by Jae
She stood and crossed the living room. With every step, guilt settled more firmly onto her shoulders. She struggled against its weight as she lifted her hand. Her finger hovered over the mouse button for a few moments; then she clicked once and sent the e-mail on its way.
* * *
"Meeting with a big cat expert, huh?" Jorie read her beta reader's e-mail again. She still couldn't decide how she felt about Ally's offer. Somehow this resembled one of her mother's setups when Helen tried her hand at matchmaking or at least getting her to make new friends.
It wasn't that Jorie was shy or socially inept. The money won in poker tournaments proved otherwise. She was good at reading people, getting into their heads, and guessing their strategies. Casual small talk was also not a problem — she had won quite a few hands while chatting about everything under the sun. Most men weren't very good at multitasking, and Jorie readily exploited that weakness.
But beyond that, she had no real interest in meeting people and making friends. Then don't make it about meeting Ally's acquaintance. Make it about asking her questions, she encouraged herself. You don't even need to meet face-to-face. E-mail will be less of an inconvenience for that cat expert too. She's on vacation after all, so getting it over with quickly is the polite thing to do.
She clicked the "reply" button but then hesitated again.
Even if Ally's friend really was an expert, how could she help Jorie if she wasn't sure what questions to ask and what the problem was that kept her from writing? Most of her problems weren't about tigers or lions but about their shape-shifting equivalents anyway, so what good would a big cat expert do?
Questions rushed through her tired brain, but the answers eluded her. She rubbed her hands across her face and groaned into her palms.
Normally, Jorie was an organized writer. Detailed research and careful plotting had so far spared her from ever experiencing writer's block. And if she ever ran into any problems with characters or plot, she simply analyzed and solved them.
Maybe that was the problem. She had always been writing with her head, not so much her heart. Not this time. This time, she had let her writing be dictated by emotions. She was writing her own issues into the story, and it wasn't working. Even a regiment of cat experts couldn't change that.
If Ms. Westmore really is a cat expert. Jorie knew Ally meant well, but Ally was a people person and — as far as Jorie could tell from their e-mail acquaintance — maybe a little too trusting sometimes. Jorie wasn't. Years of working odd jobs had taught her that people weren't always what they pretended to be and that it was better to be careful.
Okay. Then pretend to be a writer and do some research before you make a decision. She closed her e-mail program and googled "Griffin Westmore." Great name. She scribbled it down in the back of her ever-present notebook, where she kept a list of names for future characters.
The search engine came up with a few thousand hits. Jorie waded through a few pages of actors, authors, and companies with that name. Finally, she gave up and went back to refine her search, now typing in "Griffin Westmore" and "zoologist." The first link provided her with the summary of a presentation that had been given at a zoology conference in England.
The top of the Web site listed Griffin Westmore's academic accomplishments: a bachelor's degree in wildlife ecology and conservation from Northwest Missouri State University, a master's degree in zoology from Colorado State University, and a PhD in zoology from the University of New Hampshire.
Three degrees from three different universities in three different states. It seems Griffin Westmore has the "restless feet syndrome" too. That was what her father had always called her tendency not to stay in one place or keep one job for very long.
Jorie's eyes started to burn. She looked away from the computer screen. Sometimes, grief still sneaked up on her when she remembered the little things about her father.
Resolutely, she clicked on the next link. It gave her the title of Griffin Westmore's dissertation: 'Comparative Anatomy and Sensitivity to Catnip (Nepeta Cataria) in Tigers (Panthera Tigris) and Lions (Panthera Leo).' Jesus, she really is an expert. Let's see what she has been up to after she got her degrees.
She followed another link to the homepage of the US Forest Service. There was no photo, but the page listed Griffin Westmore's work phone number, e-mail address, and title — wildlife biologist — and let her know that Griffin belonged to the Ouachita National Forest office. Arkansas. I wonder what brings her up north? Can't be our pleasant weather.
Clicking on a few more links provided nothing new until she stumbled across a newspaper article about a project that Griffin Westmore had been working on. The article described the difficulties in getting a radio collar on bobcats and was nicely written, but what held Jorie's interest was the photo at the bottom of the article.
Griffin Westmore stood with two other people, captured in the middle of explaining something to them. Jorie couldn't tell whether the man and the woman in the picture were really short or the zoologist was really tall. The way she was bending down to talk to them made Jorie think it was the latter.
A shiver ran up and down Jorie's spine as she swept her gaze over the photo. Maybe it was just the camera angle, but everything about Griffin Westmore seemed big and threatening — the large hands that were holding a map, the broad shoulders, the square jaw, and the slightly too long nose. Oh, come on. Don't let your overactive imagination get the better of you. The picture is too grainy to even tell the color or the look in her eyes, so how could it possibly make you feel uneasy?
Still, she couldn't help feeling wary about meeting the imposing woman. If she had dark hair instead of that reddish-golden mane, she would look like one of the sinister antagonists from my early stories. Then another thought hit Jorie. A woman in uniform, huh? She smiled at the thought.
In the picture, Griffin Westmore was wearing the sage green pants and the tan uniform shirt of the US Forest Service. A tag over her left breast pocket had either her title or her name written across it. Jorie couldn't read it due to the low quality of the picture, but she guessed it to say "wildlife biologist."
