by Clea Simon
She didn’t answer. Didn’t even look at me. Didn’t have to, really. I knew as well as she what she’d say. Now that I had calmed down, it hit me. For the past year, give or take a month, I’d been cursing this so-called gift every day. It had come in handy. Certainly helped me in my work. But it had driven me from the city I’d loved, and made me feel even more of an outcast than usual. Now, if it was gone, shouldn’t I be happy?
“It’s not that simple, Wallis.” I was talking to myself as much as to her. She flicked one velvet ear, the black tip accentuating the movement. “It’s not just that I’ve gotten used to it.” I struggled to put my feelings into words. “I mean, knowing what various animals are thinking makes helping them easier.”
I thought of Growler, whose animosity toward his owner had led to a number of small rebellions. I didn’t know if he could play her, like the poodle did her person. I couldn’t help him, not without getting him away from his owner, Tracy Horlick. And she was the one who paid my bills. For a moment, I wondered if the thought of the little bichon had been my own, or if Wallis had tossed it to me as a rebuttal.
“I don’t have to stoop to that.” The other ear twitched. “To…dog tricks.”
“I know. Sorry.” It had been my own guilty conscience. Though I could counter with the case of the puppy at the shelter. If I had made myself understood then the chances of the young dog finding a permanent and happy home were greater. Weren’t they?
Silence. I was fooling myself. I had become used to hearing what the animals around me said. In truth, I found it more interesting than most of the human conversation in this town.
“Of course.” A low purr was starting deep in Wallis’ chest. The echo of it rumbled through her voice. “We’re the most intelligent creatures here.”
“Then why couldn’t I hear Frank today?” The panic began to creep back, closing up my throat even as I formed the words. “I could, and then I couldn’t. It was like we were disconnected. And he was trying, I could see that.”
“Weasel. She wants to talk to a weasel.” Wallis was getting sleepy. That was always a hazard when I needed to talk. As obligate carnivores, cats slept seventy to eighty percent of the time, anyway. Now in her thirteenth year, Wallis had made an art of the nap.
“And what about the Persian? I’d been assuming that she didn’t want to talk to me. But maybe she’s trying, and I can’t hear her.”
Wallis shuffled a little, making herself more comfortable as she drifted off. “If it’s me, Wallis, what do I do?”
She snorted ever so slightly. Another thought struck me. “Could it have to do with her hearing? Maybe if she can’t hear, she can’t speak?”
“Cats talk. All cats can.” I was losing her. Already her voice was faint, the rhythmic sway of the purr lulling her into sleep. “And you can hear them, if you get your mind straight, Pru. You know you can. But Pru?” She was fading now, almost gone. “Cats can’t shoot.”
Chapter Twenty
I woke with a dry mouth and a sense of dread I couldn’t place at first. I was in my bed, warm and safe. Wallis had her back toward me, but there was nothing unusual in that. Then it all came rushing back. Two men, both of whom I’d liked—one of whom I’d been close to, after my fashion—had died within the last three days. The second death, not twenty-four hours ago, was already being considered suspicious. The first, as I well knew, was not what it had seemed, either. Three days…
“I’ve got to talk to that Persian.” I sat up, determination doing the job that caffeine usually would. “I’ve got to make her see, make her open up to me.”
“And you’re going to do that…how?” Wallis didn’t even turn. I got the thought as she ran one white-mittened paw over her ear. Suddenly, my tongue felt even furrier, and I slumped back.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that.” Nobody brings you back to earth like your cat.
“What? Multitask?” Wallis looked over her shoulder at me, round eyes innocent and wide. “Or keep myself looking sleek and sexy?”
“Wallis!” I was in no mood. “You’re spayed.”
“And your goal is always to reproduce?”
I pulled myself out of bed. “I’m not having this conversation.” As I headed toward the shower, I was sure I heard her chuckle.
The Persian. She was the key, and Wallis had said that I could get through to her—if I wanted to. If she wanted was more like it. The more I thought about it, the more I became convinced that the white cat had been deliberately blocking me. The question was: how?
