by Clea Simon
“Mine! ” Well, birds had their seasonal homes, too. Though I’d have thought the foliage would have drawn some of the owners. Maybe they were weekend nesters; maybe they’d be snowbirds, coming in a few months to ski.
Something bright caught my eye as I turned toward the last building. A pickup was parked by the farthest building, the one that the raccoon had invaded. Its side advertised the condo complex, with the logo in green and yellow highlighting. And its bumper, which I recognized from having cut me off, was that same acid yellow as the sign. Another color not found in nature. Well, that was interesting. I doubted Jerry Gaffney or any of his minions had intentionally tried to drive me off the road the other day. Our near accident had been too random, and, besides, whoever had been driving had sped off. However, it had been careless—if not worse. I made a mental note to check the vehicle out. Maybe there’d be something I could use for leverage. Maybe I—and the raccoon—would get lucky.
“Pru.” As if on cue, Jerry Gaffney appeared in a doorway. “What brings you back here?”
“Nice truck.” I walked up to the vehicle and made a show of examining it. I wiped some beaded raindrops off the painted side. “Yours?”
He puffed out his chest, as I knew he would. That cardinal had nothing on the human male for attitude. “It’s one of my rides.”
I checked the back. Sure enough, the rear gate had a ding in it where the yellow paint had been chipped away. “You should be more careful with your driving, you know.” I ran my hand along the ridge. It looked new, and there was no rust. “You could get hurt.”
“That?” He had come up next to me, and I pulled my hand back. The movement had irritated the bite mark, and I didn’t want to have to explain the blood on my palm. “That’s from one of the yuppies. They’re city drivers.”
He said that like it was a bad thing, but I just smiled. I didn’t want to threaten him, not yet. What I needed was information. “Some of the owners are here?” The birds had gotten quiet as we talked, or maybe I’d managed to tune them out. No other voices had replaced that cardinal.
“A few. Nobody full time. Not yet.”
I nodded as if this meant something to me and looked around. Granted, it was a dull, damp afternoon, but I hadn’t heard or seen a sign of any other person on either of my visits. “Someone must live here,” I said finally. “Someone complained about the raccoon.”
“I figured that was why you were here.” Jerry Gaffney had piggy little eyes, and they weren’t improved as he squinted at me. “Albert showed you the letter.”
“Yeah, I was surprised.” I squinted back. It helped. “You didn’t write that.”
“My name’s on it.” He leaned back on the truck as if to present his pelvis. What really extended was his belly. “I’m the one in charge here.”
“Uh huh.” I neither backed away nor crossed my arms. I needed him compliant. “But the idea of legal counsel, of demanding test results. That’s not your way.”
He shrugged, so I continued. “No, you were talking about having Joey set some traps. Taking a more direct approach.” I almost said “manly.” It wouldn’t have been too obvious, but he’d already taken the bait.
“City folk, like I said.” He looked around. “This place is big money, and that means they let the lawyers run it.”
“They?” I leaned in, trying not to hold my breath.
“The board.” He shrugged again. “But I don’t have to deal with them, mostly. They’ve got some guy in town, runs it all part-time like. He handles the paperwork.”
“Maybe I should speak to him then?” I reached for the letter in my pocket. My hand had pretty much stopped bleeding.
“I’m the guy you deal with,” said Jerry. “That’s why I signed the letter.”
I nodded. You hire someone like Jerry because you want a heavy. Or a fall guy. “Well, there may be some problems with this,” I said as casually as I could. “And we over at animal control wanted to discuss the options.”
“There are no options.” He jutted his chin out. He was beginning to look annoyed. The rain had started up again, which didn’t help. “You’ve got it all in the letter.”
“Look.” I leaned in. “Can’t we go somewhere? Talk about this?” I didn’t have a plan. I didn’t think Jerry Gaffney would be that hard to manipulate.
“You come in? Nope.” He shook his head. “I’ve locked up the office for the day, and I’m going home.”
“Can’t we just step in?” I gestured to the building, quiet and dark, before us. “Just to get out of the rain?”
