by Clea Simon
“Chicken?” She jumped off the table and brushed against me, just enough so I knew I’d read her concern correctly. “Mmmm…” A rumble, half purr, half growl. “Bird.”
“As long as I don’t have to kill it.” I said to myself as much as her, rummaging around in my fridge.
Before long, we were feasting. I’d bought a rotisserie chicken in town the night before, and had only pulled one leg off for Wallis when Creighton had called inviting me to dinner. Now Wallis was making quick work of the other drumstick, one velvet paw holding the bone down while she sank her fangs into the cold flesh. I was gnawing on a thigh bone and, in truth, feeling better.
“Thanks, Wallis.” I paused to reach for my drink—water—and to wipe my face.
She looked up briefly but didn’t comment. She didn’t have to. We both knew that Wallis had saved my life some years before, although how she had done it was a mystery. I’d been living in the city then, indulging in all the vices the city could offer. I’d been studying for my degree, too, at least during daylight hours—qualifying to be an animal behaviorist. But the candle-at-both-ends thing hadn’t worked out for me. Instead, it came back at me, making me sicker than I’d ever been—some combo of flu and hangover and general exhaustion that had me in and out of consciousness.
Wallis had been my only companion in my sickness. Whatever man I’d started the first night with had either left or dropped me off before the fever hit. And it was Wallis whom I heard, going into what I found out later was the third day, telling me I had to get up. Had to drink something. Or else I might die.
That voice—solicitous, insistent—had done the trick. Only once I had gotten myself to the bathroom and drunk my fill straight from the tap had it hit me. My cat had talked sense to me. My cat. And I had understood her. What followed was an episode neither of us liked to remember. I’d gone straight to the nearest ER. The doctors’ IVs had rehydrated me and their antibiotics brought me back to life, but when I then checked myself in for observation, I pushed the line. I didn’t like being in a cage any more than any wild creature would, and when I came home to one very hungry cat, Wallis and I had words. I’d packed us up then, determined to get away from the city and from all its attendant craziness.
The voices never went away, though. And while I had come closer to accepting what had happened to my life, I knew better than to share it with anyone. I never wanted to go back to the psych ward again.
And so I try to listen to her now, as much because of that history as because of the tone she takes with me. Besides, dinner was a good idea. I like to think I’m tough, but finding that body had unsettled me. With some food in my stomach, I had a better chance of sleeping. By the time I finished cleaning up and dragged myself to bed, Wallis was already there, curled into a disc of fur on the bed. I didn’t expect any other company. With a case like this, Creighton would be working late. But despite choosing my most comfortable flannel against the early spring chill, I slept restlessly, tossing and turning to the point where Wallis jumped to the floor, leaving me to my visions of knives and bunnies going bad.
Chapter Five
They say the economy has recovered, but you wouldn’t know it from Beauville. The Massachusetts Miracle passed us by back in the ’80s, too, though my mother managed to hold onto her job at the state hospital through it all. In fact, Beauville hasn’t seen any real industry here since water power was upstaged by coal and gas.
These days, the best we get are the leavings of city folk, here for the foliage or the Hills, the ski area just outside of town. But as I’d pointed out to Creighton, even that’s not much, our mountains as old and tired as the rest of the state. Even Hardware, our one upscale joint, relies on the bar traffic and that one wide-screen TV, not to mention Spaghetti Sundays in the off-season.
The Hills was aptly named, with its gentle slopes and icy, damp snow. Our one advantage over Aspen or Gstaad is location. We’re close to New York and Boston, and the marketing folks play up the convenience, when the charm doesn’t sell. When I woke the next morning, the dull throb of a hangover playing behind my temples, I thought about location in terms of the man who had died yesterday and the ski bunny I’d seen him with. New Yorkers, most definitely. And despite what I’d said to Creighton, I understood. The dead man had acted like he had money, but it takes serious bucks to sneak off to Switzerland for a weekend. Coming up here, maybe he could convince his wife he was on a business trip.
