When Bunnies Go Bad

by Clea Simon

  “I’ll make it worth your while.” His voice had an edge of desperation now.

  “I said, no. Now, Mister—” I paused.

  “Parvis. Martin Parvis. I can meet you anywhere. Today, even. Please, Ms. Marlowe. I’m sorry if we got off on the wrong foot. I’m a private investigator, licensed and everything, but I get it—look, I’m just sorry. Okay? It’s important. I can come to you. To your home.”

  “No.” I didn’t want this man in my town. There was no way I would let him in my house.

  “Pick a place then.” I thought of the dead man, of what his widow would want to know. I thought of my mother after my father left. I sighed, and he knew he had me. “A restaurant. A public place. I can be anywhere in Beauville by ten,” he added. The way I drive, I could have gotten here from the city in three hours. Then again, most men don’t drive like I do.

  I paused to think. Happy’s was the logical option. At ten, all the regulars would be there, and maybe I’d have a chance to figure out what Creighton had been doing at the dive bar the other night. It also meant I wouldn’t be alone with this guy.

  “There’s a place called Happy’s. It’s on the main drag,” I said at last. “I’ll be at the bar.”

  “Ten, it is,” he paused. I imagined him trying to enter Happy’s in his GPS. “Thank you.”

  Well, he’d make it or he wouldn’t. Beauville isn’t that big, and Happy’s worked for me, so with that, I hung up and leaned back on my car. This was getting complicated, and I didn’t understand how I’d gotten involved. But I did know I would rather speak to a third party—a factotum—than a grieving widow. Besides, this Martin Parvis had pretty much said he’d pay me. And if he was willing to make the drive, it was no skin off my back.

  It was curious, though, how interested everyone suddenly was in Beauville, our little know-nothing town. Enough so that I wondered if soon I might be bringing Creighton something more than lunch.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Which, it turned out, would have to wait. I’d gone around the corner for sandwiches before bearding my particular lion in his den, only to find him gone.

  “Sorry, Pru.” His deputy looked up at me from his desk. “He’s been out all morning.”

  Paperwork, indeed. I knew better than to ask. I didn’t want the help to gossip about me getting needy, and instead retired to my car to eat my own provolone and soppressata. As I’ve said, Beauville is getting gentrified. That’s not entirely a bad thing.

  However, the size of the sandwich—not to mention the olive oil that had begun to drip down my hand—did make eating in the bucket seat a little awkward. Especially when my phone rang again.

  “Jim…” I wiped one hand on the wad of napkins and reached for my cell. No—this wasn’t local. In fact, the area code was once again 212. I hesitated a moment, and then clicked through.

  “I said I’d meet you tonight at Happy’s,” I said, through a mouthful. If Martin Parvis wanted to cancel, that was fine by me. “And you can just tell your Mrs. Rhinecrest she can wait.”

  “Tell her yourself,” said a throaty female voice. “I’m dying to hear more.”

  “Mrs. Rhinecrest?” I swallowed the last bit of salami, half chewed, and winced. “Hang on.”

  A swig from my soda—orange, imported, and fizzy—and another grab at those napkins and I was back. I hadn’t wanted to talk to this woman at all. Now she had me at a distinct disadvantage.

  “Sorry about that, Mrs. Rhinecrest.” I sat up straight. Your posture affects how you sound on the phone, and I needed to regain some stature here. “And, please, accept my condolences. You see, I only just got off the phone with your…” I paused, unsure of what to call Martin Parvis. “Your employee.”

  She laughed at that, a low chuckle that had little of humor in it. Little of mourning, either. “I gather he made quite an impression.”

  “He was quite insistent.” That was noncommittal. I didn’t want to cost the guy his job, but there was something about this woman that set my teeth on edge. Maybe it was her accent—that touch of lockjaw that denotes a certain country club set. Maybe it was that she didn’t trust the people she employed to do their jobs. “Which I assume is what you want,” I finished the thought.

  “Indeed, it is.” There was a curious upward lilt—almost a question—in her voice. “And I’m glad to hear that Marty is heading your way. I’ve been beginning to think he had blown me off.”

