by Clea Simon
I nodded and when the bartender came over he free-poured a healthy shot into my glass as well. I might be recognizable, but Mack was definitely a regular.
“You see, a software developer who works solo will usually sell his work to one of the big firms. But Chuck wanted to keep it private, license it himself.”
“He wanted to maintain control.” I could see the appeal.
Mack threw back most of his new drink before answering. “In his dreams, yeah. Low overhead, no corporate connections. Dip into the nest egg to pay the bills. That was the theory, anyway. But even if he didn’t mind living on nothing, he has his mother to take care of. And, of course, every stray animal that comes his way.”
“Just Lily—I mean, the pit bull.” I still hadn’t found a way to explain that kitten. “But if the idea is so hot, why was he having money problems?”
That big grin came back. “You heard that, too? Let’s just say Charles needed me around. He was thinking small, but I had some ideas of what he could do. For a genius, the man had no more money sense than, well, a kitten.”
I swallowed. Maybe he did know something. But the best defense is a good offense. “So what were you doing for him?”
“Setting up investors, trying to come up with a reasonable budget for development and marketing. A realistic budget. Trying to keep Charles from nickel-and-diming himself into the ground. He would’ve, you know.” For a moment, Mack’s large features took on the bemused expression most of the world gets when confronted by a dreamer. “No sense at all of reality.”
“I’d say he got a good dose of it, at the end.” The more I learned about my former client, the more I liked him. And no matter what Mack said, the files I’d seen showed that Charles was very well aware of his expenses. He wasn’t a bookkeeper, but he’d kept track of every cent. “So, did you have any big investors yet?”
“Anyone screaming for his money back, you mean?” Mack focused in again. He knew I was fishing. “Anyone besides you?”
“I’m small potatoes.” Now it was my turn to lean back. “But maybe somebody didn’t like his business plan.”
“Ah, like Miss Delia Cochrane?”
We were thinking along the same lines. “Well, that is an interesting situation, is it not? Everyone’s idea of the perfect couple.” I watched his eyes. Did he know about her pregnancy?
“He was devoted to her,” he said at last, sadness coloring his words. “And Delia? Well, Charles didn’t owe her any money, that’s for sure. And even for our golden girl, he was a better bet alive, don’t you think?”
I waited, but he was done.
“I don’t know what she thought—or who she owed.” He stared into his glass. “And frankly I don’t care.”
I couldn’t read anything in those dark eyes except fatigue and the warmth of whiskey. But waiting worked. “I don’t think he owed anyone really,” he finally admitted. “Except you, Miss Small Potatoes. And me. I mean, I’m the one who had the plans. I’d set everything up. And, no, I don’t benefit. I’ve heard it’s all going to his mother. Not that there’s much of the business. Everything was still in Charles’ head. And now…” he threw up his hands. “Pfft. It’s gone.”
“Well, Delia is still around.”
“You think?” He laughed, that short dry bark of a laugh again. “Like I’d trade a going business concern for a blonde?” He leaned in. “I’ve got no interest in green girls.”
I smiled, as I knew I was supposed to. From a man like Mack, that was a compliment, supposed to make me turn all fluttery. It didn’t work, but it did give me pause. From what I’d seen, Delia might be younger than I was, but she seemed to know how to twist everyone to her whistle. Was Mack one of her victims, maybe protesting too much after the fact? I eyed the dark-eyed charmer and tried to play it out in my head. It was possible. As I sipped my whiskey, another thought hit me. Maybe Mack wasn’t comparing Delia to me at all. Maybe he really did like his women older, not to mention more solvent. And Eleanor Shrift had spent her summer with some young stud. Maybe I didn’t fit into the picture at all. There had to be a way to find out.
“Somehow, I wouldn’t imagine that there’s a huge selection out here.” Let him think I was flirting, if it got him to talk.
“In beautiful Beauville? Don’t underestimate yourself.” That smile turned conspiratorial as he leaned across the table. He saw me raise my eyebrows and wisely drew back. “Besides, I’m not talking specifics. I’m too much of a gentleman. Just, generally.”
