice to have you there.”
The trump card. Maybe I’m not as tough as I’d like. “Yeah,” I heard myself say. “I could meet you there, I guess.” As I watched, Wallis slowly blinked in approval. “After I walk Growl— I mean, after I walk Tracy Horlick’s bichon.”
If he heard me catch myself—I’d almost used the dog’s preferred name—he didn’t let on. “Great. I appreciate it.” He stopped himself in the bedroom door. “Hey, maybe you’ll be able to pick up a client while you’re there. Just be careful about getting caught up in that family’s feuds.”
Chapter Twelve
If Growler noticed my clothes, he didn’t comment. That didn’t stop his person, Tracy Horlick, from raising her eyebrows when she opened the door to me.
“My, what have we here?” Those brows, drawn as an auburn line three shades lighter than her bad dye job, disappeared into her forehead as she took another drag on the ever-present Marlboro and took in my black top and pants.
“Is this a new uniform?” She exhaled, and I stifled a cough. Any response would be seen as encouragement, and I do pride myself on my ability to train even the most recalcitrant beast. After another wave of smoke as she tried again, her smoker’s rasp growing louder and more peevish. “Going to rob a grave?”
“Is Bitsy ready for his walk?” I managed a smile. I did enjoy ignoring her. “The weather is so nice this morning.”
“Nice day for a funeral.” Her eyes squinted, and I began to wonder if some of the smoke was from her brain working. “You’re going to the Canaday funeral, aren’t you?”
“I am doing some work for the family.” I didn’t like giving her anything, but I also didn’t have all day. “Bitsy?”
“Huh.” She turned in. Even from the stoop, I could hear Growler—the dog she called Bitsy—scrabbling at an interior door. “Like oil and water, those girls,” she muttered as she shuffled to him. “Wouldn’t be surprised if the money just makes that worse.”
“Out,” he barked. To anyone else, his curt command would sound like a bichon’s sharp yelp. “What are you waiting for? Let’s go!”
“You’re the boss,” I replied, standing, having clipped on the little dog’s lead.
Tracy Horlick, temporarily mollified, cracked her lipstick into a mean smile. “Don’t count on any of the Canaday girls becoming regular clients.” She took another drag. “Not like me and Bitsy.”
“I should be so lucky.” I had kept the smile in place, but I still saw the scowl settling into the old lady’s face as she tried to work out whether my words translated into an insult or not.
“What are you playing at, walker lady?” Growler voiced his question as a short yip as he led me to the curb. “Humans,” he chuffed, a half-snort bark. “You’d think you’d have learned to listen by now.”
“I’m sorry, Growler.” I was. I’d been selfish, baiting the old lady. “Does she take it out on you?”
He grunted as he watered a tree. “Huh, Bruce was here. Twice. Lucky devil.” I couldn’t tell if I had embarrassed him with my solicitude or he simply had more compelling interests. We walked on. “Jeff, Douglas…Man, you’ve got to get over that bitch.” I no longer wondered about Growler’s focus on his male colleagues. Given the gender of the woman who controlled so much of his life, I was grateful that he communicated with me at all.
“Get over yourself, girl.” I stopped just in time to keep from stepping on the little dog, who was staring up at me. “You’re not the one in charge here. The sooner you realize that, the sooner you might learn something.”
