by Clea Simon
“I understand.” Who was I to blame the girl if she decided to splurge a bit, after what she’d been through? If that was indeed what was happening. If she was indeed treating herself…
And I had my in: “Only, you might have a problem.” I kept my voice level. She looked at me, waiting. “Pudgy,” I said. “I don’t believe the Chateau allows pets.”
“Oh,” she looked down at the dog. Sensitive to her mood—or to something—he started whining again. “I hadn’t thought…” She bit her lip, and the whining picked up. “Is he coming back? Are we going to see him?” I wanted to comfort him. At least he seemed to miss the dead man.
“Mr. Benazi said…” Her face was hopeful, in an odd juxtaposition to her words. “You don’t do boarding, do you?”
“No.” It was odd what stuck with this woman. Though it did mean she’d heard some of what was said to her. “I’m a behaviorist. I train animals. For instance, I could help you with Pudgy. Teach him to heel—and not to run away.”
“That might be useful.” She bit her lip, giving the problem more thought than I’d expected. “I guess I can’t leave him here overnight.” She looked up at the condo, which was secured with yellow crime tape.
“Definitely not.” I didn’t care what Creighton would say. I was thinking of the spaniel. While it might help him to smell what had happened—animals recognize death—leaving a small, socialized creature alone in an empty building for that long would be cruel.
“Well, I’ll just have to smuggle him in then.” She smiled at her own answer, and wrapped her coat around the dog. “What are they going to do, kick me out?”
I had no answer to that and could only shake my head as she walked back to her car. Women like Cheryl Ginger usually do get what they want. It’s the ones around them who pay. And what hit me as I watched her drive off into the dusk was not that she seemed so unmoved by the murder of her lover. It was that she was so, well, cavalier toward the fate of the little spaniel, the one creature she had professed to love.
Chapter Eleven
“You’re surprised?” Wallis was bathing. “Really?”
In response, I simply looked at her. She avoided my eyes by reaching down, removing some unseen bits of her dinner from what appeared to be a spotless white bib. The question was rhetorical, anyway. That didn’t mean I didn’t have to think about the answer.
I had come home after that odd interaction, chilled to the bone and still wondering about the day’s two mysteries. The first—and less urgent—concerned that bunny. I’m happy enough to take money from a client without any heavy lifting. But I didn’t see why Marnie Lundquist had hired me, and I was frankly curious about what had caused that basic unease I had sensed in her presence. If it had only come from Henry, the rabbit, I would have understood—him being a prey animal, and an undomesticated one at that. But the nice old lady had seemed both competent and kind, and I’d shown up at her invitation. Well, that one, I’d decided, would sort itself out.
More pressing was the question of Cheryl Ginger. I had little doubt she would be able to manipulate the management of the Chateau. For starters, the high-end tourism the developers expected had never materialized, despite the so-called recovery, and the redhead seemed to have money of her own. Add in that she was, in fact, a nice-looking lady, and, well, I doubted they would kick her out for having a dog in her room.
But if she thought she could twist Benazi around her finger, she was in for trouble. She didn’t seem stupid. If anything, she acted like she was distracted. Rather like the spaniel, come to think of it, although at least the little dog appeared to miss the man who had been killed only the day before.
“Not surprised, then.” I answered Wallis finally, my own thoughts coming clear. I’d made a point of eating, too, though it was the bourbon that was warming me now, as I sat with my feet up on the kitchen table. “Just…concerned.”
Wallis looked up, and I nodded in acknowledgement. This wasn’t like me.
“Maybe I just don’t want to see Benazi in action,” I admitted. Wallis had never met the man, but she had picked enough from me.
“Nothing here you aren’t used to,” she said now, resuming her tongue bath. “Nothing you can’t handle. He’s a hunter. Same as you or me.”
“I’m not—” I stopped myself. It was true that I went for what I wanted. Recently, that had landed me in hot water. I tend to get involved in other people’s problems and with my sensitivity, I’m often able to, well, ferret out things others miss.