“No, no way.” He started walking up to the cab of the truck. “These are the exclusive property of Evergreen Hills, and you’d be trespassing.” He climbed into the cab. “I’m sorry, really, but it’s not allowed. Just do what the letter says, Pru, and we’ll be fine.”
With that he got in his truck, leaving me to hike back along the wet stone path to my car. The cardinal had long since left, retreating to some warm, dry nest for the evening, and I was ready to do the same. I was soaked, and my hand hurt. What really bothered me though were the questions that Jerry had raised. I understood why he would want to claim to be the boss, but he’d just about admitted that he took orders from someone—the director of the development. And he’d held me off when I’d pressed for a name. I knew Jerry Gaffney from the old days. He didn’t respect authority, and the way he treated that truck showed that property, like money, was something you got and used. No, there was a different note in his voice when he talked about the director. A note that had given him some steel when he’d ordered me off, and then retreated. I thought, maybe, Jerry Gaffney was afraid.
Chapter Twenty-six
Attraction is a funny thing. You’d think that having studied animals, I’d have some insight. Truth is, I barely get it: I know what I want, but I don’t always know why. Jim Creighton, for example. Sure, he’s good looking, in that healthy boy-next-door way. And there’s something about that short, light brown hair that begs to be touched. But he is a cop, through to the bone. And while I’d dated cops before, I’d never really spent time with a clean one. Not voluntarily. Tom, my ex from the city, barely counted. He’d been on the job when we hooked up, but giving me my switchblade, which he’d taken from some young thug, had been the least of his transgressions. Last time I’d seen him, he’d gone into the private sector. He’d also gone to seed. I’d let him go, thinking I’d seen the last of him. When I thought of Tom, it was of somebody far out to sea. He was going to sink, and I couldn’t help him.
Creighton, though, he was different. And as I sat in my car by the side of the road, I found the good-looking detective preying on my mind. Part of that was because of the time. Going on eight, there was a good chance he’d be dropping by the house soon. He’d probably have another pizza, or maybe a six-pack. He didn’t need an offering, though. We’d gotten into a good routine.
He wouldn’t find me at home tonight, though, not any time soon. I was waiting by the side of the road for Jerry Gaffney to leave work, and wondering why he hadn’t. There was something going on with the Evergreen Hills condos, that much was clear, and while I seemed to have developed a taste for a law and order man, my own methods were more direct. Then again, maybe that was why I liked Creighton. Contemplating what I was about to do wasn’t that far from ruffling his neat, short hair.
The thought was tempting, almost enough to make me give up and drive back home. Besides, my hand needed a proper bandaging, and I needed some aspirin and bourbon. As I reached for the key, however, I finally saw the headlights. Jerry Gaffney in that fancy truck pulled onto the main road and drove back toward town. I was ready to go.
While I’d waited, the storm had passed, and a bit of faint moonlight lit my way back up the condo road. Driving slowly—my engine can be loud—I bypassed the main office building and pulled in by that last building, a little back from where Jerry had parked. If anyone looked, I hoped the dark and the trees would keep my car from being obvious. At least in thi
s light, the baby blue paint job wouldn’t be particularly noticeable. Before I got out, I reached into the glove compartment for my flashlight, and I was set.
My time with Tom had taught me a few things. One was that burglars could be stupid. A set of break-in tools—jimmies, and the like—will secure a conviction as quickly as fingerprints. I traveled light. Sure, my switchblade was illegal, but even Creighton knew I carried it. Self-defense would be my claim, if I had to make one. That and the flashlight were all I needed. The blade was thin and strong, and I had the simple catch unlocked in under a minute. Maybe the developer told buyers crime wasn’t a problem out here, away from the city. Maybe they just didn’t care.
The flashlight was a big one, metal and heavy. It was as much a weapon as my blade, and I didn’t turn it on until I had stood inside the door for a full minute. If anyone approached me, I wanted to be able to back out unseen. The quiet, though, told me I was alone, and so keeping the beam aimed low, I turned it on and began to explore.