  I didn’t respond, but the picture was becoming clear. Theresa Rhinecrest was the kind of woman who expected people to jump. Parvis had probably waited all of fifteen minutes before calling me.

  “Did he ask you about Teddy—about Teddy’s friend?” I had to admire her resolve. Her voice barely changed on that last word.

  “He said he wanted to speak with me,” I repeated. “We’re going to meet up here in Beauville, as I gather you figured out.”

  “Yes…” She drew the word out, which made me wonder. Now that she had called, and done me the service of confirming that, yes, Parvis was indeed working for her, I couldn’t figure out what she wanted.

  “What precisely did you hire Martin Parvis for, Mrs. Rhinecrest?” Sometimes a direct approach is best.

  “I’m sure Mr. Parvis will make everything clear.” She was done with me. But my curiosity had been piqued.

  “I’m sure he will.” I agreed to create a bond. The human equivalent of saying, “good boy!” and giving a treat. “But since you have me here, why don’t you fill me in? After all, there may be something I can prepare.”

  I was fishing. I heard a sniff on the line. Tears or—could it be?—was the widow scoffing at the idea?

  “No, no.” She wasn’t crying—that much I could tell. “I’m hoping to gain a little insight into my husband’s stay in your quaint town. To find out if he made any excursions.”

  Not laughter, either. She was hesitating over her words, though, and I couldn’t see why. Excursions? Clearly, this was about Cheryl Ginger. Excursions was about as nice a way to say “stepping out” as I could figure. But her husband was dead. If she was looking to catch him in flagrante, well, she was a little too late.

  “I didn’t know your husband.” I needed to set her straight. “And I’ve only met Ms. Ginger since his death.”

  “That’s not what I heard.” I didn’t think I could sit up straighter, but I did.

  “Excuse me?” I could match her tone, icicle for icicle.

  “Please, I’m sorry. I’m simply overwhelmed.” A sniff for sure this time. “It’s all been…so much.”

  I waited. I didn’t care what the Feds thought—or my beau for that matter. When a cheating man is killed, there’s an obvious suspect. I was talking to her.

  “And I’m afraid dear Teddy wasn’t always clear in his plans. And certain papers, well…I’m simply trying to sort everything out.”

  “Look, I don’t know anything about your husband, and I don’t know anything about Cheryl Ginger.” That wasn’t entirely true, but I wanted nothing to do with this woman. “I am sorry for your loss, but I think it may be best to leave the investigation to the authorities.”

  “The authorities.” She huffed, the tears gone. “Please.”

  A quieter sort than her husband, with all his swagger: “Don’t you know who I am?” A matched pair, nonetheless.

  “Please, just meet with Mr. Parvis, won’t you?” She tried to soften the note of command. It didn’t work. “Maybe you’ll remember something you weren’t even aware you knew.”

  “Goodbye, Mrs. Rhinecrest,” I said. “Again, I’m sorry for your loss. “ I was curious, but not that much. As soon as we’d disconnected, I scrolled back through my calls to cancel the meeting with Parvis. He wasn’t answering, and his voice mail was full. It didn’t matter; when I didn’t show, he’d get the message.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  My one afterno
on appointment wasn’t enough of a distraction to take my mind off the Rhinecrest widow. Changing the filter and cleaning the fish tank at our local Chinese restaurant were mindless chores. Gouramis are as boring as you’d think, and the google-eyed angel fish had been squabbling since they’d been paired up.

  If I hadn’t told Cheryl Ginger I’d come by, I’d have gone home. Wallis would be amused by the domestic drama, I had no doubt, and her insight into handling this Parvis—a scavenger if ever there was one—might be useful. But home was the other side of town, and as much as I wanted out of that particular storyline, I knew I could use Cheryl Ginger’s fee. Besides, my brief conversation with Theresa Rhinecrest had given me some sympathy for the younger woman, if not for the man they had shared.