The hot water helped, and coffee finished the process, letting me think rather than simply react. Fluffy, if that really was her name, knew more than she was telling, but I couldn’t keep throwing myself at her. I had to find a way in. With Frank, it might have been easy. Something shiny. Something to eat. This cat, though. I didn’t think she wanted anything. From me, anyway. From her former owner? From his widow? It was worth a shot. Somehow, I had to let her know that I was on her side. One of the good guys.
For that matter, I had to make sure Creighton knew it too. My brief show of grief might have won me some time, but he was too astute an investigator to let go until he followed up on the loose ends. One person who had known both victims? Hey, even I’d be curious.
Creighton had mentioned a funeral, and I’d been too out of it to push for more. No matter. Opening my laptop, I typed in a few commands. A few clicks, and I had what I needed: Donal Franklin’s death notice. Devoted husband, loyal friend. There wasn’t much about his past, how he’d come into his money. But then, he’d been fifty-six, too young by any means to be in this particular column. A faithful supporter of the Olde Tyndale Country Club and regular at the Tynedale Classic. Those of us not in the club were obviously out of luck: the little item also said that services would be private.
I dressed and poured the rest of the coffee into my travel mug. Halfway out the door, the other connection hit me. Mack. He’d known Lew. I recalled them greeting each other at the club that night, before he’d gone off after larger—or more gullible—prey. Had he known Donal? I didn’t recall them talking, but it seemed likely. Mack had had some scheme. He always had some scheme. He’d been trolling for backers among the crowd that night, and Donal was a big fish. At any rate, he sure seemed to know pretty little Robin Gensler fairly well. That might be work, or it might be pleasure. For Mack, the lines sometimes crossed. Either could be motive if he’d gotten in over his head. Money, however, that would be what sealed the deal.
“Oh, Mack.” As I drove, I thought of my former beau. Now that I knew him better, I could see that he was fraying on the edges. He’d not had a good break in a while, not since his old buddy and business partner—the computer whiz Charles Harris—had cut him off, and then sealed the deal by dying. The strain was showing around Mack’s eyes, his lean body already a little thinner. If Lew had been mixed up in something, Mack might be, too. Could Mack have—? No, I didn’t see him as a killer. That didn’t mean he wasn’t involved. Deeply involved. Mack was desperate. How far he would go for a score I didn’t dare guess.
Propping the mug between my knees, I reached for my phone. One eye on the road, I started to key in Mack’s number when a flash and then a shadow caused me to swerve.
“Damn!” That coffee held its heat, and I slammed on the brakes as steaming liquid seared my thighs. Cursing my old car and its inadequate cup holders, I dropped the phone and groped instead for the fast-food napkins I knew I’d left in the backseat. What had startled me? A quick scan of the sky didn’t show anything out of the ordinary. No wheeling raptors, nothing larger than a lost and lonely gull, doubtless searching for the town dump. Then I saw him: a young male redtail hawk, regal and stern. He’d grabbed something gray—mourning dove, most likely—and now perched on a lone streetlight. His rounded head turned as I stared up at him. I was no threat. Maybe he wanted to see if I was potential prey. Then he dipped his curved beak to the mass of gray feathers and pulled. His beak came up red, the flesh already ope
ned by those merciless talons. This was a hunter, and as I watched him begin to take his prey apart, I realized what had stopped me. Despite my brief attempt to set the tone with Creighton, I’d been played all along—jerked around between Tom and Mack and, yes, even Jim. It was time for me to focus. I had skills they didn’t know about. And not all of them involved talking to animals.
Chapter Twenty-one
“Mack? It’s me. Call me back.” I’d be damned if I’d be cowed by our past—or by my former fling’s new alliance. It was early, too early for him to be awake, but I didn’t care. Something about the day was already off, and I wanted to find out what was up. Besides, the man still owed me for leaving me at that dance. Mack always had a problem paying his debts, however. So it was with great surprise that I heard my cell ring not five minutes later. The ring sounded particularly shrill and I swerved slightly before catching myself. That wasn’t like me, and I cursed as I reached for the phone. The sun, that had to be it. I’d just turned east onto Route 2 and the sun was in my eyes.
