by Clea Simon
I was headed straight for the shower. If I was going to do this, there was no point in stalling. She wasn’t there when I got out, and it did give me pause. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to solicit human help. Maybe I was supposed to go back to the Franklins myself—or the shelter. If the Persian had been found, today might be her last.
Great. Mondays were busy even in normal weeks, and I had to walk Growler before doing anything else. Lucy, too. Maybe I should take a lesson from Lucy and be more willing to play on my feminine wiles. Maybe the little dog would have some advice, I thought as loudly as I could. Wallis, if she heard me, declined to respond. Between the cat and Creighton, I was being squeezed. Either that, or I was developing scruples, which at this point in life, would be a real bitch.
Chapter Forty-four
“I don’t know what’s gotten into him.” Tracy Horlick paused to inhale, then breathed out a cloud of pale smoke. “Bitsy was such a good little dog, before you came along.”
I was standing on her front step. Since she was in the doorway, one step up, the smoke hit me right in my face. I forced myself not to blink as I tried to figure out what was going on.
“Before I came along?” It wasn’t the best line, but it beat blurting out “what the hell?”
“Before.” She stopped to pick a stray tobacco leaf from her lip. “Such a sweet little thing.”
I waited. The Bitsy I knew—aka Growler—was a macho little fellow, despite his size. I found it hard to imagine he’d ever been anything but.
“If you’ve noticed any changes in his behavior, the first step would be to get a full veterinary work up.” The spiel I was giving her was standard. It was also designed to dissuade her. I doubted she’d spend money on a vet if Growler were foaming at the mouth. “Often such changes are signs of an underlying illness.”
Growler had not appeared ill to me in any way, nor had he complained of any aches or pains. Nothing except his mistress, Tracy Horlick.
“He’s not sick.” She squinted through the smoke. “I’m just wondering if you’re a bad influence on him.”
“What’s he doing?” I didn’t want to get into it with her. I really didn’t. Still, this was part of the gig.
“He’s been irritable all morning.” She started—and I started to tune her out. Then her next words got me. “He was jumping around, almost like he was dancing.”
I could have burst out laughing. “Was he wagging his tail?”
“Yeah, he was.” She squinted, looking suspicious.
“He’s a happy dog, Mrs. Horlick. That’s all.” Her eyes were still screwed up—and focused on me. It went against the grain, but I owed the bichon. “He was letting you know he loves you.”
“Huh.” She took a drag. “Seemed like some sicko thing, you ask me.”
I was right at my boiling point. If I didn’t need the money, I’d have walked a while ago. As it was, I locked my jaw. Responding wasn’t going to help. And I was rewarded by a short, sharp bark, the sound of scratching, and a series of dull thuds. Tracy Horlick had locked the bichon in the basement again, and Growler was doing his best to call for help.
“I think someone wants his walkies.” I forced a smile and silently prayed that the little dog would forgive me. “Bitsy? Are you there?”
Unable to score any more points—or unwilling to have her dog foul her basement—Tracy Horlick turned with a heavy sigh. Three seconds later, the little white fluffball came barreling out. I managed to snap on his lead while barely breaking his stride. “Back soon!” I called over my shoulder.
“Women.” Growler’s thoughts packed venom. I didn’t contradict him, and instead let him vent on the duplicitous nature of the so-called fair sex all the way to the corner. I couldn’t say I didn’t understand. “Duplicitous, conniving…women!”
“She lock you up all night?” I had questions of my own, but the white dog deserved a chance to vent. Besides, I was curious.
“What?” His button eyes looked up at me. “You mean old smoke teeth?”
I had to smile. “Yeah, old smoke teeth.”
“Nothing new there.” We had reached a particularly popular stump, and I waited while Growler made his olfactory reckoning of the day’s other visitors. “Pack behavior…when they get together.”
“Growler?” This worried me. He might have been talking about old Horlick’s bridge club: that would fit with his being locked downstairs. But if dogs—or any other animals—were joining up, it could mean trouble for smaller creatures like my charge. “What’s going on?”
