by Clea Simon
“Over here.” The outlines of the trees, and the buildings behind them, were still visible in the dusk. I turned toward them, and suddenly felt Spot in front of me. It was a protective move, like he would one day use to stop his person from stepping into traffic or off a cliff. Why he’d stopped me now was a puzzle.
“What is it, Spot?” I held still, trusting his instinct, but I peered into the shadows as I waited, hoping for some kind of comprehensible response. “Is someone there? A person?”
I was thinking of that gardener. Yes, the Haigens had said he was gone, but I’d seen the look they’d given each other when I’d asked about him. Either they were lying, or there was some other kind of story there. I had no more desire to meet an angry ex-employee than I did someone who was in hiding for whatever reason, especially when one of his colleagues had turned up dead.
“Spot?” He was sniffing, reading the air as I would skim the paper, and I didn’t want to rush him. While I waited, I thought about the missing man—and what his relationship might have been to the slaughtered woman. Mariela. I needed to stop thinking of her as an abstract, and to ground myself, I pictured her not as I had last seen her, but as she had been when I’d first met her. Young and quiet, with the large dark eyes that poets rhapsodize about—eyes that could be seen as mysterious, or as haunted. At the time, I’d thought her shy, reticent to talk to a guest with her employer present. Now, I wondered if there had been other secrets, secrets that she veiled every time she lowered her head, and those long lashes, submissively.
Had Raul loved her? Had they been family? Were the Haigens the sort to cover for a faithful handyman? Or had they been involved in some way?
These questions would have to wait. Spot was on the move again, leading me down the path. He hadn’t answered my query.
“Safe now?” I’d trained him to make decisions, to act for his person when his person couldn’t. That didn’t mean I didn’t want feedback.
“Safe.” I got back. Well, at least he was doing his job. Heading downhill into deeper shadow, I let myself close my eyes, imagining how it would feel for a blind person to be guided in this way by the solid little dog.
That was why I almost tripped when he stopped again, blocking my legs with his body.
“What?” I confess, my tone wasn’t the friendliest. Spot could have toppled someone less sure-footed to the ground with that move, and he’d startled me. “Slow down.” I pictured a more gradual stop as I gave the command. We were not at a cliff’s edge or a highway median now.
“Wait…” One word, if I could call it that, shut me up. A command, in its way, from Spot in his new role, the one in which he was in charge. It was an unusual response, and one that an ordinary person wouldn’t understand. In part because I was intrigued, I did.
Scent. That was it. I got a feel of it again, that same fierce, wild flavor. And, again, I wondered at Spot’s fitness for this job. If he was going to be distracted by every bit of game that wandered across his path, he’d be a better hunting dog than a service companion. For a moment, I thought of Albert’s request for a dog. Our bearded animal-control officer was no hunter, but Spot would be a great scent hound—that nose, his blood were all made for such work. And there were legitimate uses for hunting animals out here. Even the state police used trackers.
Would Creighton? Spot had proven his worth the day Mariela had been found. Maybe he could combine his skills working for our local force. Maybe I could train Creighton…
“Come.” Spot started moving again, nipping that fantasy in the bud. Just as well, I thought, as I let him lead me to where I’d been confronted by Raul. Right now, I tried to keep that memory from my mind. No sense in adulterating whatever Spot was getting.
“Danger?” Too late. I cursed myself silently.
“No, no danger.” I said out loud, trying to silently stress the peacefulness of the scene. “Nothing here. All is quiet.”
It was. I took a step forward, toward the closest building. Spot, most strangely, did not.
“Spot?” He could have been glued to the walk, and so I stepped closer to the barnlike building. The door, I could now see, was ajar. I couldn’t resist. I opened it and peered inside.
