When Bunnies Go Bad

by Clea Simon

  What I did know was that being in this place, alone, was creepy. And that I wanted to do what I’d come for, and get out.

  “Puppy?” I hadn’t bothered to get the barking dog’s name, but I figured a generic word and a friendly tone would do the trick. “Here, doggie!” Contrary to what most people believe, our pets don’t pay much attention to what we call them. Not unless we stumble upon a name they’d choose for themselves. If they come when called, it’s because they’ve chosen to respond to a voice: a beseeching upward tone, the pitch of a familiar call. “Puppy dog!” My words were more for Ronnie, or anyone else who might be listening in. Not that they’d do any good.

  I might not know how I could tell I was in a house of death. I did know that I was in an empty dwelling. Unlike a person, a dog won’t ignore you. This place was too still. The dog was gone.

  I made the rounds, looking at the back of closets and cabinets, in case the little fellow had gotten frightened and hid from the commotion of the crime and then the follow-up of the cops. If I’ve learned anything from the animals in my life, it’s that I’m fallible. And besides, it was fun. Once I’d gotten over the whole murder-house thing, I enjoyed peeking through the high-tech ski wear—hers—and the designer name lounging outfits that he seemed to prefer. In the back of the hall closet, I found their luggage, his and hers, that I bet he’d bought when they made their travel plans. These were empty, except for a pair of high-end binoculars, the kind professional birders use. If this was a robbery gone bad, the perpetrators had missed out on some of the biggest loot. I wondered if Creighton would recognize their value? He probably noticed the wires leading to the blank space on the desk. A laptop or tablet that could be anywhere by now.

  What I didn’t find were the corollary doggie toys. Don’t get me wrong. Fido will get as much pleasure out of a cheap chew toy as a Gucci gewgaw. A pair of Italian loafers at the back of Teddy’s closet attested to that fact. But usually when pet owners splurge on themselves, they get a little something for the creature they identify with, as well. And yet, while I found kibble and dishes, that was it. No squeaky toys, no nothing.

  “Hey, Ronnie.” I found the manager dozing in his truck. He jumped when I rapped on the window. “Tell me about Teddy Rhinecrest’s dog.”

  “It wasn’t his.” He confirmed my suspicion. “It was hers. Why?”

  “I don’t know.” He looked a little less green now. It could have been the air. “She came out here with him, right?”

  A nod. “A rental. For the week. I know—the cops had me check.”

  “And she brought the dog with her?” It wasn’t just the lack of toys. “You saw her with it when they arrived?”

  “Nah, I—I didn’t.” He shrugged. “But, you know, sometimes with the rentals…” Of course, pets probably weren’t allowed. Not that Ronnie was authorized to turn away a paying client.

  “Did they have any friends around here?” I looked past the door to number six. No signs of life. “Did she know the neighbors?”

  Another shake of the head. “They kept to themselves. A lot of people do, up here.” His voice dropped and he leaned toward me. “Except, well, the guy she was meeting. I saw that. I really did.”

  “I believe you, Ronnie.” Not that it mattered. I hugged myself against the cold as I thought that through. A woman cheating on her sugar daddy wasn’t likely to give her dog to her man on the side. Only I was having a hard time imagining where the dog had gone—and why I hadn’t found a traveling case for the animal anywhere on the premises.

  “Maybe she smuggled the dog in one of her suitcases?” I was thinking out loud. Trying out the idea. It didn’t fit with the woman I’d seen. She was much more the designer carrier type, but people are odd.

  “Maybe.” Ronnie seemed amenable. “I didn’t hear any barking when I took their bags in, though. Come to think of it, that dog didn’t bark that much.”

  “Honestly?” I kept hearing his frenzied yap.

  Ronnie nodded. “Yeah, he never barked when Cheryl went out to meet the other guy.”

  That was damning, if it were true. “You tell Creighton that?”

  “It wasn’t him. It was this other guy—a Fed, I think. He was all over me. What did I see? When did I see this? Where was I watching from? He seemed really pissed off.”