“You tell me.” He didn’t even bother to look up. “Huh, Duke’s kidneys are acting up again. Okay, walker lady, next stop.” I had no choice but to follow.
Two blocks on, and I’d still not come up with a response. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to. Growler might not like women much. Considering the person he was stuck living with, who could blame him? It was more that I was becoming concerned about my own behavior. Tracy Horlick was full of crap. Growler was as healthy as a horse, and, despite the alpha male inside the fluffy white package, as cute as button. Still, I couldn’t entirely discredit what she had said. From what I could tell, I was the first human to address the little dog by what he considered his true name. I knew about his sexuality and let him indulge his interest in the intact male dogs of Beauville, or, at least, in their scents. Once you see someone as an individual, it is just too difficult to tuck that knowledge away, and it was quite possible that my behavior had changed his. Maybe, in some way, I was encouraging the bichon’s butch behavior. Maybe my acceptance had freed him to act out.
“Forget about it.” The little dog was trotting ahead of me, and I nearly stopped short in my astonishment. “You’re not that important.”
“Sorry, Growler.” I had to smile. “I just didn’t want to get you into any more trouble. And I didn’t realize you could hear my thoughts so clearly.”
“Women.” If a dog could mutter, Growler did, accompanying himself with a guttural sound deep in his throat. “What do you expect, anyway?”
I was quiet for the rest of the walk, and the bichon focused on the neighborhood news, as delivered by scent. We both felt more relaxed by the time I followed him up Tracy Horlick’s concrete walk. I was even ready to smile.
“Here you go, Mrs. Horlick.” I stood well back from her cigarette this time, and reached to hand her the lead from the bottom step. She raised one eyebrow, but didn’t deign to remove the cigarette from her mouth. I only made my smile wider. “I think we all just needed to let off a little steam.”
Growler wagged his tiny tail, turned back to me and barked once. “Tell Lucy, thanks.” Another short bark. “For nothing.” Then, with a look back up to me that said more about caution and perseverance than any words could, he ascended the stairs and gamely went inside.
“Poor dog,” I said to no one in particular as I walked back to my car.
“Poor dog?” A squirrel had begun chittering in the tree by the curb. “Poor dog? Why do you say ‘poor dog’?”
“You wouldn’t understand.” I unlocked my door. “He’s trapped in that house. Hell, he’s trapped in that little body, and everyone looks at him like he’s some kind of a toy or something.”
“Poor dog, she says.” I heard the branches rattle, a few remaining leaves scrape each other as the gray creature climbed. “He’s running himself ragged, trying to communicate with you, and you say, ‘poor dog.’”
“What?” I stood back up. This wasn’t the kind of interspecies communication I was used to. Disrespect from my tabby, I got. From a squirrel? I shook my head to clear it, and realized that I’d missed the point. “What do you mean, ‘running himself ragged’?”
More chittering. I got an impression of Growler at the street corner, picking up the scent of his compadres. Maybe there was no point. There certainly was no “running” going on in the image the squirrel was replaying for me.
“Silly, silly. Running…working.” The branches above my head shook, and one of l
ast year’s leaves, brown and folded, came drifting down. I looked up and thought I could make out intense black eyes and a twitching nose. “So silly.”
“Speak for yourself.” It was rude, I knew it. But I’d lived with Wallis too long to take a rodent seriously. Besides, this little creature wasn’t making sense.
“Cat here?”
“Sorry.” I tried to blank my mind. “It’s just me. But, hey, aren’t squirrels afraid of dogs, too?”
“There’s a lot out there to fear.” The answer came back soft, but still clear. “But I can tell what’s going on, as long as I stay up here…” And that was it.
***
“Sorry, Lucy. Your routine doesn’t work for everyone.” I’d left the Genslers only a few minutes before. Eve Gensler had been almost reluctant to let me take the poodle. She’d been brushing the short, curly coat while Lucy had stared at her with what I assumed was supposed to be love. “At least, not for Growler.”
The tawny toy turned those big eyes on me. “What is ‘routine’?”
“Don’t play act with me.” I was a little riled. My wrist was hurting. My head throbbed. “Your ‘girly’ act.”
