by Clea Simon
But if I’ve learned anything with this sensitivity, it’s that I need to be aware of boundaries. Sometimes—often, even—the animals in our lives welcome our touch. At other times, we must respect them and let them be. And so when Frank didn’t respond to my words—or the thought behind them—I could only watch as he climbed off the desk onto the seat cushion that probably still smelled strongly of his person’s presence. I watched him circle once, like a cat, and then curl up into the deep sleep that ferrets are known for.
Poor guy. I waited as the thoughts of Albert drifted off into vague dreams about hunting some shiny object. A fish, perhaps, as seen through water, and the anxiety, if that’s the word, fading into something more solicitous and protective.
Frank was a neutered male, I knew. Albert was not the most law-abiding member of the Beauville establishment, and, despite his title, I didn’t think he’d necessarily observe the state laws about ferrets. But he’d adopted Frank when a vacationing family had surrendered him to our county shelter, an adult animal no longer being as cute as a cub, at least not to a young teen who had discovered other interests, I gathered, from the few memories Frank had shared. And his original owner—probably at his parents’ insistence—had had the surgery done, though probably more to make the little animal’s musky scent more palatable than out of any strict adherence to the laws in the state of Massachusetts. From this, I had always assumed that Frank had no offspring of his own. Now, picking up that sense of responsibility—and, was it guilt?—I wondered. Maybe it was me, but I couldn’t see caring that deeply about the man I had just seen in the police station next door.
Then again, I mused, it could be fatigue. Wallis could get snippy when she was due for a nap, and she had often pointed out the same about me. We’re all animals, after all, and our vulnerabilities are heightened when we’re tired, hungry, or scared. And so, making a mental note to follow up with the slim sleeper once he woke, I began to rummage through Albert’s papers. My talk with Creighton had reminded me about the caller. I might not have an answer for him, but at least I could let him know. And if I ended up resubmitting his fishing license application, well, then, that was something I could bill Albert for, once he was back at his post.
If… I caught myself. No, Albert might be a mess of a man, but he wasn’t violent. Though I’d been around long enough to know that when people drink and emotions run high, people can get hurt. Was there a molten core of wounded pride underneath Albert’s bulk? Could he have lashed out after one too many insults? A man of his bulk, unconscious or not caring...
No, I told myself. Odds were, the body wasn’t even one of Albert’s friends. Lots of people come through this little town of ours, and a shack a half mile from the road might appeal to folks for a variety of reasons, none of them honest or kind. I didn’t know who Creighton had found out there. I certainly had no reason to assume it was anything but an unfortunate accident.
Besides, I had my own priorities to see to—and other clients who needed my attention. I pulled the spare chair up to the desk as I realized the magnitude of my quest. Albert didn’t file anything. I wasn’t totally sure he read anything—or could, for that matter. While Frank snoozed, I worked my way through notices about changes in hunting and fishing regulations, all clearly marked with “PUBLIC POSTING.” Two letters about overdue water bills for Albert’s apartment, which were surprising in that I didn’t think the man bathed or drank the stuff. And then, under a grease-stained sports page from the local rag, I found it: my note about Jack Walz, a summer resident who wanted a fishing license.
With a sigh of relief—I really didn’t want to excavate any deeper—I sat back and reached for the phone. Only to have it ring as I lifted it.
“Beauville Animal Control.” If it was Walz, I could honestly tell him that I had been about to call him back.
“Hello, Officer?” The high voice was breathless. An older person, I thought, and scared.
“May I help you?” I stood and reached for a pencil I’d seen earlier. If someone was being threatened or an animal was in danger, I’d pass the info onto Creighton’s office and head right out.
“I hope so.” A man, I thought, but frail sounding and upset. “It’s my Sage, you see. She’s gone missing.”
Chapter Eight
Summer people. I know their distress is as real as that of any creature flushed from its den, but as I repeated Sage’s Pine Hills address to memorize it, I couldn’t avoid the thought that they bring it on themselves. Bad enough that they uproot themselves with the change in the weather, but they inflict massive changes on their pets, too. Granted, some animals are more territorial than others. Most dogs will be happy enough anywhere, as long as you’re there with them, while cats, as Wallis frequently reminds me, just want to be in their proper home, with or without you.