  That was curious. I didn’t think anyone would give much credence to Ronnie’s stories. Then again, the guy interrogating him wasn’t a local, so maybe he didn’t know about the tendency of certain locals to insert themselves in the story. There wasn’t a good way around it. Besides, it was chilly out here.

  “Did he accuse you of anything?” I wouldn’t put a lot of things past Ronnie—peeping tom. Minor theft. Hunting or fishing without a license, for sure. But murder?

  “No.” He shook his shaggy head. “More like he was just pissed at me for living.”

  “Well, I’m going to ask Creighton about that.” I was, not that I’d be likely to share what I found out. Still, it was curious behavior—and if there was an outsider asking questions about anyone here in Beauville, I wanted a heads-up. “But meanwhile, I’ve got to find that dog.”

  “Can I leave now?” He had the forlorn look of a kid kept after school. “I mean, if you’re done with the condo.”

  “Well, no, not if I find him.” I can’t help it. I feel sorry for dumb creatures. “Look, leave the keys with me. If he turns up, I want to get him indoors and get him fed, while we figure out what’s next.”

  “But, Pru. I mean—I…” He stuttered a bit, and it occurred to me he’d been instructed not to loan the keys out.

  “Look, you can stay if you want.” I turned to stare at the woods around us. The day was already fading, the mercury dropping.

  “No, no.” He fumbled at his waist. “Hang on,” he said, handing me the keys. Fifteen minutes wasted. I slapped the roof of his truck and he drove off. Leaving me to hunt for one lost dog.

  The woods are never quiet. Unlike the inside of that condo, the second-growth pine forest that surrounded the development was bustling with life, even if it wasn’t obvious. I walked across the drive that circumnavigated the cedar-shingled complex and onto the thick bed of pine needles that the recent melt had exposed. I was listening—taking in as much of the environs as I could, without becoming overwhelmed.

  I’ve gotten better at this. At first, after I got out of the hospital, I’d thought my head would explode. Hearing my cat talk to me was bad enough, even though her advice—to drink some water, to get out of bed—might have saved my life. Coming home after my three days in the psych ward, only my intense aversion to locked doors kept me from going back. It was the pigeons that did it. Those most urban of birds are a pest at the best of times, fouling cars and statues and unlucky passersby. But with my new ability manifesting itself, they became aural polluters as well. There had been a nest in the cornice of my building, not far from my bedroom, and the coos and twitterings that had formerly faded into the background—white noise covering the traffic of the avenue—were suddenly a nonstop stream of inanities. Domestic issues of the most trivial, complete with rivalries and jealousies that would make a cheerleading squad proud. And when it came to me that the low-level headache was actually the result of the rats in the subway, muttering about their lot in life—and how much better their peers down by the docks had it—I knew I had to get away.

  That was when I’d packed up Wallis and a few possessions and hightailed it back to Beauville. It might not seem like it, but the animal noise here in the Berkshires was quieter than in the city. Partly because we had space here; in the city we’d truly been living cheek by jowl. Partly, I suspect, it was also that the wildlife had its own agenda out here. Animals that don’t interact with humans on a daily basis might not live longer or more peaceful lives—in fact, the opposite. They do tend to be less neurotic, however. And for that relief, I was grateful.

  Over
the last few years, I’ve also developed some skills. While I can’t completely block out the sounds I pick up—the cries and hopes of creatures on the edge—I am learning to control them. Wallis says this is a talent that the youngest of kittens soon masters. Maybe she says that to put me in my place, but I take it as a challenge. One of these days, I’ll be able to turn this power on and off. At least now, I’ve found the volume control.

  As I walked between the tall, spindly trees, however, I wasn’t trying to turn it off. I had no idea where that little dog had gone—and without having ever met him, I wasn’t even sure what I was listening for. What I did know was that a small domestic animal must have gotten out. And that as a representative of the species responsible for his safety and well-being, I had to try.

  “Hello?” I voiced the word softly, turning as I did. A flock of starlings was fussing over nesting sites off to my left. I could hear the bickering, even though I could not see them.