“Huh.” That little chuff was accompanied by a few of what I thought of as her dance steps. “Well, what do you expect?”
“What I expect?” It was my sinuses. It had to be.
“We must always act appropriately.” She trotted up ahead of me, the better to cast a longing look over her shoulder. “Appropriate to who we are.”
“To who we are,” I repeated. “And you are Emily Post?”
“I am Lucy the poodle. The loved and pampered poodle.” Another backward glance. A tentative wag of the short tail. “River?”
Chapter Forty-five
Wallis. She could help. If I could only be sure that she would, I would have driven straight home to ask her. After a quick walk along the river, I’d been more confused than ever. Frankly, Lucy was getting under my skin. I’m not girly. It had never stood in my way before. Hell, from what I could see, Louise Franklin was a tough broad herself, and she hadn’t done too badly. At least, until a week ago.
I was wasting time and energy. What I should be doing was trying to figure out who had taken the cat. And why the Persian hadn’t said anything. But what were my clues—the words of a rabbit? A squirrel? There would be no living with Wallis if I brought them up.
Wallis, however, wasn’t my only ally. Frank wasn’t a rodent, no matter what Wallis might say, and our recent communication issues had been disheartening. But he might be able to interpret some of the signals I’d been getting from the smaller animals in the community. At least, he might be willing to try.
I was in luck. It was nearly ten by the time I pulled into the lot, but Albert was just getting out of his pickup. And unless he was undertaking some new form of grooming, he was talking to something burrowed into his down parka. Squelching the thought of fleas, I concentrated on the latter and bounded out of my car with a jaunty spirit that I hoped would mislead the bearded officer.
“Hey, Albert! What’s shaking?” I tried for guileless, focusing on the grin.
It didn’t work. He stopped short, panic in his staring eyes. But a movement inside his parka, right behind the duct-taped spot, let me know someone had heard, and in a moment a small brown and white head had poked out, its pink nose twitching as Frank took the measure of the air.
“And you brought Frank, too.”
“Yeah, he gets, I don’t know, nervy sometimes. Like I have to take him.”
I pondered that as the masked ferret climbed up on Albert’s shoulder, and as the human fussed with the lock, I made eye contact with his diminutive colleague. Frank was trying to tell me something, I could sense that. Whether he was waiting for privacy, or our lines of communication had broken once again, I would just have to wait and see.
“So, what’s up, Pru? I hear you’ve been having some problems over at County.” Once Albert had let us both in, he’d left me for the small shelter office. I could hear him rummaging in the mini-fridge, a bear waking from hibernation.
“Nothing major,” I called over. This was as good a time to peruse the papers on his desk as any. “Why, what did you hear?”
“Something about a cat.”
I listened with half an ear. Pushed a report on raccoon relocation out of the way. Another, on a possible Eastern gray wolf sighting, gave me pause. Somehow, I’d have to find a way to talk to Wallis. “Oh?”
“Yeah, some cat was giving you trouble or something.” Albert raised his voice to compete with the faucet. “That Persian?”
The clank of a spoon and a muttered curse. Albert was making instant coffee with hot tap water again. Too hot. I dropped the wolf alert back on the pile, ready to step back. It slid to the floor, and I reached for it—just in time to see Albert walking back.
“Looking for something?” He sounded curious, rather than miffed.
“Not really.” I shrugged and watched as he put his mug down. Undissolved grains floated on top, circling like little ants. Frank had emerged from his coat by then, but even his usual curiosity didn’t extend to Albert’s drink. “Dolly’s was closed?”
“They raised their prices.” He sipped and jerked back, spilling the coffee on his desktop. Frank squealed and dived into an open drawer. “Damn.”
“Here, let me.” I started grabbing up papers. That’s when I saw it: Sheriff’s Department, Town of Beauville. “What’s this?”
“That’s official.” He reached for it. “Came in yesterday.”
“You were here?” I’d thought the shelter was locked up tight.
“As a town official, I’m always on call.”
I nodded. He’d dropped by for something—probably the beer he kept in the fridge—and Creighton had cornered him. “Well, if I can help in any way.”
