When Bunnies Go Bad

by Clea Simon

  “Where did you get this rabbit, Mrs. Lundquist?” While the sensitive ears—black at their tips—turned every which way, taking everything in, the little creature’s liquid eyes stared at me. I resisted staring back—some animals consider a direct gaze threatening—and instead tried to blank my mind, opening it to whatever the animal had to communicate.

  What I got was vague: “Who?” was the best I could put it. “Are you family?” the rabbit seemed to be asking me. “Are you safe?” The overall tone was appraising, rather than afraid, despite a vulnerability that was enhanced by the long, delicate lines of the fuzzy face. Almost like a fawn. Or no, I corrected myself, like a doe I had come across once, face-to-face in the forest. “Who?”

  “Henry, please.” For a moment, I was startled, stuck in my memory. Then I realized, she was talking about the bunny. “He’s my granddaughter’s, and, yes, I do understand that he is not supposed to be a pet. Only, she found him, injured, in the yard last autumn. The college groundskeepers had just been through and—well, I gather the rest of his little family did not survive. She took him in and has cared for him since. Only now she’s traveling, and I said I would baby—I mean, rabbit-sit him. And, well, I’m beginning to think he’s more than I can handle.”

  “And you want me to take him off your hands?” I was already running through my list of wildlife rehabilitators. It’s a short one, especially out here. And if this rabbit had been living in captivity for that long, his odds of making it back in the wild weren’t good. “Perhaps a rescue organization?”

  “What? Oh, no. Not at all.” She turned toward me, her eyes exaggerated by those glasses, and the resemblance between the two hit me again. “Cara would hate it if anything happened to Henry. Only, you see, I had been keeping him in his crate, until Cara called and told me that was cruel. And so I’ve been letting him have free rein of the house, but I fear I need a bit of help to make sure everything is safe.”

  With a sigh of resignation, I sat back and listened to the old lady speak. Her granddaughter, she explained, was a vet tech and had done some wildlife rehab. Probably not licensed—I decided not to ask—but certainly experienced. She had hand-raised this particular orphan, just as she had brought up squirrels and birds before. Her parents had supported her passion and indulged her before their death, and Cara was going to veterinary school in the fall. First, however, she was taking a year to trek around Asia, leaving Henry in the care of her widowed grandmother.

  “She’ll probably come back with an orphaned yak,” I said, when the old lady was done.

  “Yes, I wouldn’t be surprised,” she replied, with a warm smile. “So, you can see why I want Henry to be happy and healthy during his stay with me here in Beauville. And why I need your help.”

  I did, and once I abandoned my scruples about him being a wild rabbit, my work was fairly straightforward. Despite her advanced years—“eighty-four this summer, my dear”—and apparent frailty, the old lady was fairly spry. While I did the kneeling and bending, she pointed out all the wires and other chewable hazards the little leporid was likely to find. As far as I could tell, they had already been rabbit-proofed, either encased in the kind of tubing that even those determined nibblers couldn’t get through or raised high enough to be out of reach.

  “Yes,” she agreed, when I pointed this out. “I may take a while to get back up again, but I do like to think I can still function.”

  Before I could ask, she showed me both the litterbox—little Henry was well trained—and the bin of fresh grasses she kept to vary his diet from the store-bought pellets too many rabbit owners rely on and to keep him fit and trim.

  As we went through the house, I was constantly aware of the little fellow. Although he kept his distance, he hopped along after us, and his large dark eyes were always on me. And although I reached out in my way—both with a handful of timothy grass and with the open, questioning mindset that sometimes persuaded even wild animals to respond—I got only that vague sense of concerned questioning in response. Henry wasn’t afraid of me, per se. He’d been a pet too long to retain his utter terror of people, confirming my suspicion that the rabbit could not return to the wild. Plus, the way he purred—there’s no other word—as the white-haired old lady gently stroked him showed bonding of the highest order. But even if the little creature had lost his natural prey reaction to the deadliest species on the planet, he didn’t trust me.