“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.” Happy—as I was beginning to think of his current incarnation—had come over again with the bottle. He refilled Mack’s glass and looked over at me. I raised mine and nodded. I have a good head for liquor, and besides, I needed to keep Mack talking. “I’ve got a client, a very fine looking lady, who is recently single.”
“Oh?” Mack was humoring me, I could tell by his tone. “Do tell.”
“Professional woman, dresses to the nines.” I toyed with my glass, looking into the amber liquid, and put it back down. I’ve got a high tolerance, but not that high. “Might be in your target demographic, too.”
He lowered his voice and leaned in. “You sound like you’re trying to sell me something.”
“Just thinking out loud.” I raised my glass and looked across it, trying to hide the fact that I was watching Mack’s face. “Eleanor’s a good-looking woman.”
“Eleanor Shrift? You think that’s my ‘target demographic’?” He was laughing. I was trying to figure out if the laugh was real or a cover. One thing was certain, he knew who I was talking about. In response, I simply shrugged—and rewarded myself with a sip of whiskey.
“Sheesh, so you’re trying to play matchmaker now.” With that, Mack leaned back against the side panel of the booth, putting both feet up on the bench beside him. He looked comfortable, so I did the same. But if I was hoping for more info, I was to be disappointed. Dodging any further questions about Delia or Eleanor—or his business—he started grilling me about mine.
“So, what do you do with a dog that bites?” He’d politely avoided any questions about Lily—or any further queries about the police. Instead, he’d moved on from nervous barking to more serious crimes of the canine kind. His voice had gotten a little sloppy by this point, his gestures a bit broad. But I wasn’t thinking that clearly either. I wasn’t drunk, far from it, but I couldn’t work out how to turn the conversation around.
“You try to find out why he bites.” Then it hit me. “So, Mack, why won’t you answer my questions?”
“Maybe I like to take the lead.” That smile had only gotten broader, and it hit me that perhaps I had drunk too much.
“Okay, I think it’s time to call it a night.” I stood up and grabbed the edge of the table. I was not going to let him see me stagger. “Happy?”
“I’ve got it.” Before I knew what was happening, Mack had pulled out his wallet and weighted down a couple of bills with his empty glass. Then he was helping me into my coat. “Maybe I should give you a ride home.”
“I’m fine.” I was. I just needed some air.
“Uh huh.” He donned his own jacket, and walked with me to the back door, turning to wave off the bartender. “I’ll be the judge of that.”
“Oh come on!” I’d been having a good time. Mack was a charming man, but this was too much. I grabbed the door as he reached for it and pulled it open to storm out to the back lot. “You’re not my father.”
“No, I’m not.” He was up against me, then, pushing me back against the rough brick wall. His mouth tasted of whiskey, hot and inviting, and I felt myself melting into the kiss.
“Mack.” I pulled back, but he had me pressed against the wall. The night air had gotten frosty, and I found myself very aware of the warmth of his body. “This isn’t what I meant.”
“Why not?” Eyes closed, he leaned in, and I felt myself responding. That laugh had made me lonely for Leo. For Stevie. Lonely for any man with a smart mouth and knowl
edgeable hands. Why not indeed? I’d done worse, and in this parking lot, too. I ran my hands up his back, inside his jacket, and felt him tense up in response. He looked lean, but I felt muscle.
“This is how you like it, isn’t it,” he said.
“Shut up,” I said, and kissed him again. Just then, the back door pushed open and two more laughing revelers passed by, caught up in their own booze-fueled drama. Mack was saying something. “My place,” was all I heard.
And that’s when it hit me. “No,” I said, my voice lost in his mouth. “I can’t.” I pulled back and put my hand up to his mouth to stop him. “I’ve got to go home.”
His eyes focused then, and I stammered for a moment trying to find the words.
Wallis, that was why not. As much as I thought of her as a friend, our fight had reminded me that she was in fact a cat. A cat I hadn’t seen in close to twenty-four hours. A small domestic animal. Taking a deep breath to sober up, I made myself see the reality of the situation. Wallis might see herself as my caretaker, but in reality I was hers.
“I’ve got to get home. You see, I have a cat.” How to explain the situation with Wallis?
