by Clea Simon
“PBR.” There was plenty of space at the bar. The bartender wasn’t someone I recognized, and I knew the original Happy had been gone for years. Emphysema, I’d heard. The current bartender was just an employee and looked none too happy with the low-key crowd. I thought about feeding the jukebox, but wanted to get a feel for the crowd first.
“Hey, gorgeous.” Not original, but I turned anyway. I didn’t mind what I saw. Tall, angular, with dark hair falling into his face and a smile just off enough to be natural, he slid onto the stool next to me as if he owned it. Up close, he looked white as porcelain, his beard showing blue in the dim light.
“Do I know you?” Friendliness is not one of my natural attributes, and the grin seemed just a little too easy to me. But the barkeep brought him a lowball glass of something amber, and I figured he came with the territory.
“Mack.” He held out a hand big enough for a lumberjack. Always a good sign. “Mack Danton.”
I raised my bottle in a salute. That was me going part of the way. “Pru Marlowe.”
“I knew that.” He withdrew his mitt without seeming to mind and took a healthy swallow of his whiskey. I saw a muscle move alongside his jaw and turned away. “I’ve been meaning to look you up.”
I bit my tongue on that, thinking of my cop friend’s trick. My face must have shown something, though, because the big guy’s smile grew even wider. “I’m a friend of Chuck’s. Was, I guess. And, well, I heard….” The wattage faltered and despite my best instincts, I took pity.
“Yeah, I found him. I was working with his dog.” Something about this guy was getting to me, maybe it was the smile. I caught myself before I started explaining more.
“Rough.” He sounded as if he’d heard me anyway and drank some more, the muscle moving up and down again along the side of his face. “He and I went way back. We were working together, some, on his new project.”
Funny, this guy looked nothing like Charles. Chuck, as he called him. If he worked with systems, I’d have guessed they were wood and water based, maybe outdoors or with animals. Or, considering that white-blue pallor, stuck in here, dealing cards.
“I didn’t know Charles had a partner.” I didn’t know what Charles did exactly, but there was no reason to let this guy know that.
He nodded. “Yeah, we were getting ready to launch, too.” I couldn’t tell what was making him sad, the death of his partner or the delay in a product. I told myself that it was for Lily that I needed to know more.
“And that product was—what exactly?” I leaned in. The bartender gave me a look that said he’d seen this move before.
So had Mack. He laughed, that big smile springing back into place. “Proprietary software, Ms. Marlowe. If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
The bartender turned to him. I did, too, as his face went blank. “I’m sorry.” He sank his face into his hand. “Old joke, but it’s not funny anymore, is it?”
“Hey, it’s okay.” I heard my own voice grow soft. “It’s still so new.”
“Tell me about it.” He looked up at the bottles across the bar and raised his glass. The bartender refilled it from a bottle of Jim Beam. “I guess I’m still in shock. But you. I’m surprised you’re still walking.”
“Why do you think I’m in here?” Two drinks later, we were back on familiar territory. Barroom flirting, trading tragedies, and I was enjoying myself. But I wasn’t here for fun, and the good-looking stranger saw me looking around.
“Meeting someone?” His voice was cool, though its hint of jealousy warmed me.
“Just curious.” I turned back to face the bar. The mirror behind the bottles was webbed with age, but it still gave me a pretty fair take on the room. It wasn’t as large as it had loomed in my dreams, back when I was a bored teen. Still, Happy’s had the essentials. Low lights shaded with red glass made the folks at the tables seem a little rosier, a little healthier than they might otherwise. Here at the bar, the light was more golden—or that could have been the beer—and a little brighter. I looked past Mack at a worn blue sweater. Something about the wearer was familiar.
A cough brought me back. “Curious?”
“Okay, I’ll ’fess up.” I put as much charm as I could into my smile, hoping to mask the lie. “I feel a little odd about what happened. With Charles and all. I was hoping to run into some of his people. Maybe his girlfriend, or someone.”
I left the name blank, just in case he might name someone other than Delia. It wasn’t likely, but then motives for murder don’t grow on trees. If I was hoping for gossip, though, I was out of luck.
