by Clea Simon
She was right, I’d been shaking the spice in without thinking. Ah well, I stirred it in. I didn’t have to eat this casserole, only bring it. “Where did you learn that?”
“Did you think I was asleep all those nights when you were watching Law and Order?”
I burst out laughing. The idea of my cat learning to investigate crime from a TV show, it was all too much.
She stood up, clearly offended. “Well, if you don’t want my help.” Tiger-striped haunches quivering, she prepared to jump down.
“Oh, Wallis, I’m sorry.” Dropping the wooden spoon, I scooped the tabby into my arms and held her close. It had been a while since I’d had any warm body against my own. I’d forgotten how good it could feel.
“If you’d get out more, maybe that wouldn’t be the case.” I twisted back to peer into those clear green eyes. “After all, I may be spayed, but I have had other lives.”
I put her down on the floor and she sashayed out of the room, purring.
***
“Cui bono.” Wallis likes to think she’s sophisticated, but sometimes she’s right. If I wanted to understand what happened, I’d do well to figure out why. Or in this case, who. And the question did add a little more savor to the evening’s entertainment. Being stuck in a house of mourning is a tad too grim, even for me. Charles’ mother’s place turned out to be a neat little bungalow right on the edge of Raynbourne, another old mill town further down the river. Nothing fancy, but someone had cared to find and nurture flowers that would bloom in New England’s rocky soil, even in September. Too bad the careful landscaping couldn’t hide the gloom inside.
“Good evening. I’m Pru, Pru Marlowe.” I held up the Dutch oven as some kind of proof. “This is Mrs. Harris’ place, isn’t it?” The little white-haired thing who’d opened the door nodded and I stepped in, over a mat depicting posies. To my right, a cheery plaque declared “Time Spent in the Garden is Never Wasted.” The crowd in front of me looked like they could use some fresh air. This was going to be a long evening.
“Hot plate. Coming through.” It wasn’t, not anymore, but as soon as I stepped into that living room, I knew I needed to keep moving. Outside, autumn had already put a slight nip in the air. In here, it had it be over eighty; the steam quotient ratcheted up by a house full of mourners who murmured and buzzed like so many flies. “Coming through.”
My voice at normal volume sounded harsh, but it got their attention and with minimal bumping, I was able to make my way through to a kitchen already full of aluminum foil, baked goods, and something that smelled of burnt cheese.
“A casserole?” A tall redhead with a face ten years too old for her brassy hair reached to take my Corningware. She was wearing an olive pantsuit that brought out the green in her dye job. At least in here, people were talking like the living. “Meat pie?”
“Chili, sort of.” I relinquished my offering. Something about her was familiar, but it took a minute. She looked like all my mother’s friends had, twenty years ago. The voice, however, that was more recent. “Are you Sal?”
The redhead smiled. “You’re the dog trainer, right? Isn’t this sweet of you.”
“Well, considering.” I’m not good at these kinds of situations, and the time warp—everything but her face—didn’t help. Not to mention that I’d been working with the dog accused of killing the man being mourned. Maybe that’s why Sal was looking at me funny. “I did want to show my respect.”
She nodded and bit her lip—peach frost—and I let her lead me through the crowd to a large and highly polished dining room table.
“Let’s see now. Would you get that trivet for me?” I swung around until I saw a decorative tile printed with three garden hoes, all wearing Santa hats. With a grateful sigh, Sal put my dish down. “Seems like we have enough food.”
“I wanted to do something.” It sounded lame, even to me, but I’d hit the right note. Sal smiled at me and took my hand.
“You’re a good girl.” I waited, but she didn’t let go. “Have you met Nora?”
I shook my head no.
“Come with me, then.” She pulled and for a moment I couldn’t move. It wasn’t just the crowd, it was the mood. I’m not sensitive to people, not like I am to animals. But there was something palpable in this room, something bad. A man had been killed. Maybe I’d been spending too much time around animals, recently. They know to leave the dead alone.
