by Clea Simon
“No, I’m sorry. I’m tired.” I walked up to the door and waited while the good vet opened it, basically forcing him to lead me to the cage room. “It’s just that some of the things that bird says are uncanny.”
“African grays can be like that.” He couldn’t have been more noncommittal as he put down bedding and found a cuttlebone and water dish. “Their gift for mimicry is astounding.”
“Yeah.” I knew I should leave it at that. Doc Sharpe was not only an ally, he was the source of much of my income. “He just sounds so—”
“Doc? You there? Doc?” I was saved by a strawberry blonde interruption. Pammy had barged in with a whine loud enough to make dogs howl.
“What is it, Pammy?” The vet was either used to her or beginning to lose his hearing.
“The Lucknows have been waiting.” Her emphasis on the last word made it clear that the scheduled clients weren’t the ones most discomfited. “I don’t know what to tell them.”
Doc Sharpe was patience personified. “Tell them, we’ve had an emergency, Pammy. Tell them I’ll be with them as soon as I’m able.”
She clucked her disapproval, and I turned toward Randolph, waiting to hear it echoed back. He restrained himself.
“Tell them, I’m almost done. I should be out within five minutes.” On that Pammy spun on her heel. I watched her go, wondering. In truth, I could have set Randolph up here.
“Doc, you want me to finish up?” Randolph was hopping around his cage now, but there was paperwork. Instead of looking relieved, however, the bald vet took my elbow to draw me close.
“I have to confess, I’ve been a tad worried about you, Pru.” Doc Sharpe is old Yankee. They use words like tad. I knew I’d gone too far.
“Doc, really—it’s just the situation—”
“No, Pru. There has been another situation that has been reported to me. Another, frankly, disturbing development.”
I held my breath. Someone had heard me talking to Wallis. Or, worse, to Growler or Frank. I’d spent time in the psych ward—voluntarily, back when my gift had first manifested itself. I did not want to go back.
He looked down at the floor, then up at Randolph’s cage. These were not good signs.
“I hear you’ve been keeping a wild animal caged. Over at the shelter.”
I opened my mouth and then shut it. Doc Sharpe knew as well as I did that Albert ran the shelter. He also probably had a fair sense of how easy it was to run Albert.
“A raccoon,” he finished.
“That’s an odd situation.” I fished for a way to explain it. “A young male, and he keeps on entering an attic over at the new condo complex. I thought if they’d just make their attic raccoon-proof….”
He was shaking his head. “I heard that they wanted it tested for rabies—”
“It’s a healthy animal, Doc.” I had no way of proving this. “I’ve been observing him.”
“Pru, what you are doing is unethical and also unsafe. You need to destroy the animal and submit it for testing. Sentiment has no place with a viral infection, a zoonotic viral infection. You know the mortality rate in mammals.” He leaned in and I saw the concern in his eyes. “All mammals, Pru.”
That took the wind out of me, and he saw it.
“All right then?” He patted my elbow. “I’m sure you’ll take care of everything.” With a nod, he stepped out of the room, to wait on the impatient Lucknows. And I was left wondering what I was going to do with a healthy young animal when it hit me: Someone had dimed me. Either Albert or—more likely—Jerry Gaffney had wanted to put me on the spot.
I don’t take kindly to being put in a corner. And I don’t put healthy animals to sleep. There was a way through this, I simply had to find it.
“Go get ’em.” The voice was a little softer than before, but recognizable. Randolph was back. “Nasty buggers!”
Chapter Sixteen
“What, no pizza?”
I’d gone home after leaving County, the better to figure out what my next step should be. Wallis had been waiting for me, tail neatly coiled around her white forepaws. I’d been thrilled to see her. The anxiety of the morning had come rushing back as I’d approached my own front door, but I knew better than to fuss. Instead, I’d started telling her about my day—and about my latest predicament. Wallis is a wily old soul, and while she’s not keen on either birds or raccoons, she’s also not one to back away from a fight. Before I could tell her everything, however, the doorbell rang. Creighton, looking as tired as I felt. And not, it appeared, here on a social call.