“You found me.” He leaned in. “I don’t think you should feel strange. You couldn’t have known that dog would turn on him, could you? What I heard was that he got it from a dogfighting ring.”
“Really?” I knew as much from Lily herself. I hadn’t realized that was common knowledge. “Did Charles tell you that?”
“He said he got the dog off some gambler he knew. I don’t know if he lost a bet or what.” I raised my eyebrows at that. “Nobody I know,” said Mack, backpedalling.
“Hey, the dog wasn’t the one who ripped his throat out.”
Mack blanched. I’d gone too far. I reached over and put my hand on his forearm. He was wearing a denim work shirt, its texture pleasingly rough to my touch.
“I’m sorry.”
He stared down at the bar. “I just can’t get my mind around it, you know?”
We sat in a companionable silence. Someone finally got the jukebox going. Vintage soul. Smoky and full of possibility. I’d met my jazz pianist in a bar like this, but that was in a bigger city and a very different time.
“You going to the funeral?” Mack’s question broke into my thoughts.
“I don’t know.” I turned to face him. Even in the bar light, his eyes looked blue. “I honestly hadn’t thought about it.” I swallowed. “Truth is, I don’t know when it is.”
“Sunday.” He named one of Beauville’s three churches and gave me a time. “It’s not much of a date, but I could pick you up.”
“Thanks, but—” I fished around for an excuse. “I’ve got a dog-walking gig. Rain or shine, with no days off for holidays.” It wasn’t true. The bichon’s owner took charge of him on weekends. She said she needed the exercise. In truth, I think she just wanted to avoid my higher weekend rates.
Mack nodded. “Well, if you want to talk to anyone, come.” He shrugged. “You’ll probably see Delia there.”
“Delia, yeah, that’s her name.” A stray thought struck me. “Why is the funeral in Beauville? His mother lives over in Raynbourne, and you’d think she’d want him buried over by her?”
“Beats me.” Mack signaled to the bartender that he wanted to settle up. “You can ask Delia. She’s been helping the old lady out. That’s how she met Chuck, I think.”
I thought of Charles’ mother. She hadn’t seemed feeble, not more than the death of a child could explain. “Delia is her housekeeper, or some kind of aide?”
Mack stood up, pulling out his wallet and enough bills to cover both our drinks. “I don’t know what the deal was, but it worked out all right for her, didn’t it?” He flashed that smile again. It faded quickly. “For a while, anyway. So hey, I’ll see you around?”
“Sunday, definitely.” We both got up. I waited, to see if Mack would follow up with an offer—a ride, or a nightcap somewhere private. But Mack was talking to the bartender, and I remembered those late night games. I had had other activities in mind, but a lady likes to be asked, and instead I made my way over to the door.
How had Charles—excuse me, “Chuck”—gotten involved with someone like Mack? For that matter, what exactly was Charles’ project and how close was it to completion? I was mulling these questions over when the front door opened, letting in a stream of light and unexpectedly cold air. Together, they made patterns in the smoke, illuminating the dark back booths, and I saw Chris Moore, sitting alone, as he looked up expectantly—and not at me. I followed his ga
ze as Delia Cochrane stepped inside, the street lamp making her golden hair glow like an angel’s.
“Be right back.” I heard the bartender excuse himself and start toward the newcomer as she stepped by me, toward Chris’ booth. I started toward them and stopped. I didn’t know what I was going to say. This was a small town, and these were people who knew each other. Who had shared a great grief. Still, something was off here. There were connections I wasn’t seeing. I paused by the jukebox. Smokey had given way to something newer, a young singer faking passion to a disco beat. What was I going to ask Delia? Who was I to intrude?
I looked over at Chris’ table. He’d not noticed me; he only had eyes for Delia. She had bent over him as she came nearer, saying something close in his ear that made him smile as she slid into the seat opposite his. I had no place here. But as I stood watching, listening to the dance beat, I realized I could smell her perfume. Lightly floral with a note of something else, too, more sophisticated than I’d expect, coming from our little town. The fresh air from the door and the smoke all around was swallowing it up, but I could just catch it. A hint of spice. Something sweet.
