by Clea Simon
He ducked his head slightly, as if to hide his wolfish grin. “They were quite rash, and their methods simply inefficient.”
“And Martin Parvis?”
The grin disappeared. “He shouldn’t have been pushing as hard as he did.” He shook his head. “It’s one thing to ask questions. Another to threaten people.”
I nodded. I had the feeling one of those underlings would confess to the private investigator’s murder. No matter who was truly behind it.
“And the painting?” It seemed so silly that something I had never seen could be so important. “What’s going to happen to that?”
“Certain people have made an investment,” he said, one eyebrow arched. “You could say they have always only wanted the return of their property.”
“Their property?” Somewhere, a thrush began singing. A small bird, but his song had a sense of place and propriety. “This isn’t money we’re talking about. This is a national treasure.” The song trilled, cutting through the morning air like a clarion call.
“That’s a bit extreme, wouldn’t you say?” He took a step closer.
“There’s a lot I wouldn’t say.” I didn’t know where this was coming from. That thrush. Creighton. I didn’t want to let him down. “And I won’t, but…”
I left the sentence unfinished, as I looked up into trees. Somewhere up there, the thrush sang on and was joined by other birds. A chorus of small creatures, all exclaiming their right to life and beauty in their own lands. The sun had broken through. And that, it struck me then, was how my sensitivity worked. This was how I trained—no, communicated—with other creatures. Not through tricks or fear, but by understanding them, and asking them to understand me, in turn. What worked for me—what had always worked—was clarity. Enlightenment. I needed to be honest. To be direct. To be clear.
“The painting has to go back,” I said. My voice was level and low. My command voice. Right now it was simply the only way I could speak. “You know that, and so do I.”
I had turned toward him, and now I looked him in the eye. He looked old, then. Old and sad. But not, I thought, as distant as I had once believed. We stood there silent, and then he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.
“My colleagues won’t be happy about this.” Benazi tilted his head back, breaking away, but still watching me.
It didn’t matter. It was my turn to smile.
“I’m sure you can make it right,” I said, and then I turned and walked away.
Chapter Forty-nine
On my way home, I stopped off at Marnie Lundquist’s house. No business, and I wasn’t needed. I simply couldn’t resist going back. Piecing together the clues the little leporid had left for us, I had finally found the missing pet before Creighton’s call had caused me to run off, a little more than an hour before. The bunny had indeed been working on that hay, largely to drag it down to a corner of the basement, warm and safe behind the old house’s boiler. That’s where we had found Henry—and her day-old kits.
“How precious!” Marnie Lundquist had blinked away tears when I showed her the nest. She had enough sense not to try to touch the tiny bunnies. Instead we’d both crouched there, on the basement floor, watching as Henry nursed and then washed the little blind things. When I’d gone back up, to bring both food and water closer to the nursing mother, I’d fetched a pillow and stool for Marnie to sit on as well. I had a feeling she’d be down here often in the days to come. I had a feeling I would be, too.
***
Marnie Lundquist didn’t look surprised to see me return. “Poor Cara,” she said as I followed her back to the basement. “She’s going to be quite taken aback.”
“Because she wasn’t here?” The low rumble of contentment coming from the new mother was as intoxicating as bourbon. “Should we take some photos for her?”
“Oh, yes!” Marnie clasped her hands together—and held them. We’d both been speaking softly, and clapping might have been disruptive. “But, no, my dear. I meant that she might feel rather foolish. To have missed something so, well, basic.”
“She shouldn’t.” I shook my head. “She’s been a vet tech. She knows how hard it is to determine the gender of some animals.” I could have gone into how breeders measure the anal-genital distance and still often get it wrong, especially with a rabbit as young as Henry. “Except, of course, to other rabbits.”
The white bun bobbed as the old lady nodded, somewhat ruefully. “Perhaps Cara will agree to a veterinary visit now,” she said. “After all, my house is only so big.”
“Good idea.” I had been wondering what would happen to the kits. I didn’t know their odds out in the wild with a semi-domesticated mother. I needn’t have worried. “You can bring the babies in, too, in a few months.”
“I gather I should change her name to Henrietta,” said the old lady after we’d sat there for a while. “But perhaps I may still call her Henry, for short.”
“I’m sure she’ll be happy with that,” I replied.
From deep inside the nest, I got the only confirmation I needed. “Family, safe…safe and warm.” The bunny had finally let me in.
Chapter Fifty
The unveiling was held in the city a few months later. A spokesman from the FBI was joined on the podium by a representative of the museum as they drew back a curtain to reveal the restored painting, Berkshire Forest, ready to go back on display. Creighton and I watched it on my mom’s old TV, which he’d cajoled back to life when we heard the news.
“No mention of Agent Dalehy.” My guy grumbled as the camera focused in on the woodland scene, the shaft of sun between the trees. “Only that claptrap about an anonymous tip.”
“Well, he was undercover.” I watched him out of the corner of my eye, doing my best to keep my voice casual. The bunny had come to light. I didn’t think the full story ever would. “I wonder if it’s true that they have no lead on who stole it or where it’s been?”
“That’s what they’re saying,” he said, frowning. But then he opened his beer, and I realized I’d been holding my breath.
“Make it a little obvious, why don’t you?” Beside me on the couch, Wallis paused from her bathing.
