by Clea Simon
Mack smiled, but I cut in before he could make a snide comment.
“I’m not anthropomorphizing, Mack. Some animals are loyal; that’s their innate nature, and Lily—that is, Tetris—had that classic dog temperament. I don’t know what happened that morning, but I can tell you one thing. I’ve worked with animals all my professional life, and that dog did not kill Charles.”
“Well, maybe not by choice. And, yeah, I heard what you said the other night. But can’t they be trained to attack?” He looked quizzical now, like he was actually thinking about what I’d said.
“Not their owners.” And before he could take the next step that the young cop had, that maybe their trainers could issue the command, I stepped back, out of his reach. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
“Not so fast.” He didn’t grab me, quite, but he did put his hand on my arm. I whirled and glared up at him. We call it establishing dominance.
“You are not my keeper.” I kept my voice low, but something in my tone must have carried. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Albert smirk. Great, more grist for the town gossip mill.
“Hey!” Mack threw both hands up in mock surrender, stepping back as he did so. “My bad, sorry.” He was talking louder now; a couple standing a dozen feet away turned to stare. “I just thought we could talk about this, maybe over coffee later.” That grin again, wide and easy. Sexy as hell, and he knew it. “After all,” his voice dropped again, low and confidential, “it doesn’t seem like you really want to go to the gravesite. And there’s nobody left for you to question.”
I whipped around again and kicked the dirt in frustration. Sure enough, the limo had left, taking with it Charles’ mother, Delia, and, I assumed, Creighton. But lingering by the curb, his short cropped hair half a head above the small crowd, stood Chris Moore.
“Excuse me,” I said, my tone having nothing polite about it, and made my way over to the tall former athlete. If I couldn’t question Delia, I’d start on her once and future beau. “Chris! Chris Moore?” I had to push my way past several people to get to him and when I did, I reached out to get his attention, putting my hand on a bicep of granite. Maybe he hadn’t meant to hurt me before. “It is Chris, right? I’m sorry if I was monopolizing Delia before. It’s been ages.” I smiled up at him, determined to win a second chance. Man, he was tall.
“That’s okay.” He was shaking his head, about to say he didn’t know me, when suddenly a neuron fired and that heavy face lit up. For a jock, he had half a brain. In high school, I had a certain notoriety. “Pru Marlowe. It is still Marlowe, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” My smile widened with relief, and I pulled him further from the crowd. “I just moved back a few months ago. I was working with Charles—Chuck—Harris?”
He smiled back, and I did my best to bat my eyelids. Whatever works. I needed information.
“Delia said something.”
I was sure she had, but at least Chris had given me my in. “I remember you and Delia back in high school.” His grin had faded, but I upped the wattage on mine. “Looks like you two are still friends.”
“Yeah?” A wariness crept into his eyes and he pulled away, just a bit. I reached out to hold his other arm, hoping the contact would convey warmth or security. Damn, this was easier with animals.
“She’s just been through so much.” Falling back on my training, I lowered my voice and kept the tone even. “I would imagine she needs support now.” It worked; he seemed to be calming.
“Yeah, well, not everyone sees it that way.” He looked back to where a dozen stragglers were still milling by the curb, and by reflex, I did, too, in time to see someone turn away. We must have made an odd pairing, especially if they’d seen our face-off only a few minutes before. “People can be mean.”
“Tell me about it.” I heard the edge in my own voice and decided to use it. “I know how gossipy this town can be. Beauville as Peyton Place.”
He smiled in recognition, despite the vintage of my reference. I guessed even jocks know TV. “Everyone here knows we were an item, and so now…”
He didn’t have to finish the thought. I nodded in sympathy and then caught myself. I wasn’t questioning him out of nostalgia. I was searching for a murderer. Could this tall block of a man be the one? How well did I really know Chris Moore? The old images that came to mind were all stereotypes. Chris Moore had been that rarity, a straight shooter. The high school basketball star who hadn’t drunk or wrecked his dad’s car. Mr. Clean Cut All-American Beauville. He and I never hung out in the same crowd, but we knew about each other.