  Lucky Dragon—we’re not that gentrified—was in the older part of town. And as I pulled away, I realized I had another option. Despite her age, Marnie Lundquist was certainly capable of caring for her granddaughter’s rabbit by herself. But she had been uneasy about the bunny the day before. I suspected that she was simply nervous about the responsibility, but it wouldn’t do any harm to drop by. Besides, I liked the old lady, and I had some questions that the fluffy leporid might be able to answer.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Lundquist.” Twenty minutes later, I was on the floor with the rabbit. “Now, do you mind?” The old lady had been surprised to see me, but not unhappy. And when I explained myself—that I was in the neighborhood and that I had been aware that her concerns had not been entirely answered during my other visit—she had welcomed me in.

  I wasn’t speaking to her, of course. Sitting on the braided rug, which already looked a bit chewed, I was focusing on the rabbit, Henry. I wasn’t looking at him. He was a prey animal, and I didn’t want to scare him. But I did address my question toward him, reaching out as I’ve been learning to do with gentle thoughts of grass and sunshine.

  He’d been in the room when I’d come in, nibbling on some hay in an open box. But although he’d frozen when we’d entered—those liquid eyes going even wider to take in possible escape routes—he’d calmed a bit, as I talked to his surrogate human. Now he hopped over, his reddish legs extending as he considered my presence.

  “What’s your story?” I slowly extended my hand for him to sniff. “Are you at peace?” I wasn’t sure how to ask what I wanted. This, after all, was a creature of the wild, far different from the cats and dogs I usually communicated with. “Are you happy?”

  I wasn’t even sure what I wanted to ask. Partly, I did want to help Marnie Lundquist. She had reassured me that the bunny hadn’t threatened her again—no more of that odd rabbit growling—but she had confirmed that “Henry didn’t seem quite himself.” Partly, I felt an obligation to the little beast. Pet or no, he had not been raised to live with humans. If he was miserable, or going slowly nuts, I would do what I could to set him free.

  Partly, I’ll confess, I was curious. Beyond a brief internship at a wildlife rehab center a few years ago, I’d had little chance to spend time with something truly wild. The few interactions I’d had recently—with a raccoon and with a wild cat—had been fascinating, their impressions more vivid than anything I would have imagined. Henry hadn’t even let me hold him on my first visit. More than his soft fur, I wanted to touch his mind. To see what made the little bunny hop.

  Marnie Lundquist seemed to sense this. Rather than respond to my query, she sat a few feet away, perched like a small bird on an ottoman, and watched as Henry and I sized each other up.

  “Safe?” The thought was more an appraisal than a direct question, as the twitching nose sought out my scent.

  “I’m a friend,” I replied, softly. This animal was somewhat used to human companionship, and I hoped my low, calm tone would be reassuring. And, perhaps, familiar.

  “Family?” The bunny took one step closer, sniffing. Once again, I was struck by the delicacy of the creature’s face. From a distance, a rabbit can look like a puffball with legs. Up close, I could see those large eyes taking in everything: me, the room on either side. Even much of the area behind his muscular rump. Everything including Marnie Lundquist, I assumed.

  “Friend,” I repeated. I couldn’t tell if Henry associated Marnie with her granddaughter, or how he regarded his relationship with these women. But I’ve found that honesty works best with animals. They know better than most of us that deceit can mean danger.

  “He’s quite taken with you.” Marnie Lundquist’s voice was equally low and soft. “He’s treating you like a member of the family.”

  I started and caught myself. Made myself smile. Her words—echoing the rabbit’s—were most likely coincidence. Although it was possible that she, too, had some kind of sensitivity, an ability to read the little animal’s intent, if not hear his thoughts.

  “I wonder if he’d let me pick him up,” I said, as much to announce my intention to the small beast as to his person. “I’d like to examine him.”

  I’m not a vet, but I have been trained in animal emergency care. Although the rabbit seemed fine now, animals can be very skilled at masking injury or illness—especially in front of a stranger, like me. When hiding a vulnerability can mean the difference between life and death, a prey animal can go a long while in pain, and the odd behavior that Marnie Lundquist had told me about might have been the only sign that something was very wrong. Besides, there was something going on—another whisper, or whispers, just beyond my reach. Something I couldn’t quite catch…

  Not that I wanted to mention this to Marnie Lundquist. Between her soft voice and gentle manner, the old lady had more than a passing resemblance to the rabbit I now reached, ever so slowly, toward.