  I didn’t take it personally. I was a stranger, and I probably carried some residual cat on me—if not on my hands and clothes then in the mental images that came up as I admired his smooth brown fur and the curious tilt of his whiskers as he sniffed where I had sat.

  “Henry’s making up his mind about you.” Marnie Lundquist’s soft voice made those long ears twitch back.

  “He seems quite calm.” I looked up from the floor. The phone jack had also been well protected.

  “We are quite peaceful here,” she said with a smile.

  “So I see.” I smiled back, but I was no longer entirely easy. In fact, I was beginning to wonder why she had even called me here. I’m not in the habit of turning away paying customers, but I was also not going to rip off an old lady.

  “It seems like you have everything under control.” I sat back on my own haunches. Henry was eyeing me from Marnie Lundquist’s side.

  “He’s such an inquisitive little fellow.” She caught me watching him and turned toward the bunny, as if seeking his approval. When her white bun bobbed, I assumed she had received it. “I find him a pleasure to have around. Only…”

  She paused and I waited, realizing what was happening. The old lady was as timid as the bunny. She had been watching me much as he had. Waiting, before she would reveal the truth about why she had called.

  “Yes?” I used the soft voice that usually calms the most fearful client, dipping my head slightly in a manner Growler would recognize.

  “It’s nothing.” A sigh barely strong enough to stir a leaf. “I’m an old worrywart is all. Henry means so much to my granddaughter—” She paused. This was it. “I’m just so glad you think everything is all right here.”

  “I do,” I said. “But if you have any questions, any concerns at all…”

  “No, you’ve been wonderful,” she said with an emphasis I hadn’t heard before. “And Henry is clearly taken with you, too. Now, may I pay you with a personal check?”

  “Of course.” I got to my feet, my curiosity unabated. I considered various options as Marnie Lundquist fished a checkbook from her bag and carefully filled one out, but I could find no excuse that didn’t sound pushy. Pet people were like their pets, and whatever the underlying issue, I wanted her to feel comfortable calling again. Because one thing I was sure of. Even as I slid the check in my jeans pocket and took her proffered hand, I knew. The rabbit lady was hiding something.

  ***

  I was still musing this one over as I drove off, startling a squirrel who cursed me soundly in the chittering manner of his kind. I hadn’t noticed any behavioral problems with the little creature. The house appeared clean, and the litterbox was being used. And either the old lady or her granddaughter had done a better-than-average job of making the small house safe for both the little leporid and his white-haired keeper. I have scruples about wild animals kept as pets, but it was too late to act on them at this point.

  No, what was bothering me was something different. It wasn’t only the old lady, either. That bunny didn’t trust me. I could have understood if he simply hadn’t introduced himself to me. Most pets have names for themselves that differ from the ones we humans give them—names like Growler that more accurately reflect their rich inner lives than any cutesy handle—but naming is a human affectation. Often, I’ve found, wild animals do without.

  There was something going on here beyond the small creature’s silence, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being weighed and considered. Still, he
seemed quite comfortable with his human companion. And she with him, I saw, as I took an easy turn. Whether or not she would have chosen this particular beast for a pet, the way she had stroked him—a gentle hand moving in the direction of his fur—and the soft purring grunts he gave in response, displayed a comfortable affection that revealed more than anything either of them could say.

  And yet, there was something. People don’t hire a professional without a reason, and I spent much of the afternoon running through the possibilities—each getting more and more farfetched. When my cell rang, I discarded the latest—that the old lady had a secret yearning for a cat, only she knew how the presence of a predator would unsettle Henry—from my thoughts and answered.

  “Hey, beautiful. Miss me?” It was Creighton, in a good mood. I let myself smile, knowing he—like any attentive animal—would hear my pleasure in my voice.

  “I figured you’d be working late.” It was the truth.

  “That’s not what I asked,” he teased.

