by Clea Simon
“Sure you are.” The squint tightened. “Just like your mother.”
My eyebrows must have shot up at that, because only then did Tracy Horlick lean back with a smile. “Didn’t know that about your old lady, did you?”
“Your dog, Mrs. Horlick?” I didn’t want to get into this. I knew my mother had her faults, but it was my father who’d been the wandering one.
“Better keep him on his leash,” she said. I didn’t think she was talking about Growler, but I took the lead she was holding without comment. There was no reason to punish her dog with a further delay. Besides, I didn’t think I could win this one.
“Come on, boy,” I said, just to break the silence. The fluffy white dog eyed his person and then me and whined softly, making his desire to get going crystal clear. “Let’s go.”
I wasn’t going to call him Bitsy, not even to placate that old hen. Maybe I couldn’t prevail against her, but I would salvage whatever dignity I could—for both Growler and myself.
“Dog?” The question came to me as Growler led me down the street. I simply shook my head. If he wanted to read my thoughts, he was welcome to. Maybe he could make some sense of them. But I was willing to let them go—along with any idea of closure with that spaniel or with Cheryl Ginger.
I hadn’t gotten what I’d wanted the day before, but I didn’t have any excuse to go back. And if I felt a bit ambivalent about that, I told myself to let it go. Cheryl Ginger was clearly in several kinds of trouble, and I was better off out of it.
“As if.” Wallis wasn’t the only animal around me who was picking up on human colloquialisms. Growler’s snort only emphasized the disbelief I heard in his words. “Like a cat with a bone.”
I eyed the bichon, but his head was down—sniffing at the newly bared trunk of a sapling. Wallis had warned me over a year ago that what I “heard” as words was actually my mind translating amorphous thoughts. Had I superimposed the human-type sayings on the little dog—or had he adopted them for his own purposes?
If that was the case, could I have misinterpreted something the spaniel had been trying to tell me? I thought of him, out in the woods. Clearly he was unfazed by our forests, which was kind of unusual for a city dog. Then again, if he had been a gift from a lover, maybe his presence was more than token. Maybe he was—as Ronnie had said—her excuse for getting out of the condo. Maybe the eager little beast was used to spending time in the woods, his athleticism giving the redhead an excuse for coming back flushed and picking leaves out of her own hair, as well as his.
“Get your mind out of the gutter.” Growler was neutered, but he was still a sexual little beast. To have him reprimand me this way had to mean something else.
“What?” I stopped walking, and he turned back to look at me. “Can you tell just by sniffing me what that spaniel was trying to communicate? Or is there some doggie network I don’t know about?”
“Jeez.” The little pooch snorted. “I’m just saying you have to think beyond the box. Even if you do cohabit with a cat. Now, do you mind?”
I had no response, but I did have a responsibility—to Growler, if not the person who was paying me. And so I fell silent and let him lead me onto his usual spots, muttering to himself about a social scene much more relevant to his canine mind.
Out of respect as much as principle, I didn’t answer my phone when it rang. This was Growler’s time, and even if he didn’t choose to communicate with me directly, I owed it to him to be alert. Not only to the subtle cues any animal sends off—even to those with normal sensitivities—but also to the dangers a town like ours can pose to a small creature. I wasn’t overly worried about wildlife. Although I had reason to believe there was a large wild cat loose in the nearby preservation land, I doubted the bichon would be at risk. Growler would be a tasty morsel to some of the larger creatures around—both coyotes and fisher cats would be hungry and prowling after the winter we had—but neither were likely to hunt by daylight, and both would be dissuaded by my presence. No, I was thinking of the more ordinary dangers house pets face: from people, other pets, and, of course, cars.
I was glad for this discipline when I caught the quiet hum of a car approaching a bit too fast for comfort. And as I pulled Growler’s lead close and turned, I was doubly glad. The sporty little number that had pulled up just as the bichon had stepped back onto the curb was red and as familiar to me by now as the driver, who stepped out to greet me.