“I’m just glad they caught the guys,” I said, to shift the subject. “The ones who killed Martin Parvis. I mean, he was a jerk, but really all he was doing was asking questions.”
“And I’m glad I took you out to lunch while they were on the loose.” Creighton shot me a look. “I can’t believe you thought I’d do an illegal search.”
I shrugged. “Hey, I’m my mother’s daughter.” He put his arm around me. In lieu of an apology, I snuggled in.
On the TV, the mayor began making a speech. I watched without listening, looking at his suit and thinking I’d seen better.
Benazi, of course, had never come up in the investigation or in the trial that was just now winding up. But his colleagues—the ones he’d warned Cheryl about?—they’d been apprehended roughing up one of the regulars behind Happy’s.
It hadn’t been difficult to link them to the private investigator’s death: they were out-of-town muscle. Bad guys with known ties to organized crime. I didn’t know what Parvis’ greatest sin had been—poking about, looking for the painting, or disobeying the widow’s direct orders. As I’d noticed, she had clout.
For a week or two, the two goons seemed likely to take the fall for Teddy Rhinecrest’s murder, too. Only the timeline didn’t work out. They actually had alibis, and once the painting had been recovered, the Feds lost interest in the grumpy old man as a victim. Maybe the trail went cold. At any rate, once they’d backed off, Creighton had been able to do his job. As he’d suspected all along, the murder had nothing to do with the stolen masterpiece. Nothing except that by coming to Beauville, Teddy Rhinecrest had left his territory, the home base where he was known, respected, and feared. Out here, he was no longer an alpha predat
or. Just another rich tourist, one with a smart mouth who liked to gamble but didn’t want to pay his debts.
“Don’t you know who I am?” It might have been the last thing he said.
Vince was probably lucky that Creighton picked him up when he did. Rhinecrest’s former associates had figured out what had happened, too. They knew how the old man could be, and they’d been trolling for whoever had taken him down, with their high-stakes card games and the free food. The regular they were kicking around probably would have given them Vince’s name, if he’d known it. It was just a matter of time.
The DA had said Vince would plead to manslaughter, in the hope of getting into protective custody while inside. I didn’t know if he’d make it, even then. The Feds would never admit it, but Creighton told me how annoyed they were that Vince had cut the phone lines they’d spent so much effort tapping. Cut them with the same knife he’d stabbed Rhinecrest with, when he had the old man cornered and he’d still refused to pay up. When you piss off both sides, the mobsters and the FBI, you don’t tend to live long.
The image on the TV flickered as the camera panned from the mayor back to the masterpiece. Creighton leaned in to toy with the makeshift antennae.
“I guess everyone was after the same thing,” said Creighton, once he’d gotten the image stabilized. Reaching for his beer, he paused, squinted at the TV. “The billion-dollar bunny. I still don’t see it.” He looked over at me. Saw my smile. “The rabbit, I mean.”
“He’s right out in the open,” I said, thinking of another bunny. “But you have to know where to look.”
***
Later, when Creighton had fallen asleep, Wallis jumped on the bed.
“You don’t have to treat me like a kitten, you know.” She began kneading the pillow, purring like a bellows. “Or him for that matter.”
“Hush.” I shifted over to make room. “He’ll hear you.” The thought came unbidden, and I shook my head to disperse it. Of course he couldn’t. Only I could. Only, when I glanced over, I found myself looking into those blue eyes. My beau was awake.
“I’m not a fool, Pru.” He leaned over. I braced myself. For what, I wasn’t sure. “I know about you.”
I began to compile excuses. Benazi had threatened me. He’d threatened Wallis. At that, my tabby looked up at me, her green eyes unreadable.
“I know you have some kind of special…” If he said “relationship,” I was going to deny it. Benazi and I weren’t friends. We certainly weren’t anything more.
“Sensitivity,” Creighton said after a moment’s pause, “with animals. I’ve seen it, again and again. How you seem to understand not just what they’re doing but why.”
I had no answer. I had no thoughts left, and it was with an effort that I closed my mouth at all.
“I am a detective, you know,” said my sweetheart, with a chuckle. “I think it’s part of what makes you special.”
“Special?” I choked out the word.
“Yeah,” he said, as he drew me close. Beside us, Wallis kept on purring.
Acknowledgments
Big bunny thanks go to Janie Matocha of the House Rabbit Network. She answered all my questions, and any errors are mine not hers. As always, huge thanks to my agent Colleen Mohyde and to John McDonough, for his police expertise, as well as to my editor Annette Rogers and copy editor Beth Deveny. I cannot thank Shell Welles, Brett Milano, Lisa Jones, Lisa Susser, Vicki Croke, Karen Schlosberg, Frank Garelick, and Sophie Garelick enough for all their support and encouragement, but please know how vital you are. Last but far from least, Jon S. Garelick for everything.
More from this Author
For other books, upcoming author events, or more information please go to:
www.poisonedpenpress.com/Clea-Simon
Contact Us
To receive a free catalog of Poisoned Pen Press titles, please provide your name, address and email address through one of the following ways:
Phone: 1-800-421-3976
Facsimile: 1-480-949-1707
Email: [email protected]
Website: www.poisonedpenpress.com
Poisoned Pen Press
6962 E. First Ave. Ste 103
Scottsdale, AZ 85251