  “Come here, little guy.” The rabbit sat up, eyeing me with—I thought—suspicion. Those velvet ears twitched, and I wondered—was Henry hearing what I couldn’t? Or was he simply picking up cues from the room? Waiting, perhaps, for Marnie Lundquist to respond?

  “Be gentle,” she said, though whether she was talking to me or asking her pet not to bite was an open question. I glanced sideways to see that she, too, had drawn her hands up to her breast, in anticipation or concern. Yes, the old lady genuinely was like her pet.

  “Henry….” Was I like Wallis? The image of my tabby’s face filled my mind—her wide white whiskers against the tiger-striped fur. That piercing green glare.

  “Oh!” Marnie Lundquist might have been responding to Henry’s response, as he turned and leaped away across the room. Or not. Cursing my undisciplined thoughts, I sat back on my heels and smiled ruefully as his white tail bounced away. It would take a while to make up for that error.

  “I think maybe I rushed things.” I said, to save face.

  “You never can tell with Henry.” She shook her head in disappointment, though with me or the bunny I didn’t know. “You simply can’t tell.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  I could almost hear Wallis’ purr of contentment at that. She has a very definite attitude toward prey animals, and views my desire to communicate with them a character flaw.

  “Really?” I could imagine the rumbling drawl in her voice. “And those lovely roast birds you dine on?”

  As I’ve said, animals have little tolerance for deception. And Wallis has spent enough time with me to recognize hypocrisy as a version of the same. As for compassion—or the fact that I made my living dealing with animals of various sorts—well, she saw these as the weaknesses of my species.

  “Wouldn’t last a night out in the wild,” she would mutter, as she stalked away. “Wouldn’t last a night.”

  But Wallis wasn’t around—either to argue with or to commiserate—as I apologized again to Marnie Lundquist. With a last fleeting glimpse of Henry—“Go away!”—I took off.

  I did my best to banish the embarrassment of defeat—and the nagging feeling that I had missed something—as I made my way, finally, over to the Chateau. Stewie, the spaniel, was a fin
e, healthy dog, and I didn’t foresee having any problems with him. His owner, though, was a different matter. Cheryl Ginger might be used to being the center of attention. Women who looked like her usually were. But there was too much going on around her for my comfort. At least, as long as I was tangentially involved.

  If only I didn’t need the money. The winter had been hard, though, and my house still needed work. Insurance had covered much of the rebuilding after a fire had destroyed the entrance hallway of my house. But the bare-bones package I had thought sufficient didn’t include niceties like upgrading the insulation, or painting, for that matter. And if I wasn’t going to be reduced to chewing on the forsythia myself, I needed to take every gig that came my way.

  “Pru Marlowe for Cheryl Ginger.” I gave my name at the front desk.

  “Of course.” The desk clerk was as well trained as that spaniel, and possibly more smitten with the curvy redhead. “Go right up,” he said with a smile, a moment later. Although he clearly would have liked to follow me, the brief interaction on the house phone had clearly made his day.

  “Pru! Thank you so much.” The 100-watt version of Cheryl’s own smile greeted me as she opened the door. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

  “My pleasure.” I stepped into the room and looked around. Open suitcases and strewn clothes made the suite look smaller than it was. “Are you taking off?”

  “God, I hope so.” She sighed audibly. “It’s just been…”

  “Of course.” Whatever I thought of this woman, her boyfriend had been killed. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s—” Another shake of the head. “The investigation. It’s just terrible.”

  “I can imagine.” This close, I could see the strain. Her complexion was still perfect—a ski-slope tan giving her a golden glow—but there were shadows below those gold-green eyes and the faintest of lines around her mouth. The woman had undoubtedly been involved in something shady. But I’m no moralist, and, besides, I knew firsthand how hard it can be to live alone in the city. “So the Feds have been questioning you?”