Sisters On the Case

by Sara Paretsky

  ‘‘You’re not eating. Now, these are the traditional accompaniments around it—capers, chopped onion, and minced parsley.’’

  ‘‘Mmm-mm.’’

  ‘‘Not used to steak tartare, Basil?’’

  ‘‘No.’’

  ‘‘Some chefs mix in cognac as well, and garnish it with caviar. The Swiss even add anchovies. But it seems to me if you’re going for the taste of fresh, raw meat, tarting it up with extraneous flavors is a waste. Don’t you think so?’’

  ‘‘Uhhh.’’

  ‘‘Still, to revert to our earlier topic, I wonder why it had to be The Taming of the Shrew. There are more interesting Shakespeare pieces you could do.’’

  ‘‘Uhhh. The trustees, actually.’’

  ‘‘The trustees wanted it? Well, then I suppose you’re stuck with it. They do hold the purse strings. But I wonder, as time goes on, if you could convince them to do Shakespeare’s unappreciated masterpiece. I’m speaking of Titus Andronicus, of course.’’

  ‘‘Mmm.’’

  ‘‘It’s reassuring to me, as a Shakespeare enthusiast, that the Julie Taymor film of it is coming out, at least. But there isn’t any substitute for the immediacy of the stage.’’

  ‘‘I agree, of course,’’ Basil half whispered.

  ‘‘Real human beings near enough to touch. And Titus Andronicus is so Grand Guignol. It was Shakespeare’s breakout play, you know. Made his name. Although at the time people claimed to be upset at all the violence.’’

  ‘‘Media violence—’’

  ‘‘Fascinating to think that without it, without all that excess, we might never have known the name Shakespeare.’’

  Basil picked up a heavy Francis I fork. He touched the chopped meat. It was lumpy and bright red, with tiny flecks of gristle or fat. He wondered whether he could tell anything if he touched it with his finger. If it was warm—? Had it been in the refrigerator, or was it body temperature?

  But he couldn’t bear to touch it.

  Falkland went on. ‘‘And what a story. The son of Tamora, queen of the Goths, has been killed by Titus. For revenge, she has her other two sons rape Titus’s daughter and cut out her tongue.’’

  ‘‘I know,’’ said Basil in a strangled voice.

  ‘‘Then Titus, in an antic burst of exquisite revenge, invites Tamora to dinner and unknown to her, serves her a pasty—we’d call it a potpie, I imagine—made from her two sons’ heads.’’

  ‘‘I’m familiar with Titus Andronicus, dammit!’’

  ‘‘Oh, of course you are, dear boy. You’re a director. Terribly sorry.’’

  ‘‘Uhhh.’’

  ‘‘My word, Basil, you aren’t eating.’’

  ‘‘Auuhhh—’’

  ‘‘You haven’t touched your steak tartare.’’

  It could not be what he thought. It could not. How long had they been down in that cellar? And how would Falkland dispose of the—of the rest? But then he recalled the dock, the boathouse. The mansion backed directly onto Lake Michigan. Well, of course it did. It was on the high-rent side of Sheridan. But what about Sloan? Could Falkland possibly have Sloan so much in his pocket that he would do anything Falkland asked?

  Inadvertently, Basil glanced up at Sloan, standing silent and lugubrious just left of the dining room door.

  Falkland caught his glance. ‘‘Sloan is such a gem,’’ he said. ‘‘He’s been with me for twenty-three years now.’’

  ‘‘Oh, yes?’’

  ‘‘Since I agreed to accept him from the parole board. You see, they would only let him go if he had permanent residential employment.’’

  ‘‘Oh, yes, I see.’’

  ‘‘In a home with no children.’’

  Basil stared at his plate. If he so much as sipped a smidgen of water, he would be sick. Staring at his plate was worse. He averted his eyes. But it was too late. Perspiration started up on his forehead and he could feel sweat running into his hair. His face was hot and his abdomen was deeply cold.

  Basil threw his napkin down next to the army of forks. He half rose. ‘‘I don’t think I’m feeling very well—’’

  ‘‘Oh, please. We were so looking forward to this evening.’’

  ‘‘I think I’d better go.’’

  He gagged out the words and could hardly understand what he himself had said. It sounded like ‘‘guhguh-go.’’

  The swinging door from the pantry opened. Pamela stood in the spill of kitchen light, holding a dusty glass bottle.