“Maybe.” He sipped again, more carefully. “Maybe not.”
I leaned over the desk. Albert intimidated easily. “Albert?”
“Look, Pru. I’ll get in trouble. Okay? Why don’t you talk to your boyfriend?”
“Frank?” I was stalling, but as if on cue, the little creature stuck his head out. His rounded ears were straight up and his whiskered nose quivering. There was something going on and I tried to clear my mind. I would have given anything for ten minutes alone with him.
“Ha, ha.” Albert made a point of neatening the papers. Frank took a few steps toward me. I reached out my hand—to him, but Albert responded, jerking the papers back. “Pru, I can’t!”
“I wasn’t talking to you.” I focused in on the small brown creature, ignoring the puzzled look on Albert’s face. I tried to keep my mind blank, to ignore the fat man behind the desk. “I just wanted to greet this little fellow.”
Frank stood on his hind legs, stretching his slim body up toward me. I reached forward, slowly, and let him sniff my fingers. I thought of all the animals I had spoken with recently. Taddeus the rabbit. That squirrel. Even the white Persian.
“Shiny.” Like a spark, the word flit through my mind. “Sparkly.” Frank liked pretty things. Had a tendency to steal them, truth be told, and I pulled back, automatically. I don’t wear jewelry. It’s not my style, but I reached for my keys, the change in my pocket, before I realized what I was doing.
“Sorry,” I whispered. It was too little too late.
“Gone.” That was it. All I felt was the ticklish touch of whiskers. Watching me, Albert shook his head. “You’re getting as crazy as they say.” At least his voice had some sadness in it. “Maybe you did do it.”
“What?” It had all started with the Persian. She had blocked me out, and now I couldn’t hear any animal. Frank was still staring, but all I could see was that flat, white face.
“Stole the cat, Pru. That’s what the report is about.”
Chapter Forty-six
Stole the cat? There was only one animal Albert could be talking about. The report, which he had reshuffled into the coffee-stained pile, had to refer to t
he white Persian. My head reeled as I tried to piece together what could have happened.
Doc Sharpe. He was the obvious leak. A valuable, if not exactly valued, animal goes missing from the county facility where he is in charge, and he must have alerted the authorities, if for no other reason than to save his own butt. But, no. Doc Sharpe had said he’d give me time. And for all his flaws, the good vet was a straight shooter. That, like his circumspect way of talking, was an essential part of his Yankee nature.
Pammy? She worked at the shelter, too, and I knew nothing of her code of ethics, including whether she had one. She was responsible for leaving the back door unlocked, but that just might make her more eager to place blame. No, I couldn’t see her going to the trouble. Not on a Saturday night.
Louise Franklin fit Pammy’s description of the woman who had gone back to the cage room, but I dismissed her out of hand. For starters, she had every right to take the cat. I’d been hoping she would from the get go. She was the only one who placed any value on the silky white beast.
The only one besides Robin Gensler. Robin had wanted that cat. Robin had heard that she was going to be euthanized. No, the timing was all wrong. The cat had disappeared before Robin had heard the news—and besides, I had seen her. She was the only logical possibility, she’d gotten to the shelter before me, and yet—
“Pru. Glad I caught you.” Creighton was coming toward me, his face grim.
“I didn’t do it.” Behind me, I heard a muffled grunt from Albert. It might have been a laugh. I turned and he ducked down, suddenly finding something in his lower desk drawer very interesting. Frank, however, stood staring at me, his eyes dark and unblinking.
“I didn’t mean…” Behind me, Creighton cleared his throat. “Pru, can we talk?”
I looked at the ferret. The ferret looked at me. Albert, of course, stayed down. I had thought of trying to recruit Creighton to find the Persian—or to search Louise Franklin’s house, but I hadn’t come up with a strategy or an explanation. And now I had no choice, and no adviser I could trust, either two- or four-footed. But as I reached for my coat, I thought, just for a moment, that Frank shook his head. It was a very human gesture, and so slight as to be imaginary. It could have been excitement—that little hopping dance ferrets do when aroused. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder: “No,” he seemed to be telling me. “No.”