It didn’t seem likely, but something this brutal seldom was. And I’d seen how he looked at Delia, how he’d moved in when he felt I was threatening her. Clearly, the fires still burned. But were those fires hot enough to turn this man from a high-school hero into a cold-blooded killer? Those wounds had been vicious, claw-like slashes. Three, at least, side by side. For someone to tear open Charles’ throat like that, not to mention stage a scene that would frame an innocent animal, there was more than momentary passion at work.
I sized him up, trying to see him as a stranger would. Like Detective Creighton. With his broad features and that short-cut hair, Chris still looked like a small town poster boy. Creighton seemed young enough to know him from school. Maybe he’d seen him play, cheered him on. But the muscles beneath my hands were iron hard. And Chris had the height and the reach to overpower anyone I knew.
He cleared his throat, and I realized I’d been staring at him. Would he think I was sweet on him? That could be useful, but for now I dropped my hands. “People are going to wonder.” I heard the chill creeping into my voice. I couldn’t help it, not with these new thoughts racing through my mind. “Particularly now, when she doesn’t exactly seem to be broken up over his death.”
“Hey, she’s a friend. Do you mind?” He pulled back, and I was struck again by his size, by his strength. “I don’t know what she saw in him. I never understood what was going on with them, but it was her choice, and I respected that, okay?”
“Okay!” I raised my hands in a placating gesture. He had the temper all right, but he also sounded honestly wounded. I started to think of dog tricks. He needed soothing. I could do this. But as I reached out, more slowly this time, he spun on his heels and stalked off. I turned around and saw that the remaining crowd was staring at me. I plastered a fake smile on my face and waved, before making my own retreat.
***
I took my frustration out on my old Toyota, gunning its tiny engine and leaving rubber on the corner. Something was going on here that I didn’t understand, and I hated being played like that. Even by a good-looking man who seemed to enjoy flirting with me.
My mood hadn’t lifted by the time I got home, and I threw my bag with such force onto the kitchen table that Wallis jumped up with alarm from her post on the windowsill.
“Sorry, Wallis.” I mumbled. The anger was beginning to wear off.
“I was awake anyway.” She stretched. Possibly all cats, certainly Wallis, like to pretend they’re on top of every situation, despite the fact that, as obligate carnivores, they sleep three-quarters of the day. “I’ve been waiting for you to come home.”
“Oh?” I pulled off my boots and waited for her to comment. The fact that she didn’t convinced me that she really must have something on her mind.
“It’s that kitten.” Wallis rearranged herself on the windowsill as I looked around. “She’s upstairs, asleep on our bed.”
I slid into a chair and waited. I could use more coffee, but Wallis found the grinder annoying. She also likes to build drama.
“I wonder if there might be something wrong with her. Developmentally.” She licked her paw in a desultory fashion. I waited. “I’m having trouble coming up with a better diagnosis.”
“What’s she saying, Wallis?” I didn’t know how seriously to take my cat’s concerns. After all, she had a vested interest in being not only the smartest one in the room, but also the only
cat in the house.
“It’s partly the fixation on the box.” Wallis tucked her paw underneath her chest, her distaste showing in the way she drew her head back. “It’s overdone. And the constant crying for her ‘Mama.’ I mean, really, Pru. She’s been weaned.”
“Maybe she’s homesick, Wallis.” It’s rare when I’m the sentimental one in the conversation, but my heart did go out to the little orange kitten.
“Like that dog.” Wallis sniffed and turned away. I’d been dismissed.
With a sigh—I really did want more coffee—I pushed myself out of the chair and headed up the stairs. With Lily out of immediate danger, I might as well try to put my own house in order. Sure enough, the kitten was asleep on my bed. She’d propped herself up, sphinx-like, with her feet tucked under her. But unlike Wallis, she didn’t yet have an adult cat’s sense of balance. While her body held the “meatloaf” pose, all four feet tucked under, her head had fallen forward so that she was sleeping on her face. For a moment, my heart melted. Then a flash of panic kicked in. Could she breathe?
