When Bunnies Go Bad

by Clea Simon

  I was dismissed, and I knew it. But while I hadn’t learned anything, the brief exchange had given the shock a chance to wear off. I was steady on my feet as I walked over to my car. And although I was grateful that the area around it was now empty, I knew better than to look for any scratches or stains over by the rear tire well, where Parvis had slumped. Time enough for that in the morning.

  “Someone’s had quite an evening.” Wallis brushed up against me as soon as I was in the house. To an outsider, her move might look like a greeting. I knew she was reading the smells of everyone I’d encountered and probably the pheromones prompted by shock and fear.

  “As if I had to smell your sweat for that.” She huffed and sat back, waiting. I needed something to eat, too, and broke a half dozen eggs into a pan.

  “I feel like a fool, Wallis.” It was easier to talk to Wallis than to Creighton, in part because I was staring into a pan. “I mean, I was sitting in there, drinking, while he was right outside.”

  “And why was that, do you think?” She twined around my ankles, letting me know that she’d prefer the scramble sooner rather than later.

  “Hang on.” One more shake of the pan, and it was done. Stepping out of her circuit, I fetched two plates. “Well, I just thought he was late. But he must have been ambushed as he came to talk to me.”

  “Mmmm…” The purr that rose as she began to lap up our midnight snack almost obscured her words. “Maybe,” she said. “Maybe you’re right.”

  I dug into my own plate, too hungry to bother with my usual dash of Tabasco. “Yeah, he was coming into the bar and someone must have grabbed him.” I paused. “So did someone know he was meeting me? Or was he being followed?”

  “Coming into a bar he didn’t know, using the back entrance?” Wallis could have been talking to herself, I wasn’t sure. “Or was he waiting for you to give up and leave? For you to be out there, alone, in the dark?”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  I didn’t sleep well. I’m tough, sure, but stumbling onto two dead bodies in one week is a lot, even for me. Wallis didn’t help, with that last comment about the parking lot. Of course, it could have been a ploy. I ended up scraping most of my eggs into her plate, which she was licking clean as I went up to bed.

  “Should’ve used the Tabasco,” I muttered as I left. I was in a mood.

  Images of bloody bunnies hopped through my dreams, chased by small, intent dogs. I looked for Wallis when I woke, thinking she’d used my bed as a launching pad for the first moth of the season or some other nighttime escapade. But she was nowhere to be seen. And so I lay there as the ceiling gradually lightened, the wan sun promising more warmth than it could provide, and I could go about my day.

  My first thought, as I drove to Tracy Horlick’s house, was to confront Theresa Rhinecrest. She’d set me up with Parvis, and I had a sneaking feeling she knew more than she had shared. It probably had to do with money—it usually does—though I did wonder if perhaps payback to the other woman might have a part as well. Whatever the widow was up to, I wanted no part of it. I was happy to let the Feds carry out their investigation in peace.

  But—and this was where Creighton had my number—I was curious. An explanation, and then out. She’d dragged me into this, setting Parvis onto me, and I felt I was owed that much. And so despite the hour—I suspected that the widow wasn’t an early riser—I dialed as I drove.

  “Pru Marlowe.” I growled to her voice mail when it picked up. “You have my number. Call me.”

  My next thought was Cheryl Ginger, but I’d be there soon enough. First, though, I had to face Tracy Horlick.

  “Heard you had some excitement last night.” She had the door open as I walked up the path. “Over at Happy’s.”

  One day I would find out how she got her information so fast. One day I’d quit drinking, too.

  “Good morning.” I willed myself not to engage. This was a dominance ploy on her part, and I couldn’t submit. “How’s Bitsy this morning?”

  “Better than that friend of yours, what’s his name?” She tossed her ash into the shrubs. They were used to it. I was not. I stood my ground, silent, while she fussed with her cigarette. Finally, she had to look me in the eye. “It was that ski bunny again, wasn’t it?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mrs. Horlick.” I kept my voice even, as a thought hit me. She had the basic, but no specifics. “You know, listening to a police scanner can give a person nightmares.”