“Pru, can we talk?” Those big blue eyes melt me, usually. Tonight they made me pause. Had Gaffney sicced Creighton on me already? What would the charge be, exactly—harboring dangerous wildlife? Harassment by raccoon?
“Sure.” I didn’t see any way out of it, and so I let him in. He walked past me without even an attempt at a kiss and collapsed on my mother’s old couch. Wallis, that fickle girl, jumped up right beside him. “Want a beer?”
“Sure.” Okay, it couldn’t be that bad. By the time I returned, two longnecks in hand, Wallis had flopped down beside Creighton, and he was stroking her tiger-striped fur. I took a seat opposite, so I could watch his face. Wallis looked over at me, her green eyes cool. I couldn’t read either of them, not yet, and so I waited.
“You’re still working with that parrot, right? Over at LiveWell?”
Jim knew this. “I only started a few days ago.”
“This is the old lady who you think didn’t die naturally?” I nodded again. “Pru, have you told anyone your suspicions? I mean, anyone besides me?”
I was suddenly glad my conversation with Doc Sharpe had been interrupted. “I told Wallis.” I forced a smile. If he wanted to think I was making light of his question, so be it. “That’s it.”
“Hell.” He ran his hand over his face. Took a long pull of the beer. “Well, you’ve made an enemy somehow. There’s been a complaint.”
“If this is about that raccoon, I have my own complaints—”
Creighton raised his hand to silence me. Since that hand had been petting Wallis, she looked up. I stopped talking. She placed one paw on his thigh.
“Please, Pru. This is my job. It seems some family heirlooms have gone missing. And I have been told that you have been left alone, more than once, in the late woman’s apartment.”
I could have slapped somebody. Not Creighton, though. He looked too drawn. “Look, Jim, I told you something was off with that family.” I kept my voice even, aware that Wallis was watching me with interest. “That parrot is repeating things no bird should even know about. And I haven’t said anything, but everyone in that family—and a few of the LiveWell staff, too—has heard him. It’s eerie, Jim. Truly.”
A deep sigh. “I’m not going to question a parrot, Pru.”
“I wish you’d come by. At least listen—” Then it hit me. “The bird isn’t even in LiveWell anymore. He’s at County. He got sick. I think someone might have tried to poison him.”
He didn’t have to voice his skepticism.
“Seriously, Jim. What if I file a complaint? A suspicion of animal cruelty report? Wouldn’t you have to investigate that?” If it would work with the parrot, maybe I could use the same strategy for the raccoon. My mind was getting ahead of me.
He was shaking his head. “You know that’s not my territory. That’s Albert’s area.”
“Jim, animal cruelty is a criminal act.” If I could just get him over to County…
“Bring me evidence, Pru, and I’ll see about it.” He finished his beer. “Same with the old lady’s death. Until then, maybe you can make nice with these people?”
“Jim—” He was on his feet, shaking his head. I walked him to the door and stood there as he bent over to kiss me on the forehead.
“Proof, Pru.”
“I heard you.” It was that chaste kiss that did it. Either he was tired, or something was very, very wrong. I watched him drive off and replayed the brief visit.
The consummate cop, he hadn’t named the source of the complaint. Marc, I’d bet—but I couldn’t be sure. Jane had been shaken—by her brother, by the doctor. By the parrot. Hell, maybe one or the other of the siblings had complained to LiveWell management, and someone in the upscale care facility had wanted to shift the blame from their residents—and their employees—onto me.
I stood there, looking at the empty drive and considering possibilities until I felt the soft brush of fur. Wallis, twining around my ankles.
“Aren’t we the little housecat?” I was in no mood. She’d gotten more petting than I had. “Did you forget who feeds you?”
She sat back on her haunches and appraised me with those cool green eyes. Then she started washing, wiping one white mitten over her dark-tipped ear.