“Ms. Marlowe.” With a grace that defied his apparent age, Gregor Benazi sidled across in front of his car to stand beside me, and I had to fight the desire to gather Growler into my arms. “Back to your usual routine, I see.”
“What of it?” I don’t like surprises. I also don’t like discovering that people know more about me than I have chosen to share. “Growler.”
The little dog had begun to sniff our visitor’s pants cuff. At the sound of my voice, he paused and looked up at me. Benazi, I saw out of the corner of my eye, smiled.
“It’s a nickname.” I fought back my own urge to growl. Benazi had always been polite to me, and I didn’t think it made sense to antagonize him.
“Most fitting,” he said, dipping his head, though whether his half bow was to me or to the white dog at his feet I couldn’t tell. “But I haven’t sought you out to interrupt your duties.”
I swallowed, his words banishing any possibility that his appearance was a chance meeting. “Yes?” One syllable was all I could manage.
“Ms. Marlowe.” His voice was calm. Soothing. I thought of all the stories I’d heard of snakes that hypnotize their prey. “You know I have the greatest respect for you, and, of course, for your abilities.”
I nodded. It seemed some sort of acknowledgment was required.
“I’m also aware that your position allows you a kind of access that not many enjoy.” He paused, but I didn’t respond. For all I knew, he was talking about my relationship with Creighton. Or could he mean…From the way he was looking at me, I got the distinct impression that he knew what I was thinking. I did my best to clear my mind. To be blank. The man had sensitivities of his own. And with another brief nod, he continued. “As you know, I am in town because of matters relating to the late Teddy Rhinecrest, whose unfortunate demise is now the subject of a federal investigation.”
He said that as if it were common knowledge. I swallowed again.
“I have no desire to interfere with the workings of the state, of course.” He shook his head, more in distaste than anything else, I thought. “But I did want to follow up on my earlier request and to inquire if in your dealings with Ms. Ginger you may have come across any information that would be useful to me.”
“Information?” I licked my lips. My mouth was dry. “I thought you were looking for a keepsake of some kind?”
“One may lead to the other. Perhaps the mention of mutual friend, or a stop made along the way.” His voice was calm and soft, as if we weren’t discussing matters of life and death. “The kind of small matter that may escape the notice of a more formal inquiry.”
“I doubt I’ll be seeing Cheryl Ginger again.” I found my voice. “In fact, I bet she won’t even be in Beauville for much longer.”
The old man smiled, a wide, close-mouthed grin that didn’t touch his eyes. “Oh, I suspect the resourceful Ms. Ginger will be reaching out to you again, Ms. Marlowe. I believe she will have need of your service and has already learned to respect your particular talents. As have others.”
“I’m just an animal trainer, Mr. Benazi.”
The old man smiled and bent to pat Growler on the head. “You look out for her, my little man,” he said in a voice I could clearly hear. “She’s a special one.”
I was still shaking as he got back into his car. It wasn’t until he drove away, that snazzy red sportster disappearing around a corner, that I realized he’d not left me a phone number or any way to contact him. It didn
’t matter. I had no doubt he would be in touch.
Chapter Eighteen
My fear had given way to anger by the time I got Growler back home. Benazi had intercepted us more than a block from Tracy Horlick’s house, which was just enough time for me to work up a good head of steam. It was not, however, enough time for me to debrief the bichon before we turned the final corner.
“What did you get?” I asked, slowing as we approached the battered-looking split-level. “What was he up to?”
“He’s got a cat.” Growler seemed confused by that. “He likes cats.”
“I know, Growler.” I stopped in front of the neighbor’s lawn. “But, please, can you help me? You were sniffing his leg.”
“He admires cats, you know. He sees something of himself in them.” The little dog sat and looked up at me, black button eyes bright. “Something of you, too.”
“There you are!” Tracy Horlick was coming down the sidewalk, huffing with the effort. “I thought maybe you’d stolen my dog.”