  “Huh.” She grunted, but she retreated, leaving me to wonder if I’d finally uncovered her secret.

  “Hey, Bitsy!” The little dog came running out, tail wagging despite the grayness of the day. That early sun had disappeared behind a solid bank of clouds. A month ago, I’d be looking for snow. Now, I couldn’t tell. Rain or just a dismal outlook, matching my mood as we walked.

  “Bitsy, my ass…” The way he’d come trotting had been misleading, I saw now. He’d been desperate to get out, but his state of mind was no brighter than this day. Or than mine, for that matter. “Give something a cutesy name and you expect it to respond…”

  “I’m sorry, Growler,” I said as soon as we were out of earshot.

  “You were trying to placate her.” He watered a tree and moved on. “All your talk of training and dominance…”

  He was right, of course. All I could do was admit it. “It was her asking about last night,” I tried to explain. I assumed that he’d be privy to all the information Horlick had, as well as most of what I was thinking. Animals do pick up a lot more than we know, as Wallis had explained. “And that ski bunny crack.”

  “That’s another one.” He was pulling me ahead, behavior that I wouldn’t usually tolerate in a client animal. Action designed to show me who was boss. I let him. “Bunny, indeed. A cute name, but you don’t know what those animals can get up to. You don’t know what they’ll do.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  The widow hadn’t called me back by the time I relinquished Growler, disgruntled but a little more relaxed, to his sour-faced person.

  “Took you long enough.” She paused to pick a scrap of tobacco from her tongue. “I was beginning to worry.”

  “A little rain wouldn’t have hurt either of us.” I was referring to myself and the bichon, but she only scowled more. “I think it’s too late for snow.”

  “There are worse things than weather.” She squinted for emphasis—or because of the smoke. I smiled and bent to pet poor Growler. There were no words for what he had to endure.

  I had words for the widow, though, as I drove away. Slowing below my usual cruising speed, I checked my messages once more, and thought about calling Mrs. Rhinecrest again. Only my next destination made me hesitate. I doubted I’d get anything from Cheryl Ginger. She was cagier than she looked. And I certainly didn’t consider myself to be on the widow’s payroll—I’d never promised anything to Martin Parvis, and now he was dead. But if she was looking for information, and I had some, it might give me some leverage to understand just what the hell was going on.

  “There you are.” Cheryl Ginger was at the front desk as I walked in. And any qualms I’d had about the hotel accepting the presence of her spaniel evaporated: she was not only openly holding the dog’s leash, she appeared to be pressing it into the desk clerk’s hand. “I was hoping you’d get here soon.”

  “I’m on time.” I could hear myself growing defensive. Not that I cared. My work is one of the few things I’m proud of. “Maybe you were unclear about our agreement.”

  “No, no, it’s all fine.” She was all smiles as she came over, handing me the leash as she buttoned her white fur jacket. Behind her, the desk clerk scuttled for safety. “Only I have to run an errand, and I didn’t want to leave Pudgy alone.”

  “I gather.” I took the braided leather and got an immediate hit of anxiety. The dog was uneasy about something. I lo
oked down into anxious brown eyes. Something was different, something wrong. “Let me take him out of here.”

  “Thank you.” With a nod, she dismissed me, but I had more pressing concerns. I was dying to know the arrangement she’d made with the desk clerk, who’d acted almost as uncomfortable as the spaniel. But I’m not paid to look into human problems, no matter how tempting. I had an animal in distress, and I was pretty sure what was causing it.

  “Come on, Stewie.” I used the little spaniel’s real name as an offering of respect and recognition as I led him off toward the door. Away from the front desk, I knelt and quickly checked for a physical source for his discomfort. A little dog with a coat like his can pick up burrs, ticks…what have you. But Stewie was clean. So much so that I suspected he hadn’t been out since my last visit. And his collar—I was glad to see that Cheryl had replaced the gaudy jeweled one with plain leather—held no twigs or mats, either.