“Nora.” She led me over to an overstuffed recliner cradling an understuffed woman. Nora Harris had probably been small to start with, but tragedy had flattened her further. “Nora?” The tiny woman played with the oversized buttons of her bulky knit cardigan. If I’d lost a son, I’d tune out the world, too. “Nora.”
Sal reached for the small veined hand, pulling it gently away from the wooden button. At the same time, she propelled me closer. “This is—” She paused. Of course. She wouldn’t want to bring up the subject of the dog.
“Pru, Pru Marlowe.” I crouched down and took the old lady’s hand. It was as cold as I’d feared. But whether it was the touch or the sound of my name, something sparked a light in those deep-set eyes.
“Pru, yes.” Her hand tightened on mine. “Welcome to my home. Charles talked about you.”
“He was a good man.” Hey, he’d saved a dog. Got her in more trouble in the long run, but at least he’d tried. “I was working with him pretty closely for the last few months.”
“Yes, yes. He was—”” The spark was gone; those blue-gray eyes fixed on something I couldn’t see. Her mouth set in frustration. I wasn’t going to get anything out of this woman. I doubted she could tell me her phone number. Meanwhile, the buzz was getting louder, and my thighs were sore from crouching.
“Are you all right, Mrs. Harris?” The crowd parted, and the buzzing died away as a new voice came through. Warm, soft, and strong. “Do you think you could eat something now?”
My interview was coming to an end. Before my legs gave out, I had to try. “Mrs. Harris, can you tell me about the dog? Do you have any plans for Charles’ dog?”
The warm voice was right beside me now. “I don’t think we need to think about that right now.” I caught a whiff of perfume. Expensive and not too obvious. “Won’t you try a sandwich?”
The blue grey eyes looked up, alive again. The gnarled hands reached up for the proffered china plate.
“Actually, I’m afraid we do have to.” I leaned in as the old lady took a bite so small it wouldn’t have fed a mouse. God, I hated being the heavy. “Charles’—the animal is in the town pound now, and I’d like permission to treat her.”
I was pulled to my feet by the woman next to me. She might talk softly, but she was a strong one. “I do not think this is the time or the place.” I turned and found myself staring into the kind of blue eyes you only read about. Turquoise, almost, and set into a face better suited to poolside Hollywood than a Berkshire wake.
“But—” Beauty has its advantages. My tongue was tied.
“I don’t mind.” The small, grey voice broke our staring contest. “Really. The police talked to me about the dog.”
Goldilocks didn’t relax her grip on my elbow by much, but I managed to turn back to the woman in the chair. “And would you be willing to relinquish control?”
“Of course.” But she wasn’t finished. I held my breath. “He told me they should do a test first.” She blinked, lost in the middle distance again, but something brought her back. “For the public good. A rabies test. After that.”
“Rabies? But her tags.” I tried to visualize Lily’s collar. Thick black leather and a couple of tags: one big round one with her name and address. Some charm or other, and the state ID, blue metal, with the date of her vaccination and the vet’s license number. I remembered the slight jingle as she’d shake herself after a roll in the grass. “There should have been a rabies tag on her collar.”
“I don’t know. Maybe it fell off. They said they had to do a test.”
I thought as fast
as I could, and I kept my voice soft. “If you’ll give me permission to look for the dog’s papers, Mrs. Harris, that won’t be necessary.”
“No, no. I think they’re right.” I was losing her. “It’s for the public good.”
“You heard her.” Goldilocks was pulling me back up. “After the test.”
I tore my arm away. “Do you know how they do the test?” Blue grey eyes blinked up at me. “They don’t have to test the whole dog. They just send the head to the lab.”
“Oh, my.” That had been my last shot, and it had been as effective as a body blow to the old lady. Any hope that I might have had of rousing the latent animal lover in her was lost as the blonde turned me around and pushed me through the crowd. It parted easily this time, nobody wanting to get in the way of the lioness and the jackal she was kicking out of the jungle.
“Pru Marlowe, I can’t believe you said that to her.” My escort was talking, as well as she could through gritted teeth. “What were you thinking? That animal is a menace, and bringing it up to Charles’ mom—”
“Wait a minute.” Those eyes had me fooled, but something about that voice was familiar. “How do you know my name?”