“A cat, a kitty cat.” He leaned in to kiss me again, but this time I pulled away for real. My hands were between us now, and I was pushing him back. “I see.” He dragged the word out, a clear sign that he didn’t.
“No, really. She went missing yesterday. I think, well, something upset her.” No way could I say more. “I’ve had her for years. She’s elderly. Older, anyway and I’m worried. So, I should go home and look for her.”
“Hey, I understand. Cats and me.” He held up his hands in mock surrender.
“It’s not what you think.” I was laughing now, almost sorry that he didn’t ask to come along. But he didn’t, and I found myself thinking better of him as I drove, very carefully, home.
***
Thoughts of another type crowded out Mack as I pulled into my own gravel drive and parked my old car. It was late, close to midnight. I hadn’t seen Wallis since the night before. Should I have come home earlier? Persisted in looking for her? As much as I’d wanted to respect her privacy—we were more roommates than owner-pet at this point—the concerns I’d voiced to Mack began to resonate, loudly, in my head. Wallis was an elderly tabby. Round and out of shape. She’d grown up in the city, where the main dangers came from humans, in the form of cars and crazies. I’d stopped monitoring her movements since we’d transitioned into our current relationship, but had I also abdicated responsibility? She seemed so wise, but did she know about coyotes? Hawks? Wolves or whatever wildlife prowled these Berkshire woods? More than the drink was making my hand unsteady as I fumbled for the key.
“Wallis?” I finally managed to get the door open and called for her even before I hit the light. “It’s me. Are you home? Are you there?”
I reached for the light, but as I stepped into the dark, I felt something beneath my feet. I froze, trying to make sense of my space. Trying to listen, to see in the dark. Nothing, and I shifted, taking a slow step. Whatever was underfoot crunched like gravel, and I heard an answering movement. “Wallis?” My voice cracked, as much as a whisper can crack.
Nothing. I held my breath and with a movement as slow and quiet as I could manage, I reached over for the wall and flipped on the light.
“Took you long enough.” Wallis was sitting on the back of my sofa, black-tipped tail wrapped around her white front feet. All around me on the floor shattered glass glittered like sand.
“What happened?” Now that I saw her, alive and evidently unharmed, I found myself getting angry. “Why didn’t you say anything.”
She jumped down from the sofa back and made her way toward me, stepping daintily between the fragments. “I forgot you couldn’t see that well,” she said, not even trying to hide the smug tone of her voice. She stopped about five feet away and looked at the glittering mess between us. “So much for your so-called humanity.”
I sighed. She had reason to be pissed, but I was tired. “Look, Wallis, I’m sorry. I said I was sorry last night and I am. But I’ve had a long day. If you can tell me anything about what’s happened here, I’d appreciate it.”
She began washing her front paw, an obvious stalling tactic, and so I went to get the broom and dustpan from the mud room. As I swept, she continued to groom, jumping back a little ostentatiously as I swept up the nearest glass fragments. By then, I’d noticed the small window by the front door was shattered, a chill breeze chasing after the path of a large rock, which had skidded under the sofa.
I retrieved it with the broom and looked it over. It was a rock, which is to say, nondescript. “Seriously, Wallis. Do you know anything about this?”
She looked up. I waited, but it’s nearly impossible to outwait a cat. “Please?” I added. The scare, the night, and now this. I was exhausted.
“I was upstairs when that came in.” She looked at the rock and I held it out for her to sniff. “A car drove away, and the night birds sounded nervous so I suspect it was driving too quickly. Interesting.” She sniffed at it again, then recoiled.
“What? Are you getting anything?” I didn’t like that someone had thrown a rock through my window and then driven off. That sounded personal.
“Only that godawful alcohol.” Her ears flicked backward.
“I’m sorry.” I didn’t want to rekindle our fight. “I needed to ask someone some questions.”
She sniffed again, this time moving her wet leather nose more to my fingertips. “I can see that.” Her whiskers angled forward in concentration, and I felt a wave of self-consciousness. How much of what happened would be revealed by my pheromones, my sweat?
“Well, you’re always after me to begin dating again.”
“Dating.” She sat back and licked her chops. “So that’s what you call it.”