“You have your methods, I have mine.” Her voice rang in my head, loud and clear. “Don’t you want to know what I found out? ”
Chapter Seventeen
One of the tricky things about my gift, I’ve learned, is that I cannot make any assumptions about priorities. One animal’s treat is another’s trash, and neither species is really capable of understanding the other’s viewpoint. Therefore, I didn’t get too excited as Wallis preened, fluffing up her snowy bibb in anticipation of enlightening me. As much as she and I have come to understand each other, I wouldn’t have been utterly surprised to hear her tell me that Creighton had fish for dinner. Or another woman on the side.
“Huh,” Wallis huffed. “As if I cared about that.”
I looked at her, curious. Wallis is both spayed and unsentimental, but I had my suspicions. The round tabby had been openly critical of other men in my life, and I didn’t think she’d only cozied up to Creighton to pick up clues.
“Well, do you want to hear what I found out, or not? ”
“Sorry, Wallis.” I returned to the living room and took a seat on the couch, waiting while she jumped up and kneaded the sofa cushion beside me to her satisfaction. Cats do like their drama.
“So?” I said finally. Wallis might have started off trying to build anticipation, but after a few minutes, I was pretty sure she was nodding off.
“Organizing my thoughts, rather.” Those green eyes opened to stare at me. “Something you could do more of. Especially in this case.”
I bit my lip, waiting.
“To start with, he’s worried about you.” Wallis was watching me, so I nodded. I’d kind of figured this out. “He doesn’t think you know what you’re getting involved in,” she responded. “Or not enough, anyway. There’s a cage in there, somewhere, and it scares him.”
That one startled me. Was this about the raccoon? We hadn’t discussed it, and I hadn’t thought he’d been aware. Then it hit me: “cage” didn’t mean the same thing to Wallis as it did to me.
“Does he think I’m in danger of getting locked up?” He’d said there had been accusations. I didn’t see how quickly one could follow on the other, but then again, he hadn’t gone into detail.
“Yes, that’s it.” Wallis started purring, an involuntary response. She liked being understood. “Cages. But not…sticks? Fire sticks? ”
“Candlesticks.” I tried to visualize a pair, tall and silver, to explain myself to Wallis. That had been what Marc Larkin had been talking about.
“Not him.” The purring stopped. “Fat, bull man.”
“He’s not fat, just—solid.” I was getting distracted, I knew. Still, I couldn’t erase the image of the stocky little man from my mind, and Wallis turned away from me in disgust. “I’m sorry, Wallis. I know, you were telling me about Creighton. I was just—” I didn’t know how to explain. “I think Creighton is worried because of Marc, the bull man.”
“Stupid people.” Wallis tucked her nose under her tail, leaving me with a view of her tiger-striped back. “Not fat man, not fire—not candlestick. Stupid.”
“Wallis, I don’t understand.” She was pissed off, I could tell. What I didn’t know was whether that was because she had been caught out not understanding something—or because I hadn’t been wowed by her revelation. Either way, I had only moments before she drifted off to sleep. “Please, Wallis?”
I don’t often beg. Neither of us is the type, and my plea—or maybe its novelty—caused her to open one green eye and peer over her shoulder at me.
“Please?” I tried to keep my mind blank and open.
“Nothing to do with the stupid sticks.” Her voice, even in my head, was growing fuzzy, drifting toward slumber. “It’s the poison that worries him. The poison and the cage.”
With that she shuffled, the black line of fur down her spine rippling once as she readjusted, and fell asleep, leaving me to decipher not only her words but her intent.
Wallis is not a simple creature. I knew that, for her, appearing both intelligent and knowledgeable were as important as actually conveying information that could be useful to me. It’s not that she didn’t worry about me, it was more that she trusted me to take care of myself, or so I believed. Plus, I couldn’t discount the fact that Wallis was getting on in years. I was grateful that she didn’t go out to hunt much anymore. The woods around Beauville held much bigger predators than my little domestic tabby. She was sensitive about any comments about aging or diminished ability, however, and might jump on anything that showed her in a more complimentary light, as a player, if you would, in my own particular hunt.