I saw…nothing. The interior was too dark to make out, and even if I’d had a flashlight, I wasn’t sure I’d risk it, so near the house. Still I stepped in and felt the air. I’m no bloodhound. My meager senses don’t even match up to Wallis’ on her worst day. But I’ve learned something from the animals I work with. Something about vibrations and the way air can feel. This building was empty. An oversized work shed. Maybe it had once held gardening equipment; it was large enough for a tractor. Maybe in a few months it would be filled with potting supplies. Now the air was still and slightly sour, like an animal had been here. Not a horse, though. I paused, thinking suddenly of rats.
“Cat?” I turned to Spot with a smile. Would he react this way to a barn cat, or a clowder of them? “Is that it, Spot? A lot of cats?”
But if I was expecting a rational answer, or even an image I would have to struggle to decipher, I was mistaken. Instead, at my words—or maybe it was that strange, stale scent—Spot started to bay. Loud and long, each emphatic cry as resonant as a bell, his voice rang out. “Wow, wow, wow!” That distinctive hound voice, and underneath, I heard the words: “Cat! Cat! Cat!”
It made no sense. His reaction was wildly out of proportion. More to the point, it was blaring. Hideously so, and I ran out of the doorway to put my hands on his muzzle. “Hush!” I used every command I knew.
It was too late. Already the alarm had been raised by someone in the house and a switch had been flipped, flooding the garden area with stark white light. I was trespassing, we both were. And even if I could brazen it out, I had Spot’s reputation to consider.
Whether or not he’d be a good service dog, he didn’t need to get in trouble on my account. With his lead in my hand, I ran to the side of the building, listening for the footsteps that were sure to come. When they didn’t, I looked around: Those bright lights also cast deep shadows, and I made for the nearest, determined to work my way back past the house to my car.
“Who is it?” Richard Haigen. In this light, he wouldn’t be able to see me. “Who’s out there?”
Surely he had other servants. Rich people always did.
“Who’s out there?” He called again. “We’ll find you.”
Maybe his security team was arming itself. Maybe it was coming up the side. I didn’t wait to find out. Urging Spot to a run, I made a dash for it. For one bad moment, I fumbled with the keys—cursing the urge that had made me lock the car doors—but then we were in. I saw more floodlights go on, illuminating the side and the front of the house. I didn’t wait for the flashlights that were sure to follow. Without turning my own lights on, I sped off down the road, Spot now silent beside me.
Chapter Thirty-one
I’m not sentimental. Neither is Wallis. If prodded, I’d probably admit to loving her. How else to explain my continued acceptance of her verbal abuse? If poked, she’d undoubtedly lash out. But I believe she loves me, too. How else to explain the way she nestled into me predawn, as I lay awake, staring into the gloom and waiting for the ceiling to appear? It wasn’t so much dawn I was counting on. I’m a night person, always have been, and I don’t mind getting up before sunrise if that’s what’s needed. It was more what that first light would mean. And as I lay there, waiting for the moldings to appear, I knew I was looking at my future. My near future, anyway. I’m not a fatalist, nor that kind of a psychic. Emptiness slowly turning to gray, the cold, clear light of the early spring morning bringing definition to my room. My empty room. Jim Creighton had not come by.
It wasn’t a surprise. As I lay there, struggling to make out the place in the corner where the paint was peeling, I let my mind wander. We’d had some fun, and that fun had extended beyond this room to take in s
ome good dinners and a fair amount of laughter. Our recent meet-ups, however, had been more constrained. That last time? We hadn’t even spoken, not unless you count the few words necessary to place and position as conversation. The writing had been on the wall for weeks. Maybe it would have been even if Laurel Kroft had not come to town. And I knew it was as much my choice as anything—Jim was, at heart, conventional. He’d wanted more. And I, well, even excusing my ambivalence, I didn’t know how to do more. More than affection. More than a regular playmate. Not with who I am, with what I can do. Not if I wanted to stay out of the loony bin. That was the price of freedom for me, and that’s what I could never explain to Jim. He couldn’t know me, not the way he wanted. I didn’t dare let him.