  That left emotion. Not because Stewie was a toy spaniel, though the smaller breeds do tend to be higher strung if not more anxiety prone. No, dogs in general are rule-followers. We’ve bred them for it, and it’s why they retain primacy among man’s best friends, no matter how many of us would opt for the more idiosyncratic affection of a cat. This is just how they are, and if I was going to understand what made the little dog tremble, why his tail hung down like that, I had to think as he did. Kneeling made it easy. I looked around at our surroundings—seeing them at dog-level, so to speak—and between the fake waterfall with its glistening rocks and a floor so polished claws slid off it, I identified a probable source of Stewie’s unease.

  Cheryl Ginger’s privilege be damned. The rules were in place for a reason: this was no place for a pet. An animal as well trained as this one would experience profound discomfort knowing he was someplace he shouldn’t be. Standing around in this lobby, with all its polished, pet-unfriendly surfaces must have been as upsetting for him as eating off the dinner table or soiling a rug. If I wanted him to feel good about who he was—about his training—I had to get him out of here as soon as it was possible. I got to my feet and led the little fellow to the door.

  “Let’s run,” I whispered, letting him feel my thoughts.

  Exercise is therapeutic, and the toy breeds tend not to get enough. Besides, after Tracy Horlick and now Cheryl Ginger, with her sense of entitlement, I could use some fresh air myself.

  But Stewie was having none of it. In fact, the farther we got from the entrance, the higher his anxiety level ratcheted. Although he was too well disciplined to disobey my lead, he grew increasingly unhappy as I led him through the parking lot and down the trail. By the time we had passed into the trees, he was audibly whining and pulling at the leash.

  “What is it, boy?” I knelt and put my hand on his back. Direct contact can aid communication, and I tried to clear my head as I stroked his silky curls.

  “Can’t leave her.” His body was trembling. “Don’t.”

  I was floored, and asked again, doing my best to leave my question—and my mind—open. “Why are you scared?”

  “Must go to her.” He was straining to see through the sparse foliage, through the shadows and bare trunks behind us to the hotel.

  “Okay, then.” He couldn’t be more clear than that, and I let him lead the way back up the path. We emerged into the parking lot in time to see her duck into a late model car—a silver Honda—and drive away. This only increased the dog’s agitation.

  “No! Must go to her!” His whining was pitiful.

  “We don’t know where she’s going, Stewie.” I wasn’t sure if I could reason with the little beast. “But I’m sure she’ll be back.” Even as I said it, I realized I wasn’t. People around Cheryl Ginger were facing bad ends, and I hadn’t heard from Benazi in a while.

  “Do you know where she’s going, Stewie?” In this light, the little dog’s concern seemed reasonable. But even before I got an answer, I was fishing my keys out of my pocket and striding toward my own vehicle. Cheryl Ginger had a head start, but I knew these roads. That bunny could run, but I would catch her.

  Chapter Thirty

  Cheryl Ginger drove like she must have skied. She was nearly down the hill before I caught up with her, her silver sedan taking the curves almost as well as my GTO. Stewie had grown silent in the pursuit, his latent hunting instincts kicking in and focusing him forward. He sat in my passenger seat like a statue, holding his point even as we rounded the hill’s biggest curve.

  “There she is,” I said as much to myself as to him. The spaniel was clearly aware of who we were pursuing.

  He did glance up at me as we turned onto the highway, however. I’d fallen back, letting her get almost out of sight before accelerating. “I don’t want her to see me,” I said out loud, unsure of how much would translate. “There aren’t any other cars on the road, and this car is kind of obvious.

  “By the way,” I added. “Is there anything else you can tell me?” I didn’t think he’d be able to give me more than he already had, but I figured I’d check. Besides, it wouldn’t hurt to distract him. His focus was intense enough to be almost painful. “What is she going to do? Who is she going to see?”