She's the real deal, Jorie admitted. Maybe meeting with her could help me figure out a few things. It doesn't even have to be a long getting-to-know-you chat. Asking her a few well-prepared questions will make sure I don't waste either of our time, and it's better than sitting around and waiting for this damn writer's block to pass. With one last glance at the photo, she started to write an e-mail to Griffin Westmore.
CHAPTER 4
GRIFFIN LICKED A drop of rain from her lip. It tasted earthy, like fall, very different from the rain in Arkansas. Once again, it reminded her that she was in a stranger's territory, out here in the rain, waiting for hours. Not that she minded the rain or the waiting. She had inherited her Puwar mother's love for water, not her Kasari father's hatred of getting wet. And like all cat-shifters, she had the patience to wait out her prey.
Stalking through the forest surrounding the house also let her know that in the last few days, no shifter had passed this place. No Wrasa scent clung to the bark of the trees. If a traitor had visited Ms. Price's house, he had taken a different route.
The shadow of the woman crossed in front of the window, then again in the other direction as if she was pacing back and forth.
Griffin didn't move. The darkness and the dense foliage of a group of trees kept her well hidden while she watched the house. The constant movement of the writer made her twitchy like a cat that was forced to watch a mouse dart back and forth right in front of her paws. I wonder what got her so unsettled. Is the leak someone in the council or a saru, someone who told her she's in deep trouble? Or is she just an insomniac? It was two o'clock in the morning — or rather in the middle of the night — but there was still a light on in the small house at the edge of town. While Griffin felt wide-awake, she knew most humans didn't keep that kind of hours.
The woman's shadow passed in front of the window again but
didn't return this time.
She's going to bed, Griffin thought.
But instead of the light being turned off, the front door creaked open.
The woman's scent tickled Griffin's nose before she stepped outside. No perfume. All Griffin detected were the smells of fabric softener, coffee, and a shampoo with a pleasant coconut scent. And underneath it all was the woman's own scent — slightly floral, with a hint of something muskier. It was a clean, soothing scent, like prowling through the forest on a warm spring day, with all the trees in full bloom.
The door swung back farther, and the woman appeared in the doorway. The light from the house illuminated her from behind, making her look like a vision out of a human fairy tale.
Distracted, Griffin shook her head. The image of the forest elf disappeared, but still, Marjorie Price was different from what she had expected. Instead of the elderly recluse, the woman looked like a college student in her faded jeans.
No. She's not a student. Griffin's predatory gaze took in the self-assured way she moved. Early thirties, maybe. Moonlight revealed the lithe, lean build that Griffin had sometimes envied when she was younger, before she had learned that her height, strength, and an intimidating look worked well for making people leave her alone. The writer shoved back a strand of shaggy, black hair that fell rebelliously into her eyes. Griffin wasn't close enough to make out the writer's eye color, but she guessed them to be of the dark brown that was so common among humans.
Just imagining the writer's eye color brought another image of the forest in spring — the damp earth coming to life with the first flowers of the year.
"Will?" Marjorie Price called. "Emmy?"
Griffin cocked her head and let the rich, warm tones of her voice trickle through her. She's calling her cats, she realized.
Two felines darted out from beneath the car in the driveway, where they had sought refuge from the rain and the scent of a dangerous predator lurking in the neighborhood. They greeted their owner by rubbing against her calves.
"Stop that," Marjorie Price chided but didn't move away. "I'm not a towel."
A moment later, woman and cats disappeared inside the house, leaving behind the scent of coconut and wet fur.
Only when she had to sharply inhale did Griffin notice that she had been holding her breath. She's not exactly the old woman I imagined. That posed additional problems for her assignment. If she suddenly disappears, no one will believe she died of old age. She shoved the thought away. Let's hope that no one will have to die, of old age or otherwise.
The writer's silhouette appeared in front of the window again. Marjorie Price stared out into the darkness.
Griffin stepped back behind a tree, then scolded herself. She can't see you in the darkness. She's human.
The light in the house went out, and Griffin turned to go. She had a lot of work to do tonight.
* * *
Jorie turned off the light but stayed where she was. She stared out the window and into the darkness beyond. Not that she could see anything. Because there is nothing to see, the reasonable part of her said. Still, her instincts told her otherwise. There's something out there. Watching. The thought made her shiver.
Earlier, she had thought she had seen something move in the shadows of the forest and had strained to make out the shape without much success. Oh, come on. Now you're getting paranoid. Use your overactive imagination for your writing and not to scare yourself, stupid! Maybe I should try my hand at writing horror stories, not paranormal romances.
She flinched as something brushed against her leg. Her heart pounded against her rib cage. Her gaze darted down.
Will's gleaming yellow eyes looked back at her.
"Jesus, Will, you scared me half to death!" She rubbed her breastbone. As her heartbeat slowed, she began to feel silly. "All right. I'm coming; I'm coming. Your pals better not have taken up all the space in my bed again." With the cat trailing after her, she moved to the bedroom, knowing she wouldn't sleep much anyway.