“Not at all.” I conjured my conciliatory smile. I wasn’t going to lie on my back for her. “We were just going over some routine commands. Sit, heel.”
“He’s got no use for that kind of nonsense.” Holding her cigarette to her lips with one hand, she reached the other for the lead. “Come on, Bitsy,” she said, shooting me a venomous look. “Some of us have lives.”
I stepped back before she could push me, and watched as she bundled herself and her dog into the beat-up Chevy in the driveway. I’d never seen the old bat leave the house, although she clearly got her smokes—and her gossip—from somewhere. And while I suspected her hair color and its outdated lacquer finish were professionally done, I didn’t quite understand the urgency. It might be spring, but I seriously doubted Tracy Horlick had a date.
“Bye!” I waved, as much to Growler as to the woman who paid me. But he only stared, mute, from the window as she backed into the street and took off.
“People.” I was shaking my head as I walked back to my own car, and almost missed the squirrel darting in front of me.
“Watch yourself!” The creature chittered at me from the safety of a tree trunk. “You’d think you’re the only one out here.”
He was right. Benazi’s visit should have reminded me to be alert. At the very least, I needed to be more conscious of my surroundings—and my phone.
“Hello, Pru?” I recognized the caller on my voicemail even before she introduced herself. Cheryl Ginger should have been the ideal client. She certainly had the means to pay me. Just then I wished she didn’t. “Would you call me back? I’d like to book some more sessions for Pudgy. Starting today, if possible.”
Sessions? That dog didn’t need training. She did. Besides, I had no desire to get more involved in whatever game Gregor Benazi was playing with the pretty redhead. I didn’t like to think of myself as intimidated, simply smart. But as I was about to hit “erase,” I caught myself. Maybe the aptly named Ms. Ginger really did want my help with her dog. After all, she didn’t seem entirely in control of the little guy, despite his apparent schooling. Or maybe my warning had finally sunk in, and she wanted to talk to me about Benazi.
That should have been impetus enough to delete the call, but as much as I respected the menace cloaked behind Benazi’s tailoring, I also felt another, contrary impulse. Who was Gregor Benazi to threaten me? Or, to be specific, believe he could pressure me into becoming his accomplice?
I hit re-dial. I was not going to be intimidated by the old gangster. And I did need to earn a living. That meant I was going to go about my life as if he hadn’t surprised me by the side of the road. I wasn’t sure of Cheryl Ginger, but she was a client. If she tried to involve me in anything that didn’t feel legit, I’d decide what to do by myself.
“Hello?” Her voice sounded tight as she answered. Taken by surprise, I thought. Or maybe scared.
“Cheryl? It’s Pru Marlowe.” I used my comfort voice: low and even. The one I use to soothe panicked animals. “I’m returning your call about further sessions with Pudgy.” I didn’t like that name for the little spaniel, but I needed to make the connection with his person.
“Yes, thanks.” I thought I heard her licking her lips. “When can you get here?”
“Is there an emergency?” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I kicked myself. And rephrased: “If you’re having a veterinary emergency, you should take your dog over to County Animal Hospital. Do you want me to call over and tell them to expect you?”
Nine-tenths of training is being clear. Limit the options for the animal being trained. Be as straightforward as possible about the behavior you want. That’s it.
“What? No, I—” She was definitely licking her lips. Either she was nervous, or those pretty lips had become horrible chapped. “I was hoping you had some free time today. For an appointment.” My tactic had worked.
“I may be able to come by this afternoon.” I weighed the words, giving her the reward her behavior merited. With a caveat. “I’ll have to check my schedule.”
“I’ll be here. At the Chateau,” she said, as if I’d forget. “Thank you so much.”
I was already having second thoughts as she hung up. I’d only returned the call because I didn’t want to give in to my fear. If I was going to go out there, I was going to be prepared, I decided. And that meant hitting up Ronnie. The sleazy condo manager had clearly spied on the redhead during her stay, and I bet there was more he could tell me about her than he had.