  “Well, then, yes.” I’ve tended to keep Creighton at a distance. Only that distance had been growing shorter. “Is that what you called to hear?”

  “Maybe.” The uncertainty made his voice interesting, and my ears pricked up. “Maybe that’s why—or maybe I just know you, Pru. And I knew you’d want to know,” he said. “We located the deceased’s friend, one Miss Cheryl Ginger.”

  “Cheryl Ginger?” The name was too good to be true.

  “That’s how she identified herself, and she had a New York driver’s license to back it up. It’s legal to change your name, Pru.” This was in response to the half-snort, half-laugh that I didn’t try very hard to suppress. “Women do it every day, as a matter of course.”

  “And you found her where?” I knew what Creighton was leading up to with that name nonsense. I’ve been letting him get closer to me. That did not mean I was the marrying kind.

  “At the ski lodge, chatting with the staff.” He took my cue, returning to the matter at hand, his tone growing businesslike if not exactly cool. “Turns out, she was skiing all day yesterday. She was positively identified by the Hills lift operator and members of the ski patrol as being there from the opening bell.”

  “They have a bell?” I kind of missed the playful Jim.

  “You know what I mean.” He, I gathered, did not. “At any rate, I knew you’d had a bad shock, finding his body like that, and also that you’d wondered about the girl, so I thought I’d let you know.”

  “Thanks, Jim.” I meant it. “I appreciate you telling me this.”

  “Not a problem.” The humor was back in his voice. “Not protocol, exactly, but for you…”

  “Does this mean I might see you tonight?” I let him hear the warmth in mine.

  “Possibly,” he said, and I waited. There was something else going on here. “But it will be late. I have some business first.”

  “That business wouldn’t be a redhead with a stripper’s name, would it?”

  I expected a laugh. I didn’t get it. “I’ll try not to be too late,” was all he said.

  “Okay, then.” I started to hang up, before I realizing I had a question. “Hey, Jim, What’s the deal with the dog? Is this Cheryl going to be able to take care of it?”

  I didn’t want to ask if she was in custody or being questioned. I would respect Creighton’s boundaries. The animal I had heard barking, however, was another matter.

  The answer, which came after a moment’s pause, was not what I expected.

  “Dog?” asked Creighton. “What dog?”

  Chapter Seven

  I didn’t have time for this. I really didn’t. Never mind that my day was a little too light on appointments to make me happy, I never have time for the kind of careless nonsense that Creighton was displaying.

  “What do you mean?” My first reaction had been disbelief. Followed shortly after by anger. “Couldn’t you and your crack team hear barking and deduce that maybe there’s a dog on the premises?”

  “Pru, come on.” He was going to say “that’s not fair” or something of that ilk. But I was no longer in a mood to be accommodating.

  “Look, either one of you let the poor creature out and left him out.” I couldn’t believe I had to spell this out to someone who claimed to know me. “Or you’ve locked him in, alone with nothing to eat or drink.” With a sigh that I intended to be fully audible, I slowed enough for a U-turn. “I’m on my way to that condo now. And there had better be someone to let me in.”

  Maybe it was the rabbit. After all, the March weather—while cold—wouldn’t necessarily be fatal for a small dog, left out overnight. It was more the hungry habitants of our local woods I worried about. Not only that hawk, whose presence had made the mourning dove fly so low, but all the terrestrial creatures from fishers to coyotes who would be out and about, looking for food in a landscape still largely covered by snow—some already with hungry kits back in the nest or on the way.

  Wallis would have asked me why I cared. She’s always quick to point out that she and I both dine regularly on the flesh of other living creatures, and that my hypocrisy runs as deep as any in my species. I’m not sure I could have explained it. Maybe it was that I had heard that agonized bark and not followed up on it. Maybe I was simply looking for an excuse to fight with Creighton—or to meet up with him in the middle of the day—and the poor canine was nothing but a prop. Wallis would certainly have a field day with that theory, but out here on the road, I had to admit it wasn’t the least likely option.