Still, it stung. I hadn’t thought it would come like this. I’d called him, once I’d calmed down a bit after leaving the Haigens. Laurel still hadn’t shown up, but he’d agreed to meet me at her place so I could bring Spot in and bed him down for the night. Jim had been agitated, and I’d played it cool—no more teasing when he seemed genuinely worried.
Spot at least had calmed down. He had gotten a snootful of something back at the Haigens and kept playing it over in his mind. I kept getting that wild scent, that mix of thrill and fear. Even back in his own place, he wouldn’t let it go, and I found myself confused by the mix of Laurel scents and that strange aroma. With Creighton hanging over us, I couldn’t ask Spot, not in any real way. And so after feeding him and refilling his water, I put him in his crate with barely a hug.
“Gone.” That was all. “Yes,” I’d said back, murmuring into one plush ear. “For now.
“I’ll be back in the morning,” I said to counter the rising anxiety I felt as I retreated. “If Dr. Kroft hasn’t shown up by then,” I’d added for Creighton’s benefit. While it did seem out of character for the long-legged shrink to disappear for the better part of a day, the possible explanations were legion. As to why she hadn’t called our mutual beau, I didn’t want to speculate. I refuse to play those games. Doesn’t mean I’m in the majority.
“I’ll call first thing, Jim.” I’d paused by the door before leaving. “I’d like to take the dog out for a long session anyway. But if she hasn’t surfaced…” I left it at that, watching my words sink in. He didn’t respond.
I’m not a sadist. Besides, this was hurting me, too. “I can see myself out.” I turned and started down the steps. Behind me, I got a sense of loss, of pleading. It came from Spot.
“Pru?” I paused and turned. Creighton was following me, and I waited as he locked Laurel’s door and joined me. “Can we talk?”
“Sure, Jim.” I’m good at deadpan, usually. Now I just stared at my car. “What’s up?”
“Look, I know things have been less than great between us.” He stopped, but if he was waiting for me to chime in, he’d have to wait longer than he did. “I know you think we’re really different, at heart. That we want different things.”
This was it. I’d had this talk before, and I didn’t want to again. “Is this the part where you tell me I really do want to settle down? To have kids and learn to cook?”
I was interrupted by a burst of laughter. “No, Pru. I’m not fool enough to do that. It’s just—” A burst of radio chatter stopped him short. Carol, back at the headquarters, was calling for him—listing numbers like they made sense. He held up his hand, listening.
“Jim?” I didn’t like how this was going, but that laugh…I toyed with the unlikely possibility that I had been wrong about him.
“Hang on.” He walked over to his car, and I stood there like a fool as he traded numbers and fiddled with a GPS. “Right away,” I heard.
“Pru?” He didn’t even get out of his car, just turned those baby blues up at me. “Can we pick this up later? Maybe tonight?”
“Sure, Jim.” I nodded. “You know where I live.” He was closing the door as I said it, reaching for the ignition. Just as well, I figured. I was having trouble keeping the stupid grin off my face.
That had been hours before. Hours during which I had bathed and scented myself, opened a bottle of wine, and then followed it with a water glass of bourbon. I was drunk by two. By three, I should have been asleep. But by five, I’d given up, and that’s when Wallis had made her presence felt, landing on the bed like an animate bean bag, and kneading my arm till I moved it from its place rigidly by side. She cuddled into the crook of my arm, then, purring like an engine.
“You don’t have to do this, you know.” I didn’t have to explain further.
“Doesn’t have the sense of a kitten.” She was talking to herself. “Gets herself mixed up with dogs and all that…”
“At least it’s almost spring.” I rolled onto my side and pressed my face against her fur. She smelled like baby powder.
“Not the sense of a kitten.” The rhythm of her purr subsided somewhat. The warmth grew more steady. “Never listens, never learns.”
Her tone was scolding, but she didn’t move, not even when my hot tears must have soaked through her fur and I stopped looking for the light.
***
I woke with a start, alone, the phone buzzing like a beetle on its back.
“Hello?” I croaked, once I had finally landed the little bugger. “Who’s this?”
I was too late. The call had gone to voice mail, and I fell back on the pillows, trying to marshal my thoughts.