  “To see him.” The answer surprised me; it came so clear and fast. “But she won’t, won’t, won’t…” The thought translated into baying, and I reached over to soothe the poor beast. Fondling his silky ears calmed him—and saved mine—quieting him before he could give me more. It didn’t matter. I knew where we were headed now. Murmuring reassurances to the distraught pup, I turned off the highway and onto the county road. Cheryl Ginger might drive like a slalom racer, but I’d grown up on these roads. A few more turns—and a whispered promise to the spaniel—and we were closing in on The Pines.

  ***

  I didn’t have much of a lead. That girl drove fast. What I had was enough time to park, down by the end of the development, where even my classic ride wouldn’t be obvious. With Stewie’s leash tight, I crept up toward the condo, still easily identifiable by the yellow crime-scene tape. Although the plant life here was still winter-bare, I found a holly to hide behind, only a few doors away. Four-season foundation planting has its uses.

  “Shh, boy.” I probably didn’t need to put my hand on his muzzle—this dog had more self control than most humans would ever know—but I wanted to be sure nothing would eke out that might alert the woman who was walking up the drive. She, too, had chosen not to park near her destination, which only confirmed my suspicion that something wasn’t on the up and up. Besides, the contact had other benefits. Once again, I got the deep sense of concern—this dog was worried about the redhead. My own animal mind told me that, odds were, she was here because of a man.

  “Where’s she going, Stewie?” The question wasn’t an idle one. As we crouched, waiting, I watched the pretty redhead approach. She was back in heels, not that I’d thought she’d driven out here for the hiking. And that left me wondering which condo she’d duck into, or whose car would be coming for her.

  To my surprise, she stopped by the side of the road, not far from where I had seen her the day I found Stewie. Even from my vantage point, I could see how uneasy she looked. Her perpetual smile was gone, replaced with a tightness that aged her around the eyes. Even that pretty mouth looked tight, as if she were on the edge of pain. She might have been, the way she was dressed. Those pumps couldn’t have been warm enough on this brisk day, and if the rain that threatened came, the buff leather would soon be ruined. But despite her apparent discomfort, she showed no signs of moving on. Almost, I expected her to call, and I put my hand on the spaniel’s back, ready to restrain him if she did.

  “She’s waiting for him.” That came right away, still with an undercurrent of anxiety. Did the little dog know something about what had happened? Was he trying to tell me that the redhead had conspired to kill Teddy Rhinecrest?

  My line of thought was broken as she turned and walke
d toward the condo. She moved slowly, which could have been the heels—or perhaps reluctance to cross the yellow tape that was hanging lower over the door. I saw her reach for the knob, and then catch herself. Reluctant to leave a trace of herself, or to see where her lover had died, she quickly turned again and with a fresh energy started off into the woods.

  She wasn’t dressed for it. At least once I saw her reach out to balance herself, as her stilettos sank deep into the soft earth and leaf mold, and she moved slowly, deeper into the woods. Her pace made my decision easier. Despite Stewie’s whine, I bundled him off, back to my car, locking him in with the window open a crack.

  “Be good,” I said, emphasizing the idea of quiet. “I’ll be back soon.”

  It might not have been my smartest move, but it was easy to follow her into the woods.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  What was less easy was to avoid stumbling over her. In my boots, worn as soft as slippers, I can maneuver over rotten branches and sudden dips with no trouble. But despite her head start, Cheryl Ginger hadn’t gone far at all. Maybe fifty yards from the road, I nearly ran into her, crouched by a giant and overgrown stump with her back toward me.

  Catching myself as quietly as I could—two grackles offered their own commentary on my progress—I stepped carefully back. Out here, most of the trees are new growth—thinner than I was and springing straight up toward the light. That stump, however, must have predated this generation by a good hundred years. As wide around as my car, with roots that extended out as long as a man’s leg, it was a fragment of the past. Trees like that don’t grow around here anymore. We don’t let them, but even in decay, I could tell this remnant was a part of the living forest. As the redhead crouched in front of it, I could hear the worried thrum of rodents, quieting their young and waiting for the interloper to leave. Above us, out of my sight but not my hearing, a small raptor waited. She knew about the nests here, but her hope was different. If human interference prompted anyone to flee, she’d be waiting.