  Not that it mattered. As I pulled up to Teddy Rhinecrest’s condo, I saw that my guy had taken matters into his own hands. His unmarked was nowhere to be seen, but Ronnie’s truck was there, its owner slouched in the front seat, looking like he’d gotten an earful already.

  “Hey, Pru.” He slid out and walked over. “I got the call to let you in.”

  “Thanks.” It wasn’t Ronnie’s fault if I’d missed something—or if Creighton had. “Everything okay?”

  He shrugged as he sorted through his ring of keys. “I guess. It’s just, I was kind of planning on taking today off.”

  I nodded. “The cops kept you late yesterday?”

  “Yeah.” He led me over to number six. “Wanted to know what I’d seen.”

  “What you’d—” I stopped as I remembered. “You mean, about the girlfriend having someone on the side?”

  A nod. “I should never have said anything,” he said softly. “Rule number one…”

  He slid the key in the lock, but I stopped him, putting my hand over his. “I didn’t think you were serious about that.” I was telling the truth. Guys like Ronnie and Albert always cast women as the bad guys. It lets them off the hook from having to deal with us. “That you’d seen something.”

  “I was. I did.” He turned to look at me now, meeting my eyes with a directness Albert couldn’t have managed. “But, Pru, I didn’t mean anything by it. You think maybe you could talk to your boyfriend? I mean…”

  He looked down again, his face gray, and I felt a wave of pity for the poor guy. “It’s okay, Ronnie. Creighton’s not a brute.”

  “I should have known.” He sighed as he opened the door. “When did a cop ever buy me drinks?”

  “Drinks?” That didn’t sound like Creighton’s style.

  “Yeah.” Ronnie swallowed. “We closed Happy’s.” Happy’s being our local dive, I wasn’t surprised Ronnie was there. That had been my father’s hang, too. But Creighton? “At least, I think we did,” the big man mumbled.

  Working late? That’s what my father used to say, too.

  “Anyway,” Ronnie’s voice interrupted my memories as he pushed the door open and stepped back. “There you go.”

  “Thanks.” I turned toward him before stepping inside. “Are you going to be around?”

  “I’ll be in my truck.” He sounded like he’d been
sentenced to hard time. “I’m not supposed to leave. I’ve got to lock up after you’re done.”

  I managed a smile before he turned and walked off, then I walked into the condo, closing the door behind me. And then I took a deep, deep breath.

  There’s something about a space where someone has died. Something too still in the settling of dust or the lack of even the faint air currents that a silent, but living, occupant will stir. Something other than just the staleness of an unoccupied space—a deserted house or empty apartment. Something inherently sad.

  Now, I’m not a jumpy kind of girl. I don’t spook easily, never have. And even my special sensitivity has become pragmatic, a new sense to manage—to tune out or turn a deaf ear to when other humans are around. This was something else again, something dark. I don’t mean in a supernatural or even a moral sense. From what I saw of him, Teddy Rhinecrest was no great shakes alive. I doubted he’d come back to haunt anybody, and he certainly had no beef with me. I hadn’t even taken the time to let him know what I thought of him, bullying his girlfriend like that, not to mention the waiter. But I’ve spent enough time around animals to know that there’s much in this world that we are too dull to comprehend.

  Animals don’t react to death the way we do. They don’t dwell on it or worry about it. Sure, they feel pain. They work as hard as they can to stay alive, and in some cases, they’ll sacrifice themselves, usually for their young. But dead is dead to a cat or a dog. They have no mythologies to weird them out. What they do have are more acute senses, and, more important, they have the ingrained wisdom to trust those senses. It’s something I’ve tried to learn—and I suspected that was what I was doing now. I might not actually smell the blood that still stained the entry floor. I don’t have Growler’s or even Wallis’ nose. But at some microbiological level, I was picking up its scent—and probably that of the pheromones poor old Teddy had cast off as he struggled with his killer.