  “Anyone there?” A chipmunk crisis—something to do with the scat of a bobcat—had disrupted the peace, off to my right. The cat itself was nowhere near—I’d have heard it, I believe, even if it were still asleep—but chipmunks are not known for their levelheadedness in the best of circumstances, and this particular family had been stressed to the limit by the extended cold of the winter.

  “Anybody?” The field mice, much more sensible creatures, were being cautious. They were one of the few creatures that had done better with all the snow. With their burrowing capacity, they’d been tunneling under the white stuff since the first heavy fall, making a system of paths between their nests and their food caches, all safe from the outside world. Now, however, they were aware of being exposed. Someone—a relative, perhaps, or maybe just another small rodent—had been scooped up by an owl last night. The story was spreading still.

  Those were only the main discussions, multiple animals sharing their news and concern. All around me, life pulsed—something was eaten, something else died. A mother sought a safe place for her young. What I didn’t get was the panic or fear of a domestic animal lost in the woods. I also wasn’t getting anything from any alpha predators. Though, if the little dog had been on his own since yesterday, any coyote or larger raptor might already have been and gone. Or a human, I had to amend my thoughts. Although the development was far enough off the highway to blunt the sound of traffic, I was dimly aware of the road, not a quarter mile away. Close enough to be a factor in an animal’s life, especially a naïve one that had given up its fear of my kind. If I didn’t find something soon, I’d wander in that direction. Already gruesome images were beginning to form in my mind.

  “Caw! Watch!” One of the grackles took off. For a moment, I thought it had picked up on my mental imagery—a sad, if unspecific vision of roadkill. “Intruder!”

  The harsh cry meant something else, however. And while my simple mind heard it one way, I stopped myself. “Intruder” could mean another bird or any predator. It could refer to me, I realized, as I suddenly stopped walking and froze in place.

  “Where? Where?” The cry had gone up in the avian population, and I scanned the sky for a hawk. The pines didn’t provide much cover, but I couldn’t make out anything. Down by the road, a late model sedan, the windows flashing in the fading light. I caught a glimpse of something light-colored. Maybe blond hair, maybe the reflection of the fading sun. At any rate, it was gone before I could get a good look, and so instead I started casting out my thoughts at ground level. From the birds’ response, a predator was more likely. A fisher or even an opossum could be a threat to a nest, climbing to get the eggs.

  “Where is she? Where?” A new voice had joined the cacophony—and this one I did understand. What I heard as a question was the sharp bark of a small dog, racing toward the development—and me.

  “Hello?” I called out loud. A domesticated animal wouldn’t fear a human voice, and this little fellow must have been lost and hungry. “Good boy! Here, boy!”

  A rustle in the woods marked the creature’s passage. I could feel him listening for me—rushing toward the condos. “Good boy!”

  At the same time, I heard another sound—a car, driving up to the development.

  “Where? Where?” The barking was growing louder, and I turned. It would be a sad circumstance if the little dog were hit by a car just as he emerged from the woods.

  “Hey there!” I called out and raised my hand, stepping back into the road. “Watch out!”

  The car—a silver Honda—braked to a halt and a redhead—Cheryl Ginger—stepped out. As tall as I was, at least in those heels, she had an athlete’s trim hips, although the short fur jacket implied curves above. “Did you hear him?” she asked. “Is he here?”

  Without waiting for an answer, she trotted to the edge of the woods, hampered by those shoes. “Pudgy!” she called, cupping her hands like a megaphone. “Pudgy! Are you there?

  “Here! Here!” A flash of white and brown among the trees. Ears flapping, the dog—a spaniel—came flying.

  “Pudgy!” The woman beside me knelt as the dog—a Cavalier King Charles spaniel, from the size and silky coat—leaped into her arms. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” She was talking to the dog, but I saw her glance at me as he reached up to lick her cheek. When she caught me looking, she turned to work a small twig out of her pet’s jeweled collar. “Where have you been?”