  ‘‘It’s a terrible cliché, I know,’’ she said, smiling apologetically, ‘‘but I picked out everything else and finally went back to the Château d’Yquem.’’

  ‘‘Uh-uh-uh,’’ Basil said, trying to stand upright, but bent by the pains knifing through his stomach.

  ‘‘Basil! Are you ill?’’ she said.

  Basil ran at a half crouch out of the dining room, through the long hall and the marble foyer, and pushed out the front door into the glorious cool night air.

  ‘‘Oh dear,’’ Pamela said, still smiling.

  Falkland said, ‘‘Fun, darling?’’

  ‘‘Fun? The best we’ve ever done.’’

  Animal Act

  by Claire McNab

  ‘‘G’day,’’ I said. ‘‘I’m Kylie Kendall. I’m here to see Arnold.’’

  The bloke who’d opened the door of the flamboyant Beverly Hills mansion looked at me without enthusiasm. ‘‘Oh, yes. The Australian. Lisette told me you’d be coming by.’’

  With his thick, curly black hair, deep brown eyes, straight nose, and jutting jaw, he was handsome, and he knew it. ‘‘Where’s the blonde?’’ he asked. ‘‘She’s the one who usually does the inspection.’’ His expression warmed slightly as he added, ‘‘Good-looking woman.’’

  He was referring to my partner in Kendall & Creeling Investigative Services, Ariana Creeling. ‘‘She’s out of town on a case,’’ I said. ‘‘You’ll have to make do with me.’’

  He grunted and stood aside. ‘‘I suppose you’d better come in.’’

  I blinked at the entrance area. Two stories above, light flooded in from a huge circular stained-glass window set into the ceiling. Multicolored patches of light were splashed over the black marble floor and chalk white walls. A wide curving staircase with bloodred carpet led to the next floor. Scattered, apparently at random, were life-size sculptures of various animals— dogs, cats, a llama, a potbellied pig—displayed on white marble bases. The one closest to me depicted a huge bear rearing up on its hind legs. Engraved on the pedestal were the words LEONARD, DANCING.

  ‘‘Crikey,’’ I said.

  I became aware the bloke was watching me with a sour smile. It was apparent he wasn’t intending to introduce himself, so I said, ‘‘And you’d be Paul Berkshire.’’

  ‘‘Proper little detective, aren’t you?’’

  Actually, I wasn’t. I’d inherited fifty-one percent of Kendall & Creeling from my father, but wasn’t a private eye’s bootlace yet, just a trainee. There was no need to blab this to Paul Berkshire, of course.

  He set off for the rear of the house down a wide hallway, not bothering to see if I was following. Even from the back he was a bonzer-looking bloke, with a strong neck, wide shoulders and a narrow waist. Paul Berkshire was the nephew of Rhea Berkshire, who before her death had been a crash-hot animal trainer for movies and TV. She’d been a heavy drinker, and six months ago—just before I came to the States— had died from an accidental overdose of bourbon and sleeping tablets. The very specific provisions she’d made in her will for her menagerie of animals at her ranch outside LA ensured that all went to good homes, many with other professional trainers. The ranch itself was sold, the proceeds going to animal charities.

  One of her charges, however, received special treatment. This was Rhea’s most adored and successful subject, Arnold. Her will specified that no expense was to be spared. Her nephew, Paul, was to ensure that Arnold lived a life of luxury in Rhea’s Beverly Hills estate for the r
est of his days.

  Everyone knew Arnold’s story. Rescued from a shelter when just a puppy, he was what we Aussies call a bitser—a bit of this and a bit of that. He was a pepper-and-salt charmer, incredibly photogenic and very smart. And he loved performing. He’d become a household word as the cute psychic dog—also called Arnold—in the paranormal hit comedy series Professor Swann’s Spooks. Even before I’d come to the States, I’d been a fan of the show. Most people in my outback hometown, Wollegudgerie, watched the program on Wednesday nights. Even my mum, who wasn’t what you’d call a fan of television—addled your brains, she always said darkly—always made sure the program was on the screen above the main bar of her pub, the Wombat’s Retreat.

  Ahead of me, Paul Berkshire had reached a black lacquered door, and was looking impatiently over his shoulder. ‘‘I haven’t got all day.’’