“Now she’s talking about that weasel.” The thought came to me with the taste of fur. I sighed and took another sip of my drink. It washed the fuzzy feeling from my mouth and gave me a moment to think. Wallis is not the most social of creatures, and she has a little respect for most other species—my own included—but if she was on my case about something, it was worth figuring out what.
“You don’t think I should be asking these questions, do you?” She swiped a white mitten over her ear. “You want me to stay out of this?”
“You said it yourself.” Another swipe at the ear. I took another drink. “That man may love cats, but he’s a hunter. And you don’t come between a hunter and his prey. Besides…” Another swipe. More fur, followed by more bourbon. “Don’t you have better ways to spend your time?”
I should have known. Wallis’ hearing is better than mine, and I often think she has other senses at work, as well. While I was digesting that last remark—and refilling my glass—I saw the headlights out front. For a moment, I confess, my stomach tightened. I caught my breath anticipating the appearance of a low, red car and a cool-eyed killer. But the engine that pulled up my driveway wasn’t anywhere near as powerful as Benazi’s, although regular tuning had made it hum like the purr that now emanated from my tabby.
“I said you would have no reason to go out seeking what you want.” She’d stopped washing and instead tucked her front paws under her snowy breast. “Information, that is.” Her eyes closed with the satisfaction of being right. “No problem at all.”
“Jim.” I met him at the door. He was used to my whiskey kisses. “Want one?”
“I can’t drink tonight.” He smiled back, reading me like a book.
“Not even a beer?” I stepped back to let him in. He stepped inside, but no further, not following up on that initial embrace.
“Pru, that still counts as drinking.” He not only looks like a boy scout, he can act like one at times.
“Whatever.” I gave him my most Wallis-like shrug. “I gather you have to go back to work?”
“Mmm-hmmm.” Even his assent was close-mouthed, and so I waited. “Probably won’t be able to come back later, I’m afraid.”
“Yeah, I figured.” I leaned against the doorframe, trying not to look curious. I failed. “And so you came by—why?”
“Look, Pru, this is a small town and we both know you’ve been a real help with some of the things that have happened around here. You’ve really put yourself out at times.” It was the vaguest thanks I’ve ever gotten, but I started to smile anyway. Started to—as I processed his words, it occurred to me he wasn’t necessarily thanking me. “And this time I have to ask you to stand down.” He cleared his throat. “Just because you and I—well, you have to keep out of this, Pru. Trust me.”
“Oh?” I packed a cooler of ice in that one syllable. I’m not big on trust in the best of circumstances. When a man I’m intimate with asks me for it, without offering an explanation, my internal alarms go off. If I were Wallis, my fur would be standing on end.
“I was there with you, you know. I heard Teddy Rhinecrest haranguing his girlfriend, too.” Creighton went on the offense. It was the smart move. “But you can’t automatically align yourself with Cheryl Ginger. This is a complicated case—more facets are involved than you know.”
“Really.” I let the ice begin to drip. If he’d asked, I would have told
him about Benazi. Probably. I might even have shared the redhead’s curious lack of reaction to the old gent.
“We know you’ve spoken with her.” He was sounding all matter-of-fact now, ignoring my freeze-out. “We know you’re going to be working with her dog while she’s still here. And we know—I know—that means you’ll probably have access to some information that might take us longer to get by our more conventional means.”
He paused, waiting for that to sink in.
“Please, let me—let us—handle this case.” It wasn’t a question, but he looked at me as if waiting for an answer.
“Sure, Jim.” I managed a smile, and I kept it in place until he kissed me again—close-mouthed this time—and drove off.
Then, trembling, I retreated to the kitchen and poured myself another bourbon, swirling it around in the tumbler while I thought through what had just happened.
