by Clea Simon
Fear on Four Paws
A Pru Marlowe Pet Noir
Clea Simon
Poisoned Pen Press
WHEN BUNNIES GO BAD
The Sixth Pru Marlowe Pet Noir
“... Simon’s wacky humor—darkish but surely not black—provides more than enough entertainment.”
—Booklist
“Pru’s method for communicating with Beauville’s nonhuman residents is cleverly conceived, and Simon neatly incorporates these exchanges into her tale...animal lovers will be delighted.”
—Publishers Weekly
“This was my first Pru Marlowe novel and I can safely say it won’t be my last. ...Clea Simon does an excellent job of mixing humor, romance, and mystery into one coherent and exciting tale.”
—San Francisco Review of Books
“Simon brings intrigue, wit and a profound love for animals to Pru’s latest adventure. And readers who enjoy a whodunit with unusual characters, animal connections and—dare we say it?—velveteen prose should hop to it.”
—Richmond Times-Dispatch
“Simon’s mysteries are lighthearted with a fair amount of humor in the mix. Her animal characters are as three-dimensional as the human characters. She makes Pru’s ability believable and realistic in how she interacts with the animals. She draws you in with the first paragraph and keeps you engaged to the final word.”
—The News Gazette
“So, what’s the big secret? Not telling. But readers will absolutely love this fun, witty mystery that hits on all points!”
—Suspense Magazine
KITTENS CAN KILL
The Fifth Pru Marlowe Pet Noir
“... this quirky series has a devoted following among the Animal Planet crowd, and the unique premise has its own appeal.”
—Booklist
“... cozy fans will enjoy spending time with Pru and her two- and four-legged friends.”
—Publishers Weekly
PANTHERS PLAY FOR KEEPS
The Fourth Pru Marlowe Pet Noir
“...[Pru] remains an appealing hero, and fans of animal mysteries will find plenty to keep them entertained here.”
—Booklist
PARROTS PROVE DEADLY
The Third Pru Marlowe Pet Noir
“Pru Marlowe can hear what animals are thinking? The wonderfully talented Clea Simon makes it a delight to believe it. Clever, original and completely captivating!”
—Hank Phillippi Ryan
CATS CAN’T SHOOT
The Second Pru Marlowe Pet Noir
“Simon excels in creating unique and believable animal characters as well as diverse and memorable humans, and this sequel is just as good as Dogs Don’t Lie. A perfect read-alike for fans of Rita Mae Brown and Shirley Rousseau Murphy.”
—Booklist Starred Review
“Fast-paced... readers will relish this fun caper.”
—Mystery Gazette
DOGS DON’T LIE
The First Pru Marlowe Pet Noir
“Simon writes a high-quality cozy mystery, well paced and plotted, with plenty of twists, and set in a New England small town full of intriguing characters. Pru’s struggles to deal with her abilities make this stand out among other animal mysteries, and the sad story of Floyd, the heart-broken Persian, will touch the heart of cat lovers everywhere. Recommend this series to fans of Blaize Clement and Rita Mae Brown (especially those who have grown weary of the Mrs. Murphy novels). Watch this series closely. It could well sprint to the top of the animal-cozy genre.”
—Jessica Myer, Booklist Starred Review
“Simon, author of the Theda Krakow (Probable Claws) and Dulcie Schwartz series (Grey Matters), launches a delightful new pet series that will appeal to fans of Shirley Rousseau Murphy and Rita Mae Brown.”
—Library Journal
Copyright
Copyright © 2018 by Clea Simon
First Edition 2018
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018930055
ISBN: 9781464210099 Trade Paperback
ISBN: 9781464210105 Ebook
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
Poisoned Pen Press
4014 N. Goldwater Blvd., #201
Scottsdale, AZ 85251
www.poisonedpenpress.com
[email protected]
Printed in the United States of America
Contents
Fear on Four Paws
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
More from this Author
Contact Us
Dedication
For Jon
Acknowledgments
Much gratitude to eagle-eyed readers Brett Milano, Karen Schlosberg, my agent Colleen Mohyde, and, of course, Jon Garelick, as well as John McDonough and Erin Mitchell for their assistance and advice, and to Lisa Jones, Frank Garelick, and Sophie Garelick for their loving support. Mistakes and errors are mine and occur despite all the best efforts of these generous people! Thanks as well to Sarah Byrne and Peter McDonald, whose winning bid at the 2017 Bouchercon auction will go to support Frontier College, a cross-Canada literacy organization. It is because of their generosity that Bunbury Bandersnatch appears in these pages. Auctioneer Donna Andrews made a similar donation so that Jane Burfield’s much-loved Carson and Squeeks could be remembered in these pages as well. Purrs out to you all!