  I suppose in his place I’d resent being regularly checked to ensure that the conditions set out in his aunt’s will were being followed to the letter. Rhea Berkshire had cause to use Kendall & Creeling’s services long before I turned up on the scene. She’d become a fast friend of my father’s, so she’d instructed her lawyers, Frogmartin, Frogmartin & Flye, to include in her will a generous payment to our company to visit Arnold once every two months—or more often if it seemed indicated—to make certain he was being treated in the manner a megarich canine should expect. We were to liaise with his vet, his walker, his dietician, his groomer, and his round-the-clock companion, Lisette, who had been in Rhea’s employ for many years. And Paul Berkshire, of course, as he had inherited his aunt’s business and so was Arnold’s trainer.

  I’d heard a new series of Professor Swann’s Spooks was in the works, and was going to ask if that was true—Mum would love to know—when the bloke threw open the door. ‘‘Arnold’s beauty parlor,’’ he said with a bit of a twist to his lip. As he spoke, I noticed these three words were engraved in ornate script on the door’s lacquered surface.

  ‘‘Gets up your nose, does it?’’ I said.

  ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘Not sure I approve, myself. Not very macho, is it?’’ He looked at me blankly, so I added, ‘‘I reckon a dog like Arnold would prefer something more masculine. How about ‘sprucing room’? What do you think?’’

  ‘‘I think Arnold can’t read,’’ he said, ‘‘so he doesn’t give a rat’s ass what the room’s called.’’ Opening the door, he said, ‘‘Lisette? This is the Kendall from Kendall and Creeling, here to check we’re not mistreating the dog.’’

  He’d said ‘‘the dog’’ with such a flat tone that I looked at him with surprise. Recently I’d read an article in Hollywood Reporter where Berkshire had spoken glowingly of Arnold’s sweet nature and his ability to master new routines.

  ‘‘Lisette will call me when you’re finished,’’ he said, turning away and stalking off back down the hallway before I could respond.

  I stepped into the room, and found myself grinning at Arnold, who cocked his head and waved his stubby little tail. Even more adorable in person than on the screen, he was standing patiently on a table while a young bloke with a pale face and lifeless fair hair groomed him.

  ‘‘G’day, Lisette,’’ I said to the woman who was smiling at me warmly. ‘‘I’m Kylie.’’ She was much older than I expected, small and wiry, with a cloudburst of white hair.

  ‘‘Hello, dear. Ariana’s told me all about you.’’ She had the faintest suggestion of an English accent.

  ‘‘Crikey. All good, I hope.’’

  ‘‘Mostly,’’ said the young bloke with a bit of a smirk.

  Lisette introduced him as Gary Hartnel. ‘‘G’day, Gary,’’ I said. I couldn’t resist adding, ‘‘And g’day to you, too, Arnold.’’ Arnold blurred his little tail.

  ‘‘Friendly,’’ I remarked.

  ‘‘Not to everyone,’’ Gary declared. ‘‘Arnold has his likes and dislikes.’’

  ‘‘Righto,’’ I said, whipping a folder out of my bag. ‘‘I’ve got a checklist here. Let’s go through it and then I’ll get out of your way.’’

  Lisette took me to meet the rest of the staff. Arnold came, too, trotting along beside us with a delightfully cheerful demeanor. As we walked down the hall’s thick carpet, I said to her, ‘‘Does he miss Ms. Berkshire, do you think?’’

  ‘‘Rhea? I’m sure he does. Look at him.’’

  When she said her late employer’s name, Arnold’s tail drooped and he gave me such a pitiful look my heart turned over.

  ‘‘I’m sorry I mentioned it.’’

  ‘‘That’s okay, dear. Arnold’s very sensitive. We found him snuggled up in bed with Rhea, her being dead and all and him softly whining. He was in mourning. Near brought me to tears.’’

  Soon I knew rather more about Arnold’s day-to-day schedule than I’d ever intended to know—his dietician went into such detail about the measurement and preparation of Arnold’s food that my eyes glazed over, and his walker insisted on describing at length the variety of routes Arnold covered every week.

  ‘‘Is everything satisfactory?’’ Lisette asked when I’d finished going through her duties as Arnold’s companion.

  ‘‘Too right,’’ I said, giving her the thumbs-up. ‘‘She’s apples.’’

  She shook her head. ‘‘You Aussies.’’

  Lisette, Arnold, and I headed back to the front of the house. ‘‘All I need to do is to check a few things with Mr. Berkshire.’’

  ‘‘Paul will be in his office—no, wait, here he is now.’’