Evergreen Hills was nicely set up, I’d give it that, made up primarily of side-by-side townhouses, each slightly angled for the illusion of privacy. The door I’d unlatched had let me into some kind of a foyer, with what proved to be a coat closet right at hand. The floor seemed to be stone, practical and cool-looking. To the left was a great room, made larger by its emptiness. Keeping the light low, I could see the big bay window facing the back, and I could imagine the view. I wondered if anyone had seen it. Nobody lived here; it hadn’t even been staged to sell. Which meant that no resident could have complained about the raccoon rattling around upstairs.
The stairs were off the great room. Once I found them, I turned the flashlight off. No sense in risking a light when I could use the curved banister to find my way up. I stepped carefully, still, aware of every creak in the wood. Just because the downstairs was empty didn’t mean there wasn’t a surprise waiting for me on the top floor. Maybe Jerry was letting one of his relatives crash here. Maybe more than one. I stopped where the stairs did, and waited, listening. No sounds, animal or human, greeted me.
When the silence had lasted a good fifteen beats, I risked the light again. Nothing. Shiny hardwood floor and white-painted walls, broken only by more hardwood—what looked like closets or bedrooms. I stepped into one, large enough to be a master bedroom, and saw where the ceiling had already begun to leak. A gap not much larger than my fist separated the closet frame from the wall. That must have been the corner where the raccoon got in. For all these fancy finishes, the construction on the condo had been shoddy. At least, I saw with a sigh of relief, there were no traps set. Unless—I crossed the room—there was an attic space, where poison could have been set down.
I walked over to the corner with the gap and raised my flashlight to examine the space behind it. I couldn’t see much. Nothing to indicate a crawl space or storage area. Running my light around the rest of the ceiling, I saw a few more damp spots. One in particular caught my eye, over by the window, and I looked around for something to climb on—a box or a step ladder—when I saw it. A flash, coming from outside. A car was pulling up slowly, its engine nearly silent.
Cursing my foolishness, I dropped to the floor, switching off my own light as I did so. I smacked my hand on the way down, starting it throbbing again, and I bit my lip to avoid crying out. I was too tired for this. I wasn’t a kid anymore, and I was hurt.
I was also, it seemed, safe. No other lights came through the window above my head. No sounds of entry or footsteps from the floor below. After another minute, I dared to move. Cradling my injured hand against my body, I made my way slowly out of the bedroom and back down the stairs. Heart in my throat, I stood at the front door for several more minutes, before daring to open it. Nothing waited but the night, and if the usual animal sounds were quieter than usual—no murmurings of prey or predator—well, that could have been because of the rain, which had moved in again. Crouching low, I ran to my car and started her up. Nobody stopped me as I rolled back to the main road, my heart racing loud enough to give me away.
Chapter Twenty-seven
My first thought on getting home was to pour myself a drink. My palm was sticky with blood as I reached for the bottle, though, and I realized I’d lost the paper towel somewhere in the night. That didn’t help me relax, but as I slugged back the golden warmth, I waxed philosophical. Odds were, the soggy rag was in my car. At any rate, I wasn’t going back to Evergreen Hills to look for it.
At least, I thought as I balanced my glass on the edge of the sink, my little adventure had distracted me from the problem of my hand. The wound, under the harsh bathroom light, looked nasty, swollen and red. But it had obviously bled freely, which reduced the risk of an anaerobic infection, so I daubed some antibiotic cream on it and taped a patch of gauze over it. Puncture wounds were bad, but I could have Doc Sharpe look at it—once the raccoon was safe. Hell, in a day or two, I could even start the rabies shots, as long as things worked out.
Back on the sofa, I looked around for my cat and tried to make sense of what I’d seen. No resident had complained, but really, what did that mean? If one of the development overseers—someone from the mysterious board of directors—had noticed raccoon activity, that could have sparked the whole thing. Though if that were the case, then why wouldn’t Jerry be working on fixing the eaves? Those damp spots were going to hurt sales more than the occasional wild guest.