I sat up with a start. The wife. I knew Creighton would be on it. His people had undoubtedly already been in contact. She’d probably take the little yapping dog back to Syosset with her. But I should check, after—I’d just seen the clock—I made my morning rounds.
The fresh air cleared my head, even as it cooled the coffee in my travel mug. Spring wasn’t here yet—not for real. But for the first time this year, I’d opened the window as I drove and let the brisk wind and the early morning calls of birds and beasts—“we’re back, let’s nest!” “my turf, mine!”—blow past. Wallis had not made an appearance before I left, but that didn’t worry me. She took it personally when I slept badly. I disturbed her rest, she’d tell me, but I thought it was more that any wakefulness on my part worried her—brought back too many echoes of the bad time. Either way, I’d make it up to her. In the meantime, we were both independent adults.
Luckily for me, most creatures aren’t. I’m not talking about the animals, per se, but their people. Although I’m trained as a behaviorist—almost have my degree, even—I make my living in a more prosaic manner, picking up the chores that most humans don’t want to do. In addition to those nuisance calls, like the one from yesterday, I walk dogs. I also clip nails and clean tanks. Work, as I’ve explained, is sparse in Beauville. Which is why I was gearing up for the harridan of the Berkshires.
“No, Mrs. Horlick.” I mentally rehearsed the scene to come. Tracy Horlick mainlined gossip like a junkie does horse, only her sources never ran dry. Before I’d be able to take her beleaguered bichon, Growler, out for his daily walk, I knew I’d have to answer the old lady’s questions. Accusations, more likely, since she considered me responsible for almost everything that happened in Beauville, particularly when I withheld information. “Sorry, Mrs. Horlick,” I muttered to the wind. “I don’t know anything.”
A crow, flying overhead, cawed in protest, and I laughed. He wasn’t haranguing me. He was caught in his own domestic troubles. But the bird and the hour made my first job seem even more grim than usual. Pressing on the accelerator, I decided to follow that crow—at least so far as a short detour.
The road was empty and clear. The black ice of the night before seemed to have melted, and although I didn’t give the accelerator quite as much pressure as I’d have liked, my mood improved considerably as I crested the hill on the edge of town and surveyed the highway before me. Off to the right lay the conservation land and, closer than that, the condos where Teddy Rhinecrest had died. To my left was the turn back to the older part of town and Tracy Horlick.
With a sigh, I decided on the left. Poor Growler deserved his break, too, and the sooner I ran the gauntlet of his person, the sooner he’d get it. But as I leaned in, letting my muscle car absorb the turn, a flash of color caught my eye. Red—bright, and too big for a cardinal. I didn’t dare turn around, not at this speed. But I made a mental note: a red sports car, I was pretty sure. Heading toward the development I had visited only the day before.
***
“Well, if it isn’t the angel of death.” Ten minutes later, I was standing on the stoop of a rundown Cape Cod, trying to contain my temper.
“Good morning, Mrs. Horlick.” I forced a smile, knowing that it would annoy the harpy before me.
“Is it?” She took another drag on her cigarette and leaned on her doorframe. Behind her, I could hear Growler, frustrated, scratching. She’d locked him in the basement again. “Not for Mrs. Teddy Rhinecrest, I imagine.”
&n
bsp; “I wouldn’t know.” I made a point of staring over her shoulder. “Is that Growl—Bitsy I hear?” I could have kicked myself. Although I preferred to use the tough little dog’s chosen name, I was doing neither of us any favors by forgetting the cutesy tag Tracy Horlick had given him.
“He wasn’t growling.” She misheard me, for which I was grateful, even as her painted lips cracked and twisted into a pout. “My dog is well trained.”
“Of course.” I worked to keep my tone even. Anything else might reflect back on the poor beast. “But I bet he wants to go out.”
She turned into her house to free her small captive, and I heard the scrabble of claws as he dashed for the door.
“Hey, Bitsy.” I snapped his lead on, all the while trying to make eye contact.
“Don’t engage.” His soft whine forms words in my mind. “Never engage, walker lady. Don’t start a fight you can’t win.”