* * *
Griffin stretched out contentedly in front of the fireplace, enjoying the warmth of the fire and the softness of the blanket she had wrapped around herself. It was just September, and the local humans probably thought even the chilly nights in Michigan didn't require a warming fire yet. Griffin thought otherwise. There was nothing wrong with indulging herself every once in a while. The council was paying the bill for her stay at the bed-and-breakfast after all, and if they wanted her here, the least they could do was make her comfortable. So far, the home-cooked meals, the whirlpool tub, and the gas fireplace had provided all the feline comforts Griffin could wish for.
Back to work, Griffin ordered herself. There'll be time for a catnap later. She stretched out on her belly in front of her laptop and opened her e-mail. Ah. A satisfied grin curled her lips when she saw a new message from J.W. Price. So that's what she was doing up at two a.m. — writing e-mails. It seems writers are nocturnal creatures too. So let's see what she has to say.
She clicked on the e-mail and started to read.
Dear Ms. Westmore,
I realize we don't know each other, and I'm normally not one to send an e-mail to people who don't know me from Eve, but Allison DeLuca told me you might be able to help me with my research. I'm a writer of paranormal romances. Right in the middle of working on my newest novel, my muse decided to leave me for a younger or better-paid writer, and I thought getting a few questions answered by a zoologist might be helpful.
So if you have the time and access to the Internet while you're on vacation, let me know if you are willing to help me with a few questions.
Sincerely,
J.W. Price
Griffin read the e-mail again, carefully analyzing what it told her about the writer. She's polite, but straightforward. Clever and careful. Openly copying the e-mail to her beta reader instead of just blind-copying her was a really smart move. She's letting me know that she told someone about contacting me. She also didn't tell me anything about herself or her book that I didn't know before. This is not going to be easy.
The excitement of the hunt prickled along her skin. Good. The challenge of the investigation, the back and forth between herself and a worthy opponent was what she liked about her job.
Now it's the cat's move. Let's see. She scanned the e-mail again. For a human, she has a great sense of humor.
She had noticed it in Ms. Price's books too, and Griffin decided to reply in kind and use a little humor to make the writer feel more at ease with her. Hitting reply, she thought for a moment before she began to type her response.
Dear Ms. Price,
I'm not an expert on unfaithful muses, but if I can help in any way with my zoological expertise, I'd be happy to let you pick my brain while I'm in the area. Since I only have sporadic Internet access while I'm on vacation, why not meet in person?
Just name the time and place. I'm not on any schedule, so whatever you suggest should be fine.
Griffin Westmore
Her cell phone rang just as she clicked send. She glared at the device. Of all the human inventions, why did we have to adopt this one? Without this thing, a cat could have some peace and quiet to investigate without a certain wolf's meddling. No doubt it was Jennings, asking for a progress report. "Westmore," she answered.
"Hello, Griffin," came a voice that was not her commander's. "It's Leigh."
Griffin groaned. Now, isn't this nice. First Ky and now Leigh. What is this — an investigation or a family gathering? "Leigh. What do you want?" she asked.
"Me? You should know by now that I don't want anything from you," her half sister answered. "You are the one who wants something from me."
"Bullshit. I'm in the middle of an investigation; I don't have time for..." Griffin squeezed her eyes shut when a thought occurred to her. "Don't tell me you are the techie they picked to hack into Marjorie Price's and her beta reader's computers?" While Leigh was not officially a saru, they sometimes requested her help when they needed a
computer specialist.
Leigh growled. "Hey, it's not like I volunteered. The council wanted the best for the job, and so they called me."
Modesty had never been the Kasari's strong suit. Give her a break, Griff. It's not like anyone ever accused you of having an inferiority complex either.
"Kylin was the one who convinced the council to hire me," Leigh said. "Unlike your twin sister, I don't stick my muzzle in other people's business. If you want nothing to do with the family, that's fine with me."
Griffin raked her nails over itching skin that was as irritating as her half sister. It was a good reminder that she needed to calm down and act like a professional. "Okay. So the first thing I need you to do is hack into Allison DeLuca's computer and see if there's anything suspicious going on," she said. Jennings had sent her a report about his interview with Allison DeLuca. Nothing pointed at the beta reader as Ms. Price's secret informant, but Griffin didn't want to take any chances.
"Already done. Apart from ordering large amounts of doggie treats online, there's nothing suspicious about the activities on her computer. Do you think she eats them?" Leigh asked.
Is this a serious question, or is she joking, trying to break through my reserve? Griffin realized she didn't know Leigh well enough to tell just by the sound of her voice. "You're asking me this in all seriousness?"
"Sure. I always wondered what living with humans might do to a Wrasa's sanity." Working from home and living in her fathers' pride, Leigh had little contact with humans. She preferred it that way, but apparently, that didn't stop her from being curious about Allison Deluca's computer activities.
Griffin didn't want to discuss Allison's eating habits. Spending more time undercover and among humans than any other saru, she had seen human food that made dog biscuits seem appetizing in comparison. "I couldn't care less," she said. "Having strange eating habits is not against the First Law, but giving information about shape-shifters to a human is. Are you sure she didn't help the writer with her research?"