The bourbon had been a bad idea. Coffee, that’s what I needed. Coffee and about a gallon of water. Then I should hit the road. This particular brand of craziness had to be nipped in the bud.
“Morning, sunshine.” Wallis sauntered into the kitchen like she owned it. “Well?”
“Hang on.” I got the coffee started and began cracking eggs. She sat there, tail curled around her front paws, waiting for service. I obliged, as grateful for her silence now as I was for her comfort last night. “Here you go,” I said finally. I’d made the eggs with extra butter. My way of saying thanks.
“Mmm…” She acknowledged the treat with a purr. “And perhaps we needn’t have worried after all, hmmm?” Her face was buried in the plate, not that her expression would have given anything away. I poured myself a mug and sipped. Too hot. Finally, I couldn’t help asking.
“Wallis? Do you know something?”
“Mmmm…bird…” The warmth of the egg was overlaid with an image of a nest. Fantasy or something from Wallis’ hunting days, I didn’t know. “We all have our hungers.”
“Wallis?” Silence. I looked at the coffee and back at the cat. “She’s gone.” Spot’s words came back to me. Inexplicable, unless…
Wallis looked up, licking her chops. I ran back to the bedroom for my phone.
Sure enough, the call I’d missed had been from Jim Creighton. With a sinking feeling, I replayed the message.
“Pru? I need you to come in, as soon as possible. There’s been a development.”
This wasn’t an apology or an explanation. And at that moment, I didn’t want one. His tone said it all. The call was official. From now on, any need for me would be purely business.
Chapter Thirty-two
I tried for the same cool tone when I returned Creighton’s call. Voice mail made it easier, and I left the simple message that I’d be by as soon as I finished my morning rounds. Steeling myself to face Tracy Horlick would be good practice.
Not that she made it easy. In fact, the old harridan seemed to know already that something was amiss. Standing in her doorway of her house, she made no move to fetch her little dog and instead fixed me with a basilisk stare.
“Good morning, Mrs. Horlick.” I did my best.
“Hm,” she responded. “Must be nice to be rich.” She picked a stray bit of tobacco off her lip and looked at me as if her pronouncement was supposed to mean something.
“Excuse me?” I knew I wasn’t at my wittiest, but this sounded like a comple
te non sequitur to me.
“To be rich.” She clearly savored the word. “If I’d known they’d let that car go for a song, maybe I’d have made my move. Or maybe you should have.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I peered behind her, looking for Growler. “But I’ve got an appointment, Mrs. Horlick, so—”
“I hear you’re going to have some time on your hands.” Her lipstick cracked in a smile that looked more like a leer. “Now that you’re not the new game in town.”
Unable to conjure any kind of response, I ignored her and looked past her into the dark hallway. Growler had to be in there somewhere. What I was doing was good training, but she was as tuned into body language as any predator, and she must have picked up something in the way I was peering past her, looking for the little white dog. “Or the freshest.” She licked her lips, and I flashed on what I hated about her. And what Growler had told me.
“You should know.” It was childish. I was tired. Hungover. And right then I didn’t care. Her eyes narrowed, though that could have been from the smoke. I should have left it. I didn’t. “Your bridge partner?”
A laugh, more like a bark than anything Growler ever made. “I’m not some girl to get all moony over nothing.” She took another drag, appraising me. Had I been wrong in my interpretation of Growler’s memory? “But that car had to be worth fifty grand.”
“You said it yourself, it’s good to be rich.” I doubled down. She had to be talking about the Haigen’s Benz, though I’d be damned if I could see the connection.
“Huh,” she snorted, smoke coming from her nostrils. “Like he’s even calling the shots.”
For a moment I was stymied. I’d thought Nick was dealing with the sale of the SUV, but it had been Benazi I’d seen in Growler’s vision. And if Benazi was working for someone else, I didn’t think I wanted to know about it. Then I remembered: Laurel Kroft had been walking around the table. That made more sense.