CHAPTER TEN
The morning of the funeral dawned cool and clear, the kind of Indian summer day we in New England pray for. It’s also the kind of day we usually overdress for, and by nine, I had already shed one layer of fleece.
Funny, I never used to be a morning person. Bars aren’t as much fun when the light is new and strong. But since I got out of the hospital, I’ve been sleeping less, waking earlier, and craving that early morning air. The sleeping part is odd. When I checked myself in, their diagnosis was “exhaustion.” True, I hadn’t slept for something like three days by then. It wasn’t fatigue that was doing for me. Albert had it partially right. I had changed, but that had happened before the aides in white coats. The doctors were there to help me. In fact, I’d called them. Not that it had done any good.
No, I don’t know what caused it. Maybe I never would. I’d been working myself sick, so maybe diagnosing exhaustion wasn’t that far off. I was still in school, so close to getting my certification that I could taste it. And between biochemistry and my practicum, the internship that behaviorists have to do to learn the realities of the gig, I was up all hours. That wasn’t new to me, and I kind of liked it. I was getting ready to kick Stevie out of my life. Those wild hands had strayed once too often. It was time for Pru to focus on Pru.
And then I’d gotten sick. Really sick. Lie in bed and listen to the clock tick sick.
Now, when you’re living with someone, getting the flu can be kind of fun. Your boyfriend, husband, whatever, is there to fetch for you. To bring you aspirin and juice; to call the doctor if your temperature spikes once too often.
When you’re living with an animal, you don’t expect this kind of care. Sure, I’d heard the stories of dogs that fetched the phone for injured humans. Of cats that curled up and purred over surgery incisions. I’d even believed a few of them. Domestic animals know which hand has the thumbs to open the cans, after all. And so when Wallis started licking my temples and then the insides of my wrists, I wasn’t freaked. I’d been sweating, during those good hours when my fever would break and I could sleep. My skin was probably salty as hell. And when she kept coming back, leaving me only to eat or use the litterbox, I attributed it to some vague maternal residue.
But then she started talking to me. Telling me, specifically, that I had to “get over” myself, drink some water, and consider bathing, then I knew I was sick. The funny thing was, the lecture worked. Sympathy is nice, but I never took it too seriously. Having someone yell at me, tell me, basically, that I was going to die and it would be my own fault if I didn’t do something, that I believed. And so I got up and stuck my head under the kitchen tap, drinking like the parched thing I was. Wallis was sitting on the counter by the time I looked up.
“And perhaps you’d like to follow that with some food?” Her voice fit her neat tabby style. Very sure of itself, a little smug.
“I’m hallucinating.” I said the words aloud, partly to make sure my voice sounded different from hers. It did. But the water had helped, and I grabbed a loaf of bread from the fridge, eating one stale slice while two others toasted and chasing it with juice straight from the carton. “I’ll be better once I eat and drink.” I didn’t say those words aloud, but the answer came loud and clear.
“If you’re really better, you might consider drinking that in such a way that half of it doesn’t spill over your face.” I choked out a mouthful and looked over to see Wallis staring up at me. “And you really might consider a shower, as well, before going back to sleep.”
I think I dropped the container. It was mostly empty anyway, but the noise—or maybe it was the look in my eye—made Wallis take off. I did shower then, letting water beat down on me until my fingertips were wrinkled and the chills had started to come back. But I didn’t go back to bed after that. Instead, I dressed as quickly as I could, aware all the while of Wallis’ eyes, watching me, and hailed a cab. I don’t remember what I said to the admitting clerk, but as a student, my health insurance was good. They gave me something, and I slept until my flu was gone.