Chapter One
The bear was fast asleep, but he wasn’t the one snoring.
The black bear, a young male, lay on his side wrapped in rope netting, a small hillock of thick midnight fur. From where I stood, a good twenty feet away, he could have been fake—an oversized stuffed animal still in its wrapping from some upscale toy store, like the one I used to pass in the city. Only the slight rise and fall of that rounded side warned me against reaching out and running my hands through the lustrous coat that stood in contrast to the tawny weave of the ropes that bound him. That and the state warden who was approaching ginge
rly, tranquilizer gun in hand.
“Can you shut him up?” the warden, Greg Mishka, called out to me.
Greg was examining the net that held the bear, following a trailing line to a tree several feet behind the beast. He was moving slowly and very carefully with good reason: a bear that size could tear the rope around him like so much lace.
“On it.” I turned toward the other slumbering mammal, this one much less attractive in its natural state. Sleeping off a drunk, that is, and sloppy with it, a thin film of drool coating the side of his face that leaned against a rotting tree stump.
“Come on, Albert.” I used my foot, none too gently. Unlike the bear, this animal didn’t command my respect. “Time to go home.”
“Wuh?” With an ursine snuffle, the bearded mess blinked and woke, after a fashion. The eyes that stared up at me over his unkempt beard barely focused. Still soused, I suspected, though the smell of stale beer could easily be a holdover from the night—or the week—before. “Pru?”
“Yeah, you’re dreaming.” I kicked the prone man one more time, lest he get the wrong idea about what kind of dream this was. “Get up. Time to go home.”
“Pru?” Greg, this time. I turned to see the dark-haired warden had maneuvered around the animal, quite quietly for a man his size. “I could use a hand. From both of you.”
Leaving Albert to shake off his own form of hibernation, I walked back to the bear. His body was still caught in the netting, but a huge muzzle now covered the bear’s snout and mouth, and shackles—almost like human handcuffs—held his front and rear paws together.
“You should have waited.” I glanced at the warden, at the gun that now rested against the tree and the oversize syringe he was putting in his bag. Greg was built like a linebacker and I knew the bear was out cold. Still, protocol exists for a reason.
He nodded his acknowledgment as he pulled a heavy green tarp from his truck bed. “I figured I could get the BAM into him, the way he was.” The butorphanol, azaperone, and medetomidine cocktail was standard fare for wildlife removal. “I hate to do this to the poor thing.” He spread the tarp beside the sleeping bear. “But I have no idea what they gave him, and I don’t want to find out by him waking up in the truck.”
“Where do you want me?” Most men, I wouldn’t give such an opening. But Greg and I were colleagues, sort of, and I knew his mind was on this task at hand. It has to be, with wildlife management. As cuddly as this creature looked, he could kill in seconds—and would, if he felt threatened. Still, when I heard a snicker behind me, I knew Albert had roused.
“Hindquarters, please.” Another snicker. Albert might be our town’s animal control officer, but he never really got over junior high school.
“You.” Greg had taken Albert’s measure quickly enough. “I need you to help. Lift his midsection.”
“Me?” Albert’s voice squeaked, as if a mouse were hiding in his unkempt beard.
“Come on,” I growled. Albert feared me—feared most women, actually—more than any wild animal. “Time to make amends.”
Albert might weigh almost as much as Greg, but I’d bet I’m stronger. Between the three of us, we got the poor creature onto the tarp and then, using the lift, into the cage in Greg’s truck.
“Where are you taking him?” The effort had woken Albert to the point of curiosity, not his natural state. He stood staring as Greg checked the latches, absently picking twigs from his beard and shirt.
“The vet will check him out, and then we can release him.” Greg turned from Albert to me, his face serious. “We don’t need to hold him while we investigate.”
“Investigate?” That squeak again, but Greg didn’t answer. I didn’t either, at first, and simply watched the warden drive off. Then I brushed the leaf debris from my own shirt and started back toward my own, much less bulky, ride.
“You’re lucky, Al.” If he couldn’t hear the anger in my voice, that wasn’t my fault. “Luckier than that bear. You got a warning.”