“Kitten!” I raced over to the bed, but before I could grab her, she’d woken. Two blue eyes blinked up at me. “Mama?”
“Sorry, honey.” How can anyone be cross around a kitten? But even as I settled on the bed beside her, I saw her mood shift as she woke fully.
“I didn’t do anything wrong.” The woeful mew was so soft I had to bend forward to hear her. “I didn’t.”
“Of course not, kitten.” I stroked her back. Compared to Wallis, she was a mere handful of fur. Touching her, I picked up the sadness and confusion behind her protest. This wasn’t a developmentally challenged animal. Something bad had happened—and she felt responsible.
I felt her relax a little under my hand and took a gamble. Scooping the tiny body up, I held her to my chest. Not that long ago, she’d have been nursing, and I counted on the warmth and the beat of my heart to calm her.
“Mama.” The cry was silent now, the plaintive wail of her heart, but it still made my throat close up. I continued stroking her as I thought about posing my next question.
“You’re a good girl. Yes, you are.” Murmuring softly into the downy fur of her back, I tried to think in images, to let the emotion behind the words color my memories of her using her litterbox, eating from her dish, and finally of her asleep on my bed. “A very good girl.” I felt her relax, and decided to try my question. “Why do you think you’re bad?”
The tiny body tensed. Damn, this was so much easier with Wallis. “You’re a good kitty. Yes, you are.” I cooed and stroked another few minutes, finally perching on the edge of the bed. This wasn’t going to be quick by any means. “Very good.”
Time to try again. “Who yelled at you? Who said you were bad?”
“They both did.” The thought came quick and strong. “They were loud. Very loud. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
The small face lifted to me and the tiny red mouth opened in an almost silent mew. “Mama? Why, Mama? Why?”
***
There really wasn’t any answer I could give to that, and I lay back on the bed, holding the small kitten until she fell asleep again. Sunday afternoon, I had no work pressing. Nowhere to be. At some point, I felt a thud as Wallis joined us. Coffee is a great invention, but sometimes a nap with your cats fits the bill.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“I’m here about your cat.” It was not quite eight when I rang the doorbell, but the short, sharp-looking woman who answered the door already had her coat over her arm. I’d called on Saturday, and the message waiting for me after the funeral had asked me to come “as early as possible” on Monday. For most people, that means nine-ish, so I’d walked the bichon and made more coffee before swinging by the new development known as “Overlook Ridge.” I was glad I hadn’t waited any longer. The woman at the door looked like I’d caught her on her way out, dressed in a smart grey suit. The skirt ended just above her knees, and the shoes were the kind that out here we call “city.” She must have been forty-five, if a day, but her legs were up to it, and I got the sense that she knew they were her best feature. There wasn’t anything wrong with the rest of her either. Underneath a helmet of sleek, black hair she had skin like ivory, so smooth I knew it couldn’t all be natural, with only a slight puffiness under her dark eyes to give the game away. She knew how to play it though. Her face was made up, down to the lip liner, but not overdone, and her expression was blank as she blinked at me.
“You’re Eleanor Shrift, right?” I was waiting for her to register me as human, and the wait was putting an edge in my voice. “You have a black Persian with Doc Sharp?”
She nodded, not a hair moving out of place.
“I’m a behaviorist. I work with animals that come into the county shelter.” I held out a hand. She glanced down at it. “My name’s Pru, Pru Marlowe.”
“A behaviorist? But why?” We were still standing at her front door. I was beginning to feel like a Bible salesman.
“You do have a black Persian, right?” I’d be damned if I said “owned.” “A beautiful cat with some behavior problems? I mean, if he’s not your cat—” I started to turn away.
“No, no. That’s my cat. I just, well. I thought the vet could give him some Prozac or something. I mean, he has this wound.” She fluttered dark lacquered nails at her own cheek, and I nodded, mainly to get her to stop. “It’s disgusting, that’s why I brought him in.”