The voices had never stopped. They had, in fact, gotten worse on my return. Not only did Wallis talk to me, I found myself overhearing every animal I came in contact with. Everything, constantly, and before you start thinking cute Dr. Doolittle thoughts, try to imagine what that’s like. In a city, you’re not just surrounded by pets—inbred Yorkies consumed with petty jealousies and neurotic housecats—but by all the wildlife we like to pretend doesn’t exist. Rats. Skunks. Pigeons. There had been a pigeon nest right by my bedroom window, and for years I’d been blissfully unaware of its existence. My first night back, they woke me at dawn with such inanities that I would have sicced Wallis on them, if I could.
But by then, we were barely speaking. She had reacted badly when I’d taken off, and in all fairness, I hadn’t thought to call a cat-sitter or even refill her bowl of dry food. She’d survived my three days on the ward, but my lack of gratitude was not to be easily forgiven. She made that clear. And when I started throwing things in boxes, unable to cope, she had fixed me with a steely gaze and read me the riot act.
“You are not going to run away from this. This is a gift, Pru, and if you can’t accept it, you’re less of a human than I’d judged you.”
“I’m not—” I remember stopping myself. Was I really talking back to my cat? And the hospital had released me?
“Yes, you are. Do you have any idea what you are doing, or even where you are going?”
That had stopped me. She was right, I hadn’t made any plans. I was simply going to run. And so I lay back on the bed, drained by my sickness and the events of the last week. And I found myself petting a familiar warm back as I thought.
“Beauville.” I announced finally, sitting upright.
“Excuse me?” Wallis stopped purring.
“My mother’s place. She’s always asking.” That was true, though I had no desire to share the rambling house with anyone, particularly a sickly septuagenarian and her aide.
Wallis stared without commenting.
“It’ll just be for a while. A week or two. Just until I figure out what to do next.” Until I figure out how to make this stop, I promised myself. If Wallis was listening, she didn’t say anything.
***
A few weeks had turned into a month, and my insomniac self was welcomed by the aide, who took advantage of a few nights off. When my mother went to rehab, I gave the aide notice. I could see what was happening. Sure enough, my mother never came home, moving directly to hospice, and by spring, the house was mine. But I’d never really started sleeping again, and now I was stuck with country hours in a country town, staring out at a damned perfect day.
“You’re wearing that? How imaginative.” Wallis settled her front paws over each other, as if afraid they’d be soiled by her dripping sarcasm.
“Look, it�
�s black, okay?” Time was, most of my wardrobe was this color. Back in the city, black was my fail-safe: good for the clubs and reasonable for work. In my few months here, I’d begun adding color to my wardrobe. Not because of any change in my basic outlook: if anything my illness, my “change” as I’d come to think of it, followed by the long drain of my mother’s final illness had made me more dour. Nor because of any protective coloration. Although I’d come to realize that Beauville was, like any small town, a tightly knit community, I’d chosen it because of the sparseness of its population. I didn’t want people around me. If the few who tried to get close got scared, so much the better.
But while I’d never been flush, I was now closer to flat broke than ever. My student loans had, reasonably, disappeared when I dropped my classes in midterm without explanation or excuse, and my weeks of inaction following my hospitalization drained what little savings I had. I’d dumped or given away most of my possessions, taking only what I could fit in my battered Toyota. And even though I’d given up everything but good coffee, life out here in the boonies hadn’t been as cheap as I’d hoped, and the back taxes on my mom’s house took everything she had left, too. So these days I bought what I could afford, picking up fleece and flannel as it became available and as the nights became raw. These days, I wore a lot of orange, hunters’ seconds, I assumed. Not appropriate for a funeral.
The outfit I’d pulled out that morning was one of my old stalwarts. A long-sleeved black jersey, which fell to my knees, black tights, and my biker boots. As I looked down at my feet, I sensed Wallis’ disgust.
“What?” She’d turned her head away, as if unwilling to act as witness. “They’re boots. It’s chilly out, okay?” She tucked her own soft paws under in a silent protest, and I considered my options. Sneakers, snow boots. A pair of black pumps that I’d hung onto because of the way they lengthened my legs. “I’m not wasting the heels on this. If there’s any mud, it would ruin the suede.” The tabby turned and jumped from the bed with no further comment.