“Pru, I—” I turned and he fell silent. The dead-eye stare I’d perfected back in the city was as effective as that tranq mix, at least on creatures like Albert. He didn’t need me to tell him that drugging and trapping bears was illegal, and if he knew anything about me by now he’d know that I sympathized more with the poor creature in the back of Greg’s truck than I ever would with him, even if he weren’t involved in poaching.
Back in my car, I realized my hands were trembling. Rage, not fear, affects me that way, and I was grateful that Greg had responded to my call. I’d found the bear when I’d come looking for Albert. I handle most of his responsibilities here in my hometown of Beauville, but sometimes his signature is needed—and I have no patience for waiting. When he hadn’t answered his cell, I’d driven out here, hoping to find him in the clearing, a half-mile off the county road. I had no desire to venture into the ramshackle structure Albert and his friends called their camp, and which gave the term “man cave” new meaning.
What I found instead had prompted me to call for help right away. I had feared he was dead at first—the bear, not the man—and when I’d then stumbled on Albert, snoring on his stump, I was very close to making sure he followed. Crisis averted, or at least contained, I took a deep breath, hoping to release that adrenaline. Only when I saw Albert waddling up to my window did I start to think I might have another outlet for my anger.
“Pru!” He waved as he came close, his flannel shirt pulling loose from his stained denim. “Pru, wait!”
Another breath and I rolled down the window. “What is it, Albert?”
“Can I get a ride?” He was panting from his short sprint, and had the grace to look abashed as he shifted from foot to foot. “I can’t find my keys.”
I closed my eyes for a moment. Albert had endangered a more glorious creature than he would ever be. And to top it off, he smelled. My GTO hadn’t had that new car smell in decades, but it was my pride and joy—restored to better than its 1974 heyday through hard work and hard-earned money. Still, unless I was going to help him search, I had to do something. I doubt he’d have any sense of where he might have lost his keys—and I couldn’t discount the theory that one of his buddies had taken them, though more likely as a prank than as any kind of statement about his condition or ability to drive.
Besides, I had a feeling he wasn’t alone.
“You got Frank with you?”
If the portly man standing by my car found my query odd, he didn’t show it. Too dim to dissemble, he merely blinked and nodded.
“Okay,” I sighed. “Go get him.”
I watched as he rambled over to his truck and half-expected to hear a shout as he found his “lost” keys still in the ignition. I would have no such luck, however. But at least, as he made his way back toward me, I knew I’d have some decent conversation on the ride back to town.
“Hi, Frank.” I nodded as Albert lumbered back toward the car. The triangular head that poked out of his flannel shirt blinked in acknowledgment. Frank may be a ferret—his sable coloring and distinctive facial “mask” making him resemble a streamlined version of a raccoon—but he’s one of the more personable denizens of Beauville. Certainly more than his person, Albert.
Seeing him peer around, safe inside his flannel nest, I was glad I’d agreed to give the pair a ride. Frank was curious about the woods. He smelled the bear, I could tell, and his busy nose was picking up scents I couldn’t even begin to catalog. Still, such curiosity was best left unsatisfied. Albert might survive out here for a few days, if he’d had to. There had to be some provisions in that shed besides more beer. But Frank is small for a carnivore, and these deep woods were not his territory. Besides, Albert brought himself out—and into whatever trouble was brewing. Frank was an innocent bystander and, from the way he craned his head around now, I suspected that he’d spent most of the day huddled in some corner of the truck cab, waiting for the driv
e home.
Given my druthers, I’d have taken the ferret and left the man behind. I could learn a lot from the sleek creature, I knew, but it was pointless. I’d only end up coming out here again in the morning.
“Hop in.” I popped the lock and tried not to look as the larger of my passengers angled his large rear toward me as he maneuvered into the bucket seat. “So none of your buddies is meeting you out here?”
It was a leading question, and not too subtle. But in addition to my curiosity about his keys, I knew Albert wasn’t capable of figuring out how to capture a bear by himself—nor dispose of one, once he had it, for either its pelt or for some canned hunt.
“Nuh uh,” he said, shaking his head in what seemed even then too vehement a rejection. The movement must have spooked his pet, who ducked back inside his shirt.
“Okay, then.” I rolled toward the road, easing the classic chassis over the pocked dirt. Once I got to the state road, though, I floored it, venting my fury in speed. My GTO was made for this, especially with the modifications I’d been working on recently. Besides, I enjoyed how Albert was thrown back in his seat as we crested the hill, silenced by my speed. I knew Greg or I would get our answers eventually. Someone was helping Albert, and someone would be asking about that bear.