“He’s in distress.” I heard the edge in my own voice. This wasn’t an issue of aesthetics. “That’s why I’m here.”
“But he’s doing it to himself!” I opened my mouth and paused. I’m much better at communicating with animals. Always was, even before. But she didn’t give me a chance to form the words. “If this is some kind of new service, I’m all for it. Not now, though. I’ve got an eleven a.m. flight.”
I bit my lip. She’d been the one who’d said Monday morning, and then neglected to set a time. Truth was, the cat was better off in the shelter. But I don’t like to give an inch to types like this. “When will you be back?” I made the effort to keep my voice steady. “Because as soon as possible, I need to talk with you, to see the living situation and try to figure out what is making that poor animal so unhappy.”
“Unhappy?” I saw a flicker of something behind the mascara. For a moment, even with the Botox, Ms. Shrift looked human. “I didn’t think—”
I waited. This was getting interesting. And possibly useful as well; this wouldn’t be the first time an unhappy person had inflicted pain in some way on a pet. She must have sensed my interest because she stopped talking.
“No, most people don’t.” I was beyond politeness. “Look, when can I come back? We need to talk.”
“Tomorrow, I’ll be back tomorrow.” She turned to close the door, but I had my foot in it. Her former poise was gone, something had shaken her. It made my job easier.
“Wanna set a time this time?” She was signaling fear or some kind of distress, her breath coming short and fast between those dark red lips. “We’ll need about an hour.”
“I’ll be getting in around midday.” Her eyes were darting around like caged sparrows. “Come by anytime in the afternoon. We can have drinks!” From the upward lilt of her voice, it sounded like drinks were often the highpoint of the day. This would be a business call for me, and I was in no mood to chill out with an animal abuser. I grunted something that sounded like assent and backed off, letting her slam her door shut.
I sat in my car for a few minutes, just for my own curiosity. Sure enough, within five, she was out the door, her purse banging against her hip and one of those rolling carry-ons bumping along behind her. Wherever she was going, I hoped she’d have a chance to pull herself together. The flawless ice queen who’d first greeted me had been cracked.
***
Since I was doing so well with people today, I decided to head on over to the pound. By the time I’d get there, it would be nearly ten. Even if Albert wasn’t in, someone sho
uld have opened the office by then.
Albert was getting out of his own car as I turned into the small lot. The junker had been a muscle car at some point, but it had as much wear on it as the animal control officer himself. Today, he’d topped the customary flannel—a red plaid—with a tan down vest. A splotch of duct tape showed where the nylon shell had been ripped.
“Hey, Albert,” I called as I pulled up to a space.
“Oh, hey, Pru.” He was juggling a large coffee and a grease-spotted bag. More donuts, I guessed. Or maybe some roadkill he’d picked up on his way in and planned on reheating for lunch. “Go on in.”
I nodded, but waited by my car as he opened the trunk and rummaged around, balancing the coffee mug on the fender. I didn’t think it likely that he’d keep his pet in the back, no matter how spacious it was, but I still felt a sharp stab of disappointment when he straightened up with only a bunch of papers in his fist. As he struggled to close the trunk, I raced over to grab the bag and he jerked back, nearly spilling his coffee.
“Relax, Albert. It just looked like you needed a hand.”
“I’ve got it under control,” said Albert, as best I could tell. He was holding the bag in his teeth and had the papers pressed against his body, the mug in his hand, as he reached up for the heavy trunk lid. “There.”
“Suit yourself.” The idea of handling the bag after it had been in his mouth went too far, even for charity, and I followed the big man through the glass doors. He dropped the bag on his desk and shoved the papers into the lower drawer. I peered over the desk top, hoping to see a familiar masked face. “No Fr— Bandit today?” It didn’t seem likely, but the possibility did exist that Albert had been in early and simply gone out for donuts.
“Why’re you so interested in my ferret, Pru?” He beamed and I smiled back, letting him enjoy his little obscene allusion for a moment.
“I’m always drawn to the most intelligent male in the room.”