Pulling away from the curb, I thought about where to find him. At this hour of the morning—it was only a few minutes past nine—he’d probably still be asleep. I didn’t mind waking him, only I wasn’t sure what rat hole he lived in. No, I decided, turning toward the highway. He would be at work. Maybe asleep, but at the job. Nothing makes owners jumpier than a murder on the premises, and I bet that, at least for the near future, management would be clamping down. I had no desire to revisit the development—between finding Teddy Rhinecrest’s body and running into Gregor Benazi, the place was bad luck, to say the least. But I wasn’t going to be frightened away from any place on my home turf. Besides, maybe my being there would spark Ronnie’s dim bulb of a mind.
The day certainly held no threat. Unfiltered, yet, by any leaves, the sun was bright and surprisingly warm. As I drove through the woods, I caught the play of shadows—trees beginning to bud and the hollows that would soon be filled with fern and jewelweed. In some of those hollows, snow would linger for a few weeks yet, depending on how quickly this spring came in. Under last season’s leaves, there were always a few shady spots that were colder than the rest. In time, they’d be a welcome source of water for the smaller creatures out there, the ones who had slept or crept unnoticed under the winter’s deep cover.
I thought of such hidden caches as I drove, and of other secrets in the dark. Of whether I could ever explain myself to Jim Creighton. Whether his respect for me, if not his affection, would survive knowing the truth that I kept camouflaged. Perhaps it was the season for secrets to come to light. Perhaps I wasn’t alone. After all, Benazi seemed to share some sense of the world around us. He even, he had led me to believe, understood my particular skill.
A shadow on the road drew my eyes up. High above, the distinctive silhouette of a hawk, gliding on the currents of the warming day. On a morning like this, it was easy to think of his flight as a form of relaxation. A lone creature enjoying the sun and the breeze. Even as he soared out of my range, I could see no movement of wing or tail, which made his motion seem effortless. His purpose casual.
But the sharp cheeps I heard as this shadow passed beyond the trees told me another story. “Watch!” The sparrows called, a cry picked up by a mockingbird until even a sedentary mourning dove was rumbling her own version. Animals do nothing without reason. Even their play is serious, teaching and sharing the skills they need to survive.
I looked once more for that hawk, but he was gone. And I thought of Benazi, whose own piercing eyes saw me so clearly. Maybe he did understand me better than Creighton. Better than anyone ever could. And maybe, it hit me with a start that had the hair standing up along my arms, he saw other things, too. Like that Cheryl Ginger was going to get back in touch with me. And that when she called, I would answer.
Chapter Nineteen
“Ronnie!” I was banging on the door to the manager’s office. My realization about Benazi had leached all the warmth out of the sunny morning, and the absence of the condo handyman did nothing to improve my mood. “I know you’re in there, Ronnie. Your truck’s here.”
“Hang on.” Footsteps could be heard through the cheap door, which opened to reveal the sleep-bedraggled man. “I was…working in the back,” he said, barely suppressing a yawn.
“Right.” I pushed past him, thoughts of the old gangster making me want privacy or at least cover. The office was close and warm. Ronnie hadn’t been napping. He was living here. I looked around, unwilling to sit on the Naugahyde couch that still had the imprint of his soft body, and chose the desk chair. “I need to talk with you.”
“Yeah, I need to talk to you, too.” He started to scratch until—seeing my face—he changed the motion, pretending to smooth a pleat in the rumpled khakis that probably passed for a uniform. “Some lady called.”
“Cheryl Ginger? I’m on it.” I looked around for a coffee maker until I saw an eighties-era Mr. Coffee in the corner, busted. No matter, he’d be more pliable half-awake. “In fact, she’s why I’m here, Ronnie. I need to know what you saw and what you heard. Exactly.” I paused, wondering how to play this. “I’ll make sure she knows that you helped out.”
“Cheryl Ginger?”
Maybe I should have brought him coffee. But, no, he rallied. “She moved out.”