The only good thing, I thought as I contemplated my whiskey, was that everything seemed sort of once removed. Jerry hadn’t written that letter, and he hadn’t told me who had dictated it. Maybe it would all be bluster and no follow up. Maybe I could just let the raccoon go, with no repercussions.
I took another sip and thought about it. Tomorrow, I’d go see Doc Sharpe, see if I could suss out what was going on. See if he had any more work I could take off his hands, to our mutual benefit.
Work. Hell. I sat up with a start. I hadn’t checked on Randolph, and suddenly Wallis’ absence seemed suspicious. “Wallis?” I called as I climbed the stairs. “Are you there?”
“What? ” She was sitting on the second-floor landing, washing her face. A little too nonchalant. “You seemed otherwise engaged when you came home, so…” A slight feline shrug expressed her disdain and something else, too.
“Wallis, what were you doing today?” I didn’t want to mention that parrot. I didn’t want to give her any ideas. As soon as I had the thought, though, I realized she had heard it, too.
“Please.” She stopped washing and turned away, pausing to bat at something on the floor. “As if there was anything to be gotten from that bird.” Tail high, she stalked off. “Anything worth the effort.”
“Wallis.” I was tired, my hand hurt, and I was also, by now, a little buzzed. “Please, Wallis.” I called after her, pleading. This was what I was reduced to. “Randolph is a guest.”
“And you’ve never…” The voice was faint, almost subsumed in the rumble of a purr. “Interrogated…a guest? ” She was gone, but a movement caught my eye. She’d been amusing herself as I came up the stairs. Batting at something. I leaned over, the whiskey rushing to my head. It was a feather. A long, gray feather.
***
“Wallis!” I tore down the hall. Sure enough, the door to my old bedroom was slightly ajar. “Randolph?”
The look of surprise that greeted me could have been because of the way I slammed the door open, making my hurt hand scream with pain. Randolph, his cage uncovered, did indeed look startled, his smooth gray head jerking up and down as he watched me storm into the room. Wallis, sitting on the windowsill, seemed much calmer, those wide green eyes projecting an innocence I didn’t trust for one moment.
“You’re okay.” I addressed the bird, who merely clucked to himself.
“Of course he is.” Wallis jumped down and came over to rub against my shins. “Though I do think it was unfriendly of you to leave him here, all alone.”
I glared down at her. I was not going to apologize. On his
perch, Randolph whistled softly.
“Don’t you want to know what we talked about? ” The soft pressure against my legs was as relaxing as the whiskey I had drunk, as Wallis well knew. And as the adrenaline of this most recent shock wore off, I slumped into a tattered armchair. Wallis jumped up to my lap and began kneading.
“If you want to tell me, Wallis.” I stroked her back, completely beaten.
“Too late.” She jumped down. “You’ve got a call that I think you’ll want to take.”
I heard my phone begin to ring then, and gathered my strength to stand up. I’d dropped my bag downstairs. “We’re going to talk, Wallis.” Fatigue gave my voice an edge. “As soon as I handle this.”
“Bugger,” said Randolph. “Bugger all.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
“You at home, Pru?” It was Creighton.
“Good evening to you, too. Jim.” I kept my voice cool, matching his.
“I’m sorry.” He sputtered briefly. “It’s that—well, are you alone?”
“Wallis is staring daggers at me.” That wasn’t quite true. She was really smirking. “But, yes, you’ve reached me at home. Alone.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t come by tonight.” He sounded like he meant it, and I felt my shoulders unclench a bit.
“Yeah,” I could tease him now. “I’m getting used to my pizza delivery. And my pizza delivery boy.”
“Have you been home all evening?” There was a note in his voice I couldn’t identify. He knew better than to try being possessive of me.
“What’s it to you, Jim?” I could nip that in the bud. “We have a date that I forgot about? And that you stood me up for, apparently?”
“No, I’m sorry.” He sounded tired now, plain and simple. “I had a…thing. Something came up and I wanted to touch base with you.”
This was intriguing. “A thing?”
“I had to swing by that new condo development, Evergreen Hills.”