Wallis went back to grooming. I lowered the hand with the rock and waited. “Well, maybe not ‘dating,’ per se,” I said finally. I was too tired for this.
“Clearly.” She started on her ears, working that same paw roughly over the black-tipped velvet. “And I know this is a small town, Pru, but still couldn’t you find a different man? That perfume.” She shuddered and set to work on her white bib. “I don’t know if you’ll ever be rid of it. And I wouldn’t have thought you’d want a man who smelled so much like her.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I cleaned up the mess, taping a sheet of cardboard over my busted window, as Wallis explained. She confirmed that, yes, according to her sensitive nose, Mack had spent some time with Delia Cochrane, who had, in turn, passed her scent onto the kitten. Whatever was going on between them, she couldn’t tell. But it was strong enough to put my discerning tabby’s ears back.
What that meant to me could be very little. He’d been her fiancé’s business partner. They probably had a lot of loose ends to tie up. Hell, it was a small town. He could have been carrying her groceries or fixing her pickup truck. He could have been catsitting the kitten. But I doubted it. Denials aside, I’d pegged Mack Danton for a womanizer, and Delia was as tempting as an August peach. Whether he’d also been involved with Eleanor Shrift was anybody’s guess. The older woman believed that her lover had left her for another woman, so it could have been Delia—or even me, I realized with a laugh. Mack had been making, or planning, his moves for a while now. Or it could simply have been boredom that led her backdoor Romeo to abandon his somewhat overripe Juliet.
I placed the stone on a bookshelf with the vague idea that I’d think about it again in the morning. The glass I dumped in the trash before finally dragging myself upstairs. My bed beckoned, but I detoured to the bathroom. With its deep, claw-footed tub, it was possibly my favorite place in the house, and as I filled it with an intemperate amount of hot, hot water, I silently thanked my mother for never wasting the money on renovations.
Wallis joined me, keeping the running tap at a distrustful distance, and once I sank carefully into the steaming water, she caught
me up on the kitten’s antics. If I didn’t know better, I’d have said the older cat had been amused by the marmalade baby’s battle with a late season moth. I didn’t dare voice such thoughts aloud, however, and instead told Wallis about the bichon’s jaw dropper. As I’d unwound, she’d settled down on the closed toilet seat, her front paws tucked under, and appeared to mull that over. “Pregnant.” She closed her eyes. “Yes.”
I didn’t know if Delia’s hormones could really be carried, third hand, along with her perfume, but I was learning better than to question my housemate. “So maybe Charles was the father. Or maybe Mack. Or, hell,” I stood and reached for a towel, “maybe Chris. That seems to be who she’s spending the most time with these days. The question is, would one of them have a reason to kill Charles?”
I stepped from the tub, dripping, careful not to stand too close to Wallis.
“No.” She jumped down and led me from the bathroom, tail up. We were back on good terms then. “The question is, would Charles—would any of those males—have cared?”
I was mulling that one over as I toweled off my hair and pulled an old T-shirt on. “Most guys would,” I said, as much to myself as to the stout tabby, who had jumped up to the foot of the bed. The kitten was already asleep on the other corner. Warm, clean, and still buzzed, I longed to join them, and was having trouble even combing out my wet hair. Three swipes later, I gave up, laying my towel-wrapped head on a pillow as a stray thought coursed through my mind. “Of course, some guys are just dogs.”
“That reminds me,” Wallis kneaded the comforter. “You got a phone call. Something about that dog.”
***
With an effort, I pulled myself out of bed and down the stairs to where my old answering machine sat blinking. What with all the fuss and broken glass, I hadn’t thought to check it.
“Pru, it’s Albert.” Great. I longed to hit the sofa as he rambled on, but I doubted I’d be able to make it back up the stairs if I did. “The coroner’s report came back. Cause of death was ‘inconsistent with canine attack,’ it says, and I passed the rabies thingy along, too. So, I guess the dog is free to go. That is, if anyone wants it. Otherwise.” He made a noise that was either supposed to be a knife sliding through flesh or a wad of spit. Albert was always a classy guy. “And, hey, Bandit says hello. Maybe you and me and him and your cat can double date sometime. Heh, heh.”