We’d reached the front door by then, and she’d let go of my arm. An older man with a beard like underbrush was coming in. I grabbed the door before she could close it. It was the eyes: they must be contacts.
“It’s true what they say. You leave town, and suddenly you forget where you’re from.” She was slouching now, leaning against the door frame in a way that made me think of gym class, of lockers. “And all you care about is that horrible, stupid dog. The dog that killed my fiancé.”
“Delia. Delia Cochrane.” Everything clicked into place. “Look at you. All grown up.”
I stepped back as the door slammed shut.
***
I’m not, as I’ve said, good with people. But I am not usually a total hardass. If I’d seen any sign of grief, I probably would have come up with a better closing line. At least I like to think so. As I walked back to my car, a couple of thoughts kept rattling around my mind. Charles had never mentioned Delia. More important, he’d never brought her in for any of our training sessions. To a behaviorist, that meant he didn’t consider her part of the family. She wasn’t someone who had to learn how to handle Lily, someone Lily should get to know. So that talk about a “fiancé” sounded fishy. And now that I’d seen her again, I did remember her other beau, Chris Moore, the one Albert had mentioned. People move on, and people change, sure. But I recalled the skinny cheerleader and the lanky basketball center as an item since puberty. Had she traded in true love for a better lifestyle? Had someone made a point of getting in her way?
That’s what was churning around my brain as I turned onto the state highway. That, and the fact that I’d probably never see my casserole dish again.
CHAPTER SIX
Lucky for me, I’m lousy at proportions. I’d bought too much meat and was frying up the rest of it when Wallis sauntered into the kitchen. The angle of her tail was smug, but I knew she wanted to know. I dashed on the Tabasco and waited.
She sniffed the air, winced at the spice, and sat.
Ignoring her stare, I stirred the ground beef, enjoying the greasy-hot aroma. It had been a while since I’d had an all-meat meal. While I’m carnivorous by nature, a burger and beer gal, I’d found myself going off red meat in recent months. Something about hearing animals makes them less appealing on the plate. Not that that had ever stopped Wallis.
“You know you want to tell me,” she said finally, as I scooped up a spoonful of my makeshift meal. “You like the girl for it?”
If I’d been greedier, I’d have choked. As it was, I only gagged a little. By the time I’d chased the hot meat with some water from the faucet, Wallis was looking quite pleased with herself, sitting sphinx-like on the counter. “So do you?”
“I wish you wouldn’t do that.” No point in taking a harder tone with a cat.
“Why not? It’s what you do.”
“Excuse me? I’m slow today.” Sarcasm is mainly lost on animals, but Wallis had spooked me. Nobody over the age of eight wants her mind read.
“That’s it. You read our minds, as you call it.” Wallis shuffled a bit, rearranging her furry bulk on the counter. “You eavesdrop.”
I mulled that over, uncomfortably aware that even as I did Wallis was listening in. It was true, that’s more or less what I do: eavesdrop on animals’ most private thoughts. The fact that I never wanted to probably didn’t count for much. As I scraped up the last of the browned beef, I weighed the implications.
“I don’t choose to hear what I do.” I kept coming back to this. “And I don’t think they know I do.”
She shrugged. Cats can. “And that matters, why?”
My cat was beginning to sound like me, and another thought struck home. How long had Wallis been privy to my thoughts? I looked over, but she had turned her back toward me. Just like a cat.
“I don’t mean to sound insulting, you know.” Her answer rang loud in my head. “But you do learn to block it out. Most kittens can by the time they’re weaned.”
“Great, I’m as helpless as a newborn kitten.” She turned at that, and the appraisal in her eyes made me laugh out loud.
“So, do you think the blonde did it?”
Back to that again. I scrubbed at the skillet and thought it over. “She says they were engaged. If they went through with it, she would have had a lot more—and had some security, too.” If, that is, she were telling the truth.
“And if she really wanted to.” Wallis finished my thought. “Maybe they were breaking up. Maybe he had another woman.”
I spun, angry now, and shook a wet sponge at her. “Would you cut that out? It’s unnerving.” I searched for a word that would hit home with her. “Rude. But you’re right, I’ve got to see if I can find out what the deal was with them.”