  I’ve got pin-drop hearing, or I wouldn’t have heard the soft growl Arnold gave. I looked down at him. He was staring fixedly at Paul Berkshire. His body language was a puzzle—I’d heard a growl, but he wasn’t stiff with aggression; he was unnaturally still, waiting. Then he glanced up at me, with the oddest expression on his face.

  ‘‘You’re done?’’ Berkshire asked me.

  ‘‘I’ve got a few more areas to cover with you.’’

  ‘‘Lisette, take Arnold to his gym. He doesn’t need to tag along with us.’’

  When I looked back over my shoulder, Arnold hadn’t moved.

  The bloke’s office was huge, being more what I’d call a library, with shelves and shelves of impressive-looking books and lots of maroon leather furniture. Paul Berkshire plunked himself behind a massive antique desk and answered my questions about Arnold’s training regimen with cool economy. It seemed there was to be a new series of Professor Swann’s Spooks and Arnold was already learning new routines for the show.

  ‘‘Nothing too risky?’’ It was one of our duties to make sure Arnold was never involved in hazardous situations.

  ‘‘Of course not. Arnold has a stunt double who looks exactly like him.’’

  ‘‘But not as talented?’’

  Berkshire gave me a thin smile. ‘‘More talented, in my professional opinion. A pleasure to work with the animal. Dopp is Arnold without the attitude.’’

  ‘‘Dopp for doppelganger?’’

  Berkshire raised his eyebrows. ‘‘My little joke.’’

  I raised my eyebrows right back at him. ‘‘I’m surprised you say Arnold has an attitude. I found him a bonzer dog.’’

  ‘‘He’s temperamental at times. Difficult. Could be he’s getting close to the end of his performing life.’’

  ‘‘Maybe he’s grieving for your aunt.’’

  A fleeting emotion flickered across Berkshire’s face. Just that morning at breakfast I’d been reading in my invaluable reference source, Private Investigation: The Complete Handbook, about microexpressions. These only lasted for a split second, but exposed the true feelings of a person before they could hide them. In this case, I reckoned he’d revealed a pretty disturbing mix—sneering anger, tinged with arrogant triumph.

  ‘‘If there’s nothing else, I’ll get Gary to escort you to your car,’’ he said, clearly wanting to get rid of me.

  Gary, a limp strand of pale hair flopping over one eye, arrived. Once
outside the front door, he gave me a conspiratorial look. ‘‘I don’t know if you’re the one I should go to, but lately Arnold’s been trying to tell me something. I swear he has.’’

  ‘‘What sort of something?’’

  ‘‘You know about Rhea—her dying like that? Well, of course it was a stupid accident, but it’s odd how Arnold’s changed. Like, he used to love Paul, but lately he just goes quiet when Paul comes in the room. Arnold watches him, weird-like, if you get what I mean. And then Arnold looks at me . . .’’

  ‘‘What do you think he’s trying to tell you?’’

  ‘‘I’m not sure.’’ He glanced around furtively. ‘‘Gotta go.’’

  Gary went. I climbed into my car, feeling a bit weird-like myself. I couldn’t shake the idea that Arnold had tried to tell me something, too. Something bad.

  Earlier I’d seen Dr. Stanley Evers, veterinary surgeon to the stars—Arnold was one of his most valuable celebrity clients—so I had everything I needed to write my report for Frogmartin, Frogmartin & Flye.

  Turning off Sunset Boulevard I got my customary little thrill when I drove through the gates and past the sign reading KENDALL & CREELING INVESTIGATIVE SERVICES. I still had thousands of hours of supervision ahead of me, plus an exam, but one day I’d become a fully fledged PI, and be worthy of my dad’s company.

  Our building was a pseudo-Spanish house converted into offices. I still wasn’t quite used to its pinkish ocher color, but I rather liked the black, brass-studded front door.

  ‘‘G’day, Melodie,’’ I said to our receptionist—at least until her acting career took off.

  Green eyes wide, Melodie gave a practiced swirl of her long blond hair. ‘‘Kylie! It’s real urgent!’’

  ‘‘Not Mum again?’’ My mother was always trying to persuade me to return to the outback and help her run the pub.

  ‘‘No, not your mom. It’s Lonnie. Julia Roberts has been in his room for the fourth time this week. He says he’s desperate. This time he means it—he’s calling the authorities.’’

  I was outraged. ‘‘What? And have her taken away, just because he sneezes?’’