“Mack?”
A chuckle on the other end of the line pointed out my mistake.
“Tom.” A beginner’s error.
“So, who’s this Mack who you’re waiting for?”
“A source.” I could almost hear his scarred grin getting wider. “Are you still trolling for clients?”
“Not anymore.” I waited. I could outwait Tom. The road sped by, empty and lifeless. “I never did get to talk to your friend Llewellyn.”
So he’d heard. But it wasn’t my place to give him any more information.
“You could have warned me, you know.” He sounded peevish.
“Oh?” This was just too good, and for a moment I found myself enjoying the note of discomfort in his voice.
“Your local boy scout wants to speak to me. Seems he has some idea that I had business dealings with the late Mr. McMudge.”
“And, you didn’t?” A slight shadow, another redtail, crossed the road. The bright sun was giving me a headache, but I couldn’t hold the old phone and reach for my sunshade at the same time. “Isn’t that what you had asked me about, Tom?”
“I’d wanted an introduction, Pru. I’ve got no use for a stiff.”
I winced. The sun. Tom. I was dying to know more—to find out what Lew had been mixed up in, and why Tom was tracking him. I couldn’t ask outright. Not Tom. “You never said why you were looking for him, Tom. Not really.” Wrong tack: he could hold a silence as long as I could. The pain had started throbbing, a small hammer and anvil behind my left ear. Holding the steering wheel with my knee, I pulled the shade down. “Look. Can we meet again?”
Another chuckle. “Sure, Pru. Let’s say tonight? What’s that bar called—Happy’s?” Someone had been telling him about our little town. Telling him or showing him.
I didn’t care which. I just needed to get off the phone and off the road. “Sure, Tom. See you there.” I hung up. If he needed directions or wanted more of a date, he could call back. Then it hit me. He had called me, but I’d been the one who’d asked all the questions. All he had done was make that one comment about Llewellyn. He had wanted to find out what I knew. Whether I knew that Lew was dead. I didn’t get how Tom was involved, but I’d known him well enough at one point to understand what had just happened. He was on a case, official or not. And I was in his sites.
Chapter Twenty-two
My headache didn’t improve, despite a refill of high-octane truck-stop joe, so I’d chased it with a ninety-nine cent pack of aspirin, the tablets crumbled in the plastic packet. That didn’t help my mood, nor did the slow once over I got from the counter’s only customer—a grizzled cowboy type with hair a little too long for the times. A year ago, I’d have considered him. Endorphins can do wonders for pain relief. But I had responsibilities now. Which didn’t help my mood either.
I was on my way to get some answers, by stealth if I had to. Which was why I was dressed in more or less formal clothes—black jeans, a black shift under my parka—as I cruised down the road back toward the Franklin house. I’d already decided that I’d blame Creighton if the widow threw a nutty on me. He’d been the one to hand the cat over to me, and with Lew out of the picture, it seemed reasonable that I’d go straight to the source with any questions. I didn’t imagine the widow would want to speak with me. She’d made her dislike for me—as well for the white cat her husband appeared to have cherished—clear. Still, I needed info. I needed at least to find a way into the sleek feline’s fur-lined skull. Louse Franklin was my best bet.
I’m not a total fool. On the seat beside me was a crumb cake, courtesy of Beauville’s best bakery. There’d been nothing at the truck stop that would’ve passed muster. Between the cake and my attire, I intended to look like someone making a sympathy call. Cover can be useful when you’re on the prowl.
I didn’t see any cars parked in the long semi-circular drive as I pulled up to the big house. I rang the doorbell anyway. Behind the throbbing of my headache was the fear that the widow would have fled—gone to Boca to recover. Or Brazil. Still, when showing up unannounced, it makes sense to ring the bell before breaking in.
“Oh, good morning.” I’d expected the handsome young escort from the shelter to answer the door. A maid, a relative. Anyone but Louise Franklin herself, looking a lot softer than the harpy I’d met the day before. Dressed in wool pants and a silver-gray sweater that matched her eyes, the new widow appeared younger than I remembered. I swallowed the knot of guilt that rose up in my throat.