Ronnie had mentioned being questioned by the Feds, but I’d discounted it. Usually, murder cases go to the state, although out here, Creighton pretty much acts as a point man for the Massachusetts troopers. Still, if Rhinecrest was, in fact, mobbed up, it made sense that his murder would be much more than a local matter. Bigger even than the Commonwealth.
No, what was troubling me were the other things—the smaller things he had said. He must already have spoken with Cheryl Ginger, I realized. Ronnie had driven off by the time she and I had our talk, and I hadn’t seen anyone else around the condos. Which meant that he must have met her at the Chateau. Maybe checked her in. That would be fine. Sure, my hackles rose a bit at the idea of that pretty redhead spending any time with a man I considered mine, but she was a prime suspect in a murder case. And unlike some men I knew, Creighton would most likely consider that a turn-off.
No, what bothered me was that she had apparently been so free with my name. Telling him we’d spoken. Using me, almost, like a get-out-of-jail free card, without ever having responded directly to my offers of help. That woman had something going on, and I didn’t think it had to do with her spaniel.
But I could deal with the redhead. I knew her type. What worried me more was what Jim had said in an almost offhand way. He knew, he said, that I had “access to information.” Jim Creighton wasn’t dumb, and we’d been spending a lot of time together. If I’d let my guard down about hearing animals’ thoughts, I might very well be sunk.
I didn’t think he’d have me committed, and Massachusetts hadn’t burned anyone as a witch in quite a few years. But I knew that a small town could be a cruel place for anyone who didn’t fit in.
I’d fled here once. I didn’t want to have to run again.
Chapter Twelve
I was up early, but I wouldn’t call myself rested. All night, I’d tossed and turned, weighing the possibilities and the threat. Creighton cared for me, I knew that. Whether that meant he’d be less likely to doubt my sanity—or to have me hospitalized “for my own good”—I couldn’t tell. But he was also a supremely rational man; it was part of his job, and so I doubted he could ever let himself accept my sensitivity, even if I tried to explain. No, if he knew—if he suspected—at least part of my comfortable life here—the part where he came over several nights a week, sometimes bringing pizza—would be over. And things would be strange enough so that I’d have to move on. Rather to my surprise, that idea made me sad.
“Not much fun, is it?” Wallis met me as I made my way into the kitchen. “Not having control over where you live or how.”
I could feel her cool green eyes on me as I rummaged around the refrigerator. For me, coffee came first, but I didn’t want to argue with my cat. Not in my current mood.
“Here.” I dropped a pat of butter on a plate for her, even before I slapped some into a pan. “Peace?”
“Huh.” Her dismissive grunt soon gave way to lapping, but as I left the eggs to fry and set about making coffee, I couldn’t miss her jab. “Has a nose but not the sense to use it.”
I gave Wallis all the eggs. I had no appetite anyway, and as soon as I filled my travel mug, I set off on my day.
“I hear you’ve landed yourself a new client.” Tracy Horlick greeted me, if you could call it that, with a blast of smoke and a question that sounded like an accusation.
“I’m always open to new clients.” Even after my coffee, I didn’t want to engage. “How’s Bitsy today?”
“She’s a strange one, isn’t she?” Drawing on her cigarette, the old witch eyed me and waited. I tried not to sigh audibly. It was already one of those mornings.
“Mrs. Lundquist?” I wasn’t going to badmouth a client. I also didn’t see any point in hiding. “She’s quite sweet, actually, taking in her granddaughter’s pet while she travels.”
“Not her.” The cigarette dropped to the stoop and she ground it out with more force than I would have thought necessary. “The redhead—the one who killed her boyfriend.”
“Cheryl Ginger?” I recognized my mistake as soon as I saw the smile. Well, Tracy Horlick would have learned her name at some point anyway. “She’s not a client.” I paused, remembering. Creighton had said something similar. “Not that I wouldn’t take her on.”
“Birds of a feather.” The old gossip reached into her housecoat for another smoke. I didn’t know whether to be insulted or flattered, which made it easy to keep my face a total blank. The morning was chilly, and it only took a few moments of silence before the old bat turned back into her house and freed the poor dog she’d ostensibly hired me to care for.