Still, this is what I do—reconcile the ways of man to dog—and it wasn’t the poor pet’s fault that his person had placed him in an unfamiliar setting. So, with a sigh that might have woken Frank were he not so completely out, I abandoned the pile of paperwork half sorted, only pausing to fish out a liquor store flier from the previous winter—along with a pen suspiciously like one I’d lost weeks before. Scrawling “out of office—back soon” on the flier’s back, I pocketed the pen and searched for something tacky to stick it to the office door. In my hunt, I found that message from Walz again and pocketed that too. No matter what I felt about Beauville’s wealthy transients, I had given this guy my word.
The rest I left for Albert. As I locked up—I’d found a scrap of duct tape for the notice—I looked over at the cop shop on the other side of the foyer. The waiting area appeared empty, but that didn’t mean anything. Albert could easily have gotten out while I was working through the mess on his desk. In fact, if he’d seen me in there, he’d feel more free to amble on down to our little town’s old main drag and console himself after his ordeal with a liquid lunch.
I found the idea of the bearded man bellied up to the bar at Happy’s oddly cheering and was almost whistling as I drove away from the shared lot. I even managed to wait until I was down the block before I let my baby-blue baby roar.
Sage, and her person, weren’t that far away. Nothing in Beauville is, and from here, in the commercial center of town, I could take the county road, which looped around the gentle slope Beauville was built on and the big stone outcropping that divided it. This made for a scenic drive, and after the disruptions of the morning, it felt good to put my foot down, to let my GTO’s muscular engine do its work.
Not that I was alone. This late into spring, the birds were beyond caring. Nests had been made and eggs had mostly hatched. Now everyone was either trying for a second chance or readying for their fledglings to take off. Memories of my own mother came back as I heard the squawking of a particularly outraged robin. She’d have been even more appalled if she knew how her little girl had been bullying her brother, stealing the food literally out of his mouth the moment mom’s back was turned. Well, I wasn’t going to tell, and as I drove out of earshot, I found myself wondering if the little male was going to survive. The little female as well, for that matter. Life isn’t easy for any of us, and even we tough ones can get tripped up.
Well, they weren’t my concern, I told myself as I pulled off the county road and circled back around the cobble. My sensitivity had made me more aware of the struggles around me, much to Wallis’ scorn.
“Really?” I could hear the rolled “r” of her guttural purr in my head. “Worried about the robins now? And what about that rotisserie chicken?”
Shaking the memory free, I checked the address one more time. I’d had no answer for her the first time she’d confronted me on what she called my “human hypocrisy,” back when I first realized I could hear her thoughts. I hadn’t come up with an answer since.
New Birch Street—a few blocks from where I’d met up with Helen Birman only the day before. Recalling the old la
dy and her errant pet, I slowed to a more reasonable speed as I maneuvered through the freshly paved streets. Sage’s person—a Mr. Ernest Luge—was further back than Helen and Tessie had been, and as I drove, the houses got bigger and uglier. The developer who had lacked imagination when it came to street names had also been missing common sense. Beauville, a former mill town, is situated in a valley. The older houses, like mine, climb the gentle slope on the west of the river. The first new houses, like Helen and Tessie’s clapboard, perched on the same slope and continued the old New England-style, on the other side of granite outcropping that had once defined this town.
This warren of McMansions, though, had been tucked into a cleft of the rise. Easier to build on, I figured, but that also meant it was cut off from the regular breeze that flows up the valley along the river. I was sweating by the time I found the right address.
“Mr. Luge?” I’d wiped my brow on my sleeve as I’d walked up to the house, hoping to make myself more Pine Hills-presentable, but I’d still been somewhat surprised when the tiny white-haired man had answered with a smile. “I’m Pru—Pru Marlowe, with Beauville animal control.”
It felt odd to announce myself that way, but I was here in a semi-official capacity. I’d let him know later about the freelance services I offered.
“Yes, of course.” Nodding agreeably, my host stepped back, gesturing me into a frosty living room. When he’d opened the door, I’d noted his age in his lined face and the way his slim body hunched forward. What I hadn’t seen was the cane, nor the way one leg dragged as he maneuvered. “Please, come in.”
I did, just enough so he could close the door. This much air conditioning shouldn’t be wasted.