“I’m sorry to come by so early.” I started talking before she could close the door. Seeing her like this, my suspicions felt out of place. Even cruel. “I wanted to apologize for the way I must have sounded. And, well, to bring you something in your time of mourning.” I held out the crumb cake and she looked down at the white bakery box as if it were an alien. Or a cat. “I’m an early riser. Maybe I misjudged the time.”
It was a lie, but the smile I added must have made it fly. Louise Franklin looked up as if seeing me for the first time, and I was struck again by the unexpected lightness of her eyes. “I’m sorry. Please, come in. We were—I was having tea.”
She turned and I followed her down a hall. We passed a closed door, her husband’s study, and she gestured me into a sitting room, all done in pale green. “Please, have a seat.”
I took a few steps into the room, but stayed standing as she walked away. We, she had said. Had she given the butler the day off? Was there another guest—perhaps one who had stayed overnight? Or was she simply talking from force of habit?
“May I help with anything?” I called down the hall.
“No, no. Make yourself comfortable,” the voice came back. I did just that, turning over cards on the chinoiserie end table until I found what I wanted: a note from the funeral director. The services were scheduled for tomorrow: Saturday. Someone from the club had agreed to give the eulogy. I made note of the time and the place—graveside services at the Tynedale Memorial Park, of course—and managed to make it to the window as my hostess came back in with a pretty little cup on its saucer and a matching plate that held several slices of the cake.
“Do you take cream?” She didn’t seem to find it odd that I was admiring her view, and poured from a pot that must have been steeping a while. I shook my head, trying to rally my thoughts. A private graveside service. Well, I’d be there, somehow, if just to see who else showed up. But I was having misgivings. The woman who handed a plate to me seemed as refined and gentle as, well, a housecat. “People have been so kind.”
That did it. I needed to be about my business—or leave this woman in peace. “Mrs. Franklin, Louise?” She sipped at her tea, which looked to contain more milk than tea. “I assume you’ve heard about Llewellyn?”
A slight wince. Had Llewellyn been more than a friend? He did like the ladies. I couldn’t see a way to ask, so I stuck with my plan.
“Well, I was wondering because, you know, you had told me I should go through him in
regards to your cat.” What had she called the Persian? “In regards to Fluffy.”
She looked up. Blinked, her eyes growing larger and more liquid.
“Yes, I did. He was good at—” She bit her lip. I wondered what I would do if she started crying. “He had been a great help as I settle things.”
A cat wasn’t a thing, I wanted to tell her. I stopped myself. Took a breath. I needed information, and lecturing her wasn’t the way to get it.
“I know you said that you wanted to put the cat on the market. But I need to clear things up.” Her fingers grew white where they gripped the teacup. I was onto something. “First of all, the papers. They’re in your name.” I didn’t mention what Robin had said. “Not your husband’s.” Nothing. “You bought that cat.”
“Of course, did I say otherwise?” She put the teacup down. “That day—those first few days. Yes, the cat was a gift for my husband. He loved animals.”
“My wife wants me to try new things.” Donal’s voice echoed in my mind. I was missing something. “You don’t?”
A little sniff as she turned to refill her pot. “Would you expect me too? After…” By the time she lifted her cup again, she had regained her poise.
I needed to rattle it. “Robin Gensler seems to like the cat.”
“Robin Gensler—” she bit down on the name before it could bite back. “Robin is a very capable young woman who helped me with my affairs. That was all.”
I hadn’t said anything to the contrary. This was getting interesting. “Are you sure?”
It was risky. Crossing a line, and I waited for the explosion.
“Of course, I’m sure.” It didn’t come. “Robin Gensler is a young woman of exemplary character.”
“But you wouldn’t consider releasing the cat to her?” I didn’t know what was going on here. I didn’t get a chance to find out.
“No, definitely not.” The widow shook her head and reached for the teacup. “I want that cat sold. Haven’t I made that clear?