“Yes, yes.” I patted his fuzzy head and smiled up at his person. “Okay, back soon!”
“For dog’s sake.” Growler was still muttering as we rounded the corner. He watered a tree that has recently lost its mantle of snow and sniffed at a fence post, where crocus shoots were beginning to poke through. “Doesn’t anyone think these things through anymore?”
He might have been commenting on my behavior. By engaging, I delayed his brief daily freedom. Then again, he might simply be taking in the neighborhood news. That fence post was a favorite spot. Either way, I didn’t respond. Growler gets little enough respect at home. I try to make up for that as I can, giving him his privacy unless and until he invites me in.
“Crazy bitch.” I bit my tongue as he shook, his tags rattling in emphasis. Growler used the term in the technical sense. Still the little dog has reason to dislike females, especially of my species. “Doesn’t have the sense of a…”
A particularly ripe spot stopped him, sparking a sense memory so strong even I got a whiff of it through his doggie thoughts. Several animals had relieved themselves here, through the autumn and early winter. The heavy snow had preserved the pile, which was only now growing fragrant and soft in the melt.
“Always something, if you look.” That was another of those stray thoughts that came my way. This time, I was pretty sure he was referring to the brown pile. “Always something to hide.” His black button eyes looked up at me. “Would you know where to hide, to protect your own, if you had to?”
I had no answer to that one. We kept on walking.
***
“I hear you met the girlfriend.” Tracy Horlick has clearly been working the phones during our walk. I ran through who else was at Hardware two nights ago, wondering who talked—and what they said. “I hear she was stepping out on him.”
I bent to unhook Growler’s lead and to compose my face before responding. As I did, he looked up at me in mute sympathy.
“Thanks, little guy.” I lay my hand gently on his fluffy head. His tail wagged twice, then stopped. We both knew we couldn’t avoid his person forever. But as I stood, trying to formulate a response, she started talking again.
“There was some big guy—looked like a surfer—asking around about her, you know.” Her stare, through the smoke, made me think of a snake or, perhaps, a dragon. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they never find her body.”
I sighed. I couldn’t help it. She took that as encouragement. “You do know he was mobbed up, right?”
“Mr. Rhinecrest?” She’d startled that out of me. “I thought he was here on vacation.”
She smirked at my non sequitur, smoke spurting from her nostrils. “Like anyone comes here for vacation.”
This was too close to my own thoughts for me to argue. Besides, I’d learned my lesson. With as bland a voice as I could manage, I made my escape.
“See you tomorrow, Bitsy.” I called as I backed away. “You too, Mrs. Horlick.” It was easier to be nice, knowing I was leaving, and I needed to get away fast. I wouldn’t ordinarily give any credence to old lady Horlick’s gossip, but what she had said made me think again about that flash of red I’d seen on the road—and of a particular gentleman who drove a sportster the color of blood.
Chapter Six
I didn’t have time to dwell on that car just then. My next client was a new one, and I wanted to make a good impression. I’m not that worried about the human part of the equation. I’m clean and presentable—at least by Beauville standards—and I show up when I’m supposed to. But for the animals I commune with, I’ve got a whole other set of requirements.
For starters, I needed to wash—and thoroughly—and so I swung toward home, where I could change my shirt for good measure. But although I watched the road for anything unusual—the first robin, for example, or any other interesting plumage—the melting snow only gave way to shades of gray and brown.
“Prey animal, is it?” Wallis sauntered into the bathroom as I gave myself a quick towel bath over the sink. The way her whiskers were pitched forward, I knew she was taking in whatever odors I’d carried in. “Must be something timid to be afraid of that little braggart.”
“Growler’s not a—” I caught myself. For all I knew, his scent was telling my cat things I couldn’t even imagine. “He’s in a difficult situation,” I said instead.
Huh.” With a little chuff, half grunt, half snort, she walked off. I don’t think Wallis is anti-dog, entirely. More likely, she didn’t respect an animal who couldn’t control the people in his life. Not that she had complete control over me…
“I could’ve left, you know.” The thought reached me from the hallway. “I still could.”