“Hey, Growler.” As soon as we were down the walk, he’d stopped to relieve himself. “How’s it going?”
Conversation wasn’t the bichon’s forte. He had an understandable grudge against humans—especially female humans—but it seemed rude not to observe the social niceties, no matter how unsocialized his person was. I let him set the pace as we moved along the quiet street.
“Simpson, my boy, you’ve got to watch it…” He paused to sniff a particularly well-used hydrant. “Roger, you old dog…”
I stared off into space. It was wrong to eavesdrop, even if I had no choice. When he was ready to move on, I focused on the trees around us. Even with snow still on the ground, they were beginning to bud. Spring usually makes people hopeful, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Creighton—and about the questions Cheryl Ginger had raised only the day before.
“You’ve got a nose.” A grumpy voice broke into my uneasy reverie. “Use it.”
I looked down, struck by the similarity between Growler’s words and Wallis’. Black button eyes stared into mine.
“I’m talking to you, walker lady.” The low whine, punctuated by a sharp yap, came through quite clearly. “And I’m no cat.”
I shook my head. “I don’t understand.”
The whine got louder, and Growler broke my gaze to stare off down the street. “Don’t you want to know what he was looking for?”
“Creighton? Or—no—Benazi?” A chill ran through me. No, I didn’t want to get any more involved in the suave gangster’s business than I could help.
“Stewie, silly.” He looked back at me, a hint of impatience in the way he tilted his white, fluffy head.
It took a moment. I’d been thinking of the redhead. Of the scene outside the condo and her reaction—or lack thereof—to Benazi. Then it hit me. Her dog—the one she called Pudgy—had been focused on something or someone in the woods. Where it seemed he had spent the night.
“And don’t you want to know?” The little tail started to wag, as I got it.
“Yeah, thanks, Growler.” I kneeled to scratch him behind the ears in gratitude. “I do.”
If we were going to do this, we would have to move quickly. But even as I thought up a plan, the little white dog quickened his steps, taking me across the street and back toward my car. I was glad then that I hadn’t parked directly across from Tracy Horlick’s house. I’d told myself that I wo
uld need a little breather, after her smoke-drenched hostility. I’d also wanted to dissuade any comments on my choice of wheels or my driving. That reticence paid off now, as I ducked into the driver’s seat, opening the passenger side door so Growler could hop in.
“We’ll only have a few minutes,” I said, as I rolled down the window. It was still cold out, but the bichon was doing me a favor. The least I could do was make the ride fun for him.
“Yup!” He yapped, putting his front paws up on the door. Partly because of the time and partly to give the little guy a thrill, I hit the gas hard, making my way to the condo development in less than ten minutes.
“Here we go.” I’d rolled to a stop a few hundred yards short of the development. I had no excuse for being there, and I sure didn’t want to have to explain why I’d brought a client’s dog. Growler didn’t care, and hopped out as soon as I opened his door. In fact, as I watched him bounce off into the woods, I had a moment of panic. What if the bichon had manipulated me into helping him escape? I had no doubt that life with Tracy Horlick was horrible, but I didn’t have any illusions about how long a bichon frisé would last out here—or how vindictive the old lady would be toward me, his purported keeper.
“Growler?” A lump crept into my throat.
“Hang on!” One bark as he bounded forward, and I walked to the edge of the woods, waiting, his leash in my hand.
“Ms. Marlowe.” The voice was soft, but it sent ice up my spine as I spun around. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“Mr. Benazi.” I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. “You came back.”
“You did, too.” His eyebrows rose as he smiled, waiting. “With a dog.”
“I wanted to bring Growl—Bitsy for a run.” I forced my own smile. “His owner doesn’t let him out much.”
He nodded, and I remembered. Gregor Benazi seemed to have some special senses of his own. “I’d say that fellow deserves a bit of a run. Shall we?”