“Or not.” The flecks of soapy foam had landed too near Wallis for her to remain settled. She jumped to the floor. “Maybe it’s time to just let sleeping dogs lie.”
Lily. How could I have forgotten? Without Nora Harris’ intervention, she’d be euthanized for a rabies test. “The dog is running out of time.”
“And you can stop that?”
The tabby had a point. I didn’t want to get more involved in this. Not anymore than I already was. I’d tried to talk to the vet, to Charles’ mother. Tomorrow, I was due in the cop shop, and as it was I’d be peddling fast to explain my initial certainty that Lily hadn’t done it. After that, maybe it was time to let nature—or the law—take its course. I sensed a purr starting up in Wallis’ throat.
But I’d also heard the panic in Lily’s voice. The combination of terror and overwhelming loss. And I had run when she had tried to show me what she’d seen, when I’d glimpsed the horror she was living with. No. I put the skillet back on the flame to dry. I couldn’t walk away.
“Cherchez la femme?” Wallis was still staring at me. I turned to watch droplets of water sizzle and die.
“Or something.” Wallis may consider herself cosmopolitan. I didn’t feel any more worldly than any other small-town girl. And as I felt her purr grow stronger, a strange idea struck me. If I was going against my cat’s advice, why was she purring? Had she been manipulating me all along?
“Wallis, about this mind reading thing…” I turned from the oven, but she was gone.
Cherchez la femme.
The theory was good, but before I started following anyone else’s tail, I needed to save Lily’s. I had a feeling my morning appointment with Officer Creighton was not going to be easy or brief. If I wanted anything like an edge, I needed more information. Plus, if I was going to save Lily’s skin, I needed her papers. Hard proof that she’d been vaccinated would be the best way for her to avoid a summary execution. Which is why that evening, after making my other rounds and waiting for the late summer sun to finally douse itself in the hills, I was back at Charles’. Crouched
under an old lilac, listening to the birds and contemplating a break in.
The lilac wasn’t cover exactly, its old trunk too gnarly and bare. However, its deep shadow did shield me partially from the road. If anyone saw me, well, I was resting. I hadn’t been back long enough for Joe Neighbor to know I was no nature lover. Breaking in was the obvious choice. No way could I just waltz into the house while Creighton or any of his colleagues were around. They’d like me for the crime, if they couldn’t frame Lily. The birds, well, they were my lookouts.
Like I’ve said, I don’t talk to the animals. With the exception of Wallis, they don’t seem to talk to me in any personal way and that’s fine. Birds especially. There’s a reason we humans have the expression “bird brain.” But even a non-psychic could pick up the contented good-night cooings of the mourning doves, the last-chance call-outs of that macho mockingbird, everybody getting ready to nest down for the night. I just hear it differently. Hear the intent, if that makes sense. So if anything, even the neighborhood tom, had come around, you’d hear squawks. I’d be getting panicked little shrieks. Flee! Flee! Flee! What? What? What? I wasn’t, but I wanted to make sure. I shifted on the hard roots of the lilac. Ten minutes more, and if everything remained quiet, I’d go in.
I didn’t mind being alone. Gotten used to it certainly, but something in Wallis’ comments had hit home. There’d been men back in the city. More than a few. Men liked me, and I liked them, at least for a while. But I’m a loner by nature. Sitting here, uncomfortable as it was, gave me a chance to think. Wallis’ jab combined with the night noises set my thoughts on Stevie, the most recent of the bunch. A jazz pianist, Stevie had hands like caged doves, all fluttery to watch but more powerful than you’d think. That had been a while ago. For an artist, Stevie had been surprisingly concrete, and I hadn’t been able to explain my “gift” once it had come. Nor to anyone else, for that matter. Plus, he had the most annoying schnauzer that kept yelling obscenities at me. So that had been it. I’d become one of those women who lives alone and talks to her cat. I figured I had a good six months before I started eying the gas station attendant with impure thoughts. And I had my nights free to sit in the bushes outside the house of a former clients. It could be worse.