Cats. Autonomy matters to them. Maybe that’s why we get along so well.
I didn’t bother to seek her out before I headed off again. It’s usually wise to let her have the last word. Besides, I didn’t want to be late. New clients aren’t that common, and yesterday’s job hadn’t panned out as I’d hoped.
The new gig sounded curious, to say the least. But I found myself thinking about Teddy Rhinecrest as I drove. Not the way I’d seen him last—though that image was hard to banish—but the man I’d encountered at the restaurant the night before. Even if I hadn’t lived in the city, I’d have known the type. Dissatisfied, despite his money. Desperate to buy youth and beauty, but determined to bully it once he had it in his life. He was the kind who would keep a pretty thing locked away, just because he could.
A shadow crossed the street, interrupting my thoughts. A mourning dove, flying low. I recognized the shape and the flutter, and I knew that if I looked up, I’d see a hawk—a redtail, probably—cruising the sky above. Down here, the smaller animals cowered. I thought of the redhead as the round dove made it under the trees. What was her name again? Cheryl?
But Teddy Rhinecrest was no hawk. Mobbed up, Tracy Horlick had said. And while it was tempting to dismiss anything that shrew spouted in her vitriol, I couldn’t stop thinking about the flash of color I’d seen on the road. Teddy Rhinecrest seemed like the very opposite of a gangster. He’d seemed powerless—impotent—with an edge of desperation that made him mean. But old Horlick’s thoughtless comment and that glimpse of red made me think. I knew a man who drove a Maserati that color. An older gent with impeccable manners, who I had reason to believe was more deadly than any raptor and who had eyes just as cold.
I did my best to banish any thoughts of hawks or their ilk as I turned into one of the older subdivisions of Beauville. Built after the town’s heyday, the tract houses here didn’t have the grandeur of my mother’s Victorian—a drafty old pile that cost as much to heat as I could afford—but they were neat and well cared for. And if the cookie cutter Cape Cods were less showy than the condo development I’d been at just the day before, they were sturdier—built before the boom, and before the economy had gone totally bankrupt.
I had a good feeling as I pulled up in front of Marnie Lundquist’s, with its well-groomed shr
ubs and neatly shoveled walk, and, despite my earlier funk, found myself smiling quite naturally as I lifted the shiny brass knocker on the front door.
“Good morning.” The woman who answered my knock fit the tremulous voice I’d heard on my answering machine. Seventy, if she was a day, five-two tops, and small-boned with white hair tied back in a neat bun and eyes made larger by her oversized glasses. “You must be Pru.”
“You called about a rabbit?” As I entered, my eyes scanned the floor. House rabbits weren’t common out here, but back in my old life I knew at least one who had the run of a Lower East Side apartment and the punk name of Scar.
“Yes, yes.” The tiny old lady looked around her, following my gaze, and as her white bun bobbed I felt my grin widening. Here was living proof that we either choose the pets that reflect best who we are or we come to resemble each other over time. “Now, where is he?”
I got down on my knees. Although I wanted to make a good impression on the client, it was more important to bond with the bunny. I’d done what I could to avoid carrying any scent of a predator. Now if I could just make myself appear harmless to what I was guessing would be an overweight white…
“That’s not a house rabbit.” I sat up with a start.
“Henry!” The old woman clasped her hands together, the noise startling the creature before me, who turned up toward her, nose twitching. “There you are!”
“But—” I paused, unsure how to proceed. I was looking at an Eastern cottontail, its dappled brown coat smooth over a compact, well-muscled body. “That’s not a domestic animal, Mrs. Lundquist.” There, it was out. “That’s a wild rabbit, and legally…”
I sighed and shook my head. Somebody had sold the old lady an illegal pet. And while I knew the state fish and wildlife had other concerns than one contraband bunny, I also knew that wild animals make notoriously bad pets. Rabbits, in particular, since the heightened sensitivities that help them to survive in the wild make them extremely vulnerable to stress and disease.