  The dog didn’t answer. Then again, I had the feeling her line of questioning had actually been for me. I wasn’t sure what this pretty ski bunny was about, but I knew a staged scene when I was placed in one.

  Chapter Eight

  The dog was the giveaway. Despite his wagging tail and the way he had jumped into the redhead’s arms, he wasn’t entirely thrilled. I’d heard this little fellow before—he was a talkative guy—but there were none of the chuffs or grunts that serve as the canine equivalent of purring. The pint-sized pet was glad to be out of the woods, I had no doubt, and that twig must have been annoying—even more than the ostentatious collar. But he’d leaped into this woman’s arms more like it was a trick he was completing rather than her embrace being the reward. It was an act, and he was a bad actor. That was my cue for the next line.

  “I’m glad you came along when you did.” I was talking to the woman, and I wasn’t working very hard to hide my sarcasm. “I’ve been looking for this guy for about an hour now.”

  “An hour?” Big green eyes blinked at me, almost as expressive as the dog’s. “But why? How did you know he was out here?”

  “I heard him, yesterday, inside the condo. But the cops told me that the condo was empty by the time they left.”

  “You heard? Oh.” The meaning of what I’d said hit her and she blinked again, more rapidly this time. “It was you who…You found Teddy.”

  “Yes.” I watched her face, waiting for something I didn’t see. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you.” Her brows furrowed, her lips puckered, but she came across more bothered than distraught. “I—” She ducked her head, burying her face in the dog’s curls, as if to hide her tears. “I can’t believe it.”

  The spaniel was whining. I couldn’t get a read on him, his distinctive markings masking his big dark eyes as he hid his mistress’. She pulled back at that, attaching a leash to his collar, and setting him down on the ground. When she looked up again, her eyes were full. Her makeup, however, was undamaged.

  “Thank you for finding Pudgy,” she said. Chin up, her tone that of a lady addressing a servant. But I don’t do submissive, and I was willing to bet I knew more training tricks than she did.

  “Pudgy, huh?” I bent and held out my hand. He sniffed it curiously, his black leather nose twitching. But when I tried to hear what was going on behind his wavy locks, all I got was a polite refusal. “Working,” was the best translation. Well, so he was. “Had him long?”

  “Only a few months.” She’d steppe
d back, ready to go, but the dog wasn’t through checking me out, and she seemed hesitant to command him to heel. “Come on, Pudgy.” She pulled on the leash briefly, as if it were a horse’s rein.

  I switched my attention from the dog to her. “You know, a well-trained dog is a happy dog.” I wasn’t sure what was going on here. That didn’t mean what I said wasn’t true.

  “Pudgy is trained.” She emphasized the last word. She’d misunderstood me.

  “I don’t mean housebroken.” I couldn’t get a read on her either. “I mean, in terms of not running off when a door is left open.” Nothing. “Or following your commands without you having to yank on his leash.”

  “I didn’t…” She caught herself, and her hand dropped to her side. With the sudden slack, Pudgy came over to sniff my boot. I looked down at his caramel and white fur, but all I got was professional curiosity, for lack of a better term. This dog wanted to know who I was and what I was about. I confess, I felt the same. “I don’t know that much about dogs,” she said, finally.

  I tried not to roll my eyes. “Was Pudgy a gift?” I thought of the dead man. For all I knew, the multicolored gemstones on the collar were real and this little spaniel was as expensive as the condo. Although this woman and her late flame had seemed a mismatch, I still held out hope that she and the dog could get along better with a little prompting.

  “Yes.” She seemed quite sure of that and nodded for emphasis. “From a friend.”

  “Mr. Rhinecrest?” I lowered my voice slightly. That’s as gentle as I get, but I needn’t have worried. There would be no more tears from Cheryl Ginger. Although her face puckered up again slightly, her full lips pursing, the effect was more one of dismay than of sadness.

  “No, no,” she said quickly. “Another friend. Earlier.” The way she tacked that last word on made me think of what Ronnie had said about another man. Though if she were here on Rhinecrest’s dime, it would have been pretty ballsy of her to bring her other lover’s gift along. “From long ago.”