Therefore, I had a couple of things to work out. First, had Wallis actually gotten anything from Creighton that I didn’t know? If she had, was she correctly interpreting it as it pertained to me, or to our, affairs? Or was she stretching the little bit she already knew in order to make herself appear more important? And, really, how good a judge was my cynical tabby of the outside world?
The only way I could think of to approach it all was by looking at the details of what she’d said. Poison. I’d brought it up in connection with the parrot, but I didn’t think I’d mentioned anything about Gaffney threatening the raccoon. Same with the cage, although Creighton certainly knew the setup at the shelter. Still, cages might appear an awful lot like traps to an animal who was working off a visual impression from someone’s fleeting thoughts. Or Wallis could have been mistaken about those words, or misinterpreting. If “cages” could be “traps,” then—
I stopped, amazed at my own stupidity. Here I was, assuming my cat had misread a sign, when I was falling into the same old snare myself. Poison: I shook my head. What had Creighton been warning me about, but drugs? The drug trade, and whether any of my old “buddies” from high school were looking to get me involved again. I didn’t know whether my cop beau was having me followed, or simply had surveillance on Joey Gaffney, but clearly he’d gotten word that I’d been talking to Joey’s cousin. He must have thought that I was investigating, that the raccoon was a front, an excuse for me to go down to the condo development looking for one of the Gaffneys and to ask some questions.
Unless—I swallowed, another interpretation sticking like a peach pit in my throat—unless he thought I’d gone to the condos for another reason. He’d warned me about the drug trade, and what had I done? I’d gone directly to find one of the most likely culprits, meanwhile making up some cock and bull story about a nuisance animal. Could Creighton think I was in league with some local dealers? Or seeking to warn an old friend that the law was on his trail? Creighton knew I was hard up for cash; walking people’s dogs didn’t really pay enough to heat this old house and winter was coming in fast. Still, he couldn’t think that of me, could he?
“You’ve not given him much reason to trust you.” I looked over. Wallis’ face was still hidden deep in the black tuft of her tail. “And you haven’t been particularly welcoming recently.”
“I’ve been busy, Wallis.” I swallowed again, to get rid of that lump. It was true that I hadn’t let him stay the night for a while. It was also true that Creighton and I had fallen into a routine, and routines, after a while, make me itchy.
“Maybe that’s the problem,
Pru.” My cat was drifting toward sleep again, her voice growing faint in my head. “He knows you’ve been busy. He’s afraid of finding out why.”
Chapter Eighteen
There’s only so much a girl can do. I’d told him, when he’d asked, that I wasn’t in touch with any of my former running buddies. And I’d told him, also, that I’d gone over to the new development because of a raccoon. If Jim Creighton didn’t believe me, then it was out of my hands.
I knew I was being defensive. I don’t like being suspected of things I didn’t do. Stupid things, the kind that hurt others. I also knew that I had precious little say about who or what Creighton chose to believe. I’d been involved with a cop before, back in the city, in my wild days. Some cops are a law to themselves; all of them like to see themselves that way.
No amount of willpower could keep me from worrying about the situation, though, and I had a restless night. Wallis didn’t help. Although I sensed her coming into the bedroom at some late hour, I wasn’t awake enough to hash it out with her. And in the morning, she was absent again. I’d never gotten the chance to tell her about the latest with the parrot. And by the time I’d gotten her egg and my own coffee ready, I was late for my rounds.
Tracy Horlick is a nightmare on the best of days. This one had started off bad, with a headache from the whiskey I’d drunk to make myself stop thinking and the dreams that had followed, full of suspicion and doubt. The way she was leering—I couldn’t call it a smile—as I started up her walk made me wonder if she had some psychic ability. Then again, maybe she was simply mean.
“Aren’t we bright eyed and bushy tailed?” She punctuated her greeting with an exhalation of smoke, and immediately took another draw on the cigarette clutched between her stained fingers. “Late night?”
“I’ve got a lot of new clients.” I mustered a smile. I couldn’t afford to lose her, nor did I want to abandon Growler to his mean-spirited mistress. Still, I couldn’t sacrifice all my dignity.