“I should get some information and then head out.” Especially if Luge couldn’t do the searching himself, I wanted to get moving. A lost pet is serious business—and this wasn’t going to be as easy as the situation with Reina. As I started to explain: dogs aren’t like cats. Beyond the obvious, they don’t behave the same when they’re lost. I needed to know this Sage’s age and breed to plot out where she might have gone. It was still bright day, but I wouldn’t give a domestic dog much of a chance out here at night with the coyotes. Like that robin, they had young to feed, and even as we closed in on high summer, their awareness of winter was always near.
“You didn’t get my message?” The smile was confusing, and I shook my head. Like so many of the animals I dealt with, I viewed bared teeth—even unnaturally white ones—with caution.
“I’m sorry. I called the office.” He waved me over again, moving quickly despite his disability, and this time I followed. Not so much because of his gesture but because I’d picked up a faint signal—“nice man! Treats!”—from an animal somewhere deeper in the house. “Sage has been found. She’s home safe and sound. I was just giving her some dinner when you rang.”
“Ah, of course.” I wasn’t surprised she was getting treats, considering how frantic her person had been. The rest fell into place. “My cell isn’t hooked into the animal control office phone,” I said aloud. “I’m freelance—I’m a local animal behaviorist and, well, pet-care specialist.” It sounded better than dog walker and for all I knew, he needed some help training Sage. “I help out when Albert, when our animal control officer, is … otherwise engaged.”
“Well, I’m sorry you had to make the drive for nothing.” He looked up at me, pale gray eyes bright. “Would you like a cold beverage?”
“Sure.” While I didn’t want to put the little man out, I did want to meet the pooch in question. Maybe she could give me some hints as to her person’s pet-care needs. Also, there was something off about the happy little grunts and barks that came from the kitchen. Something missing. “Is that Sage I hear?”
“You have good ears.” Moving at a jaunty, if awkward, pace, he led the way into the kind of kitchen I’d only seen in magazines. “Hey, baby!” His voice took on the singsong quality people use with their pets. “We’ve got a visitor!”
“Hey, Sage.” I peered over my host’s shoulder to see the large dark eyes of a Chihuahua stare up at me. Apparently utterly unfazed by my appearance in her kitchen—or by her recent adventure—she licked her chops and sat. Awaiting those treats, I imagined.
“How are you doing?” I spoke out loud, crouching on the floor by the little dog. The words were primarily for the benefit of the man who was busy by an oversized stainless-steel fridge. For the dog, I held out my hand, palm up. It was the closest I could come to a dog’s submissive posture without alarming my host, and by letting the Chihuahua sniff my hand, I was offering her a more detailed introduction than anything words could do. “And how would you prefer to be addressed?” I posed the query silently to further demonstrate my willingness to let her take the lead.
“What? Sage. Sage will do.” Her damp nose was busy, roving over my hand. “Hmm…cat, dog—dogs. What’s that?” She paused, and I wondered if she could pick up the bear from the day before. “Weasel?” No, Frank. Of course, in my hurry. I had neglected to wash my hands. “Well, well, well.” her nose trembled over my fingers and into the base of my palm. I waited for the moment of contact, for the chance of a greater connection, but it was not to be. “No treats.” She pulled away.
“Sorry, girl. I don’t have any treats.” That, I dared risk out loud.
“You haven’t finished your dinner!” The man standing beside me sounded affronted. “Sage!”
“She appears unharmed.” I rose and turned toward him, a query forming in the back of my mind. An animal who won’t tell me her true name may be holding other things back as well. “She’s probably had a fright, which could explain the loss of appetite. But I’d be happy to take her in for a checkup.” Despite his facility with the cane, I wasn’t going to inconvenience him further. Besides, a drive to county would give me the chance to get some answers.
“No, no.” He shook his head and handed me a glass. Iced tea. I took it and watched as he squatted and the dog leaped into his free arm. He held her close as he stood, her delicate paws reaching up his chest. “She wasn’t out that long. I’m sure it was just the excitement.” Leaning his cane against the counter, he stroked her velvet head and held her close. Even if the man didn’t address his canine companion with her preferred name, theirs was a love scene, and I was intruding—an impression that was amplified when the dog turned to stare at me. I was about to make my excuses and duck out—leaving these two to their reunion—when it hit me what was missing. Even as the little toy focused her dark eyes on me, I got no sense of agitation. None of the distress—part fear, part excitement—that I would expect from a domestic animal that has experienced the wild, even briefly.
“Are you sure?” Doc Sharpe, our local vet, would squeeze her in as a favor to me. “She’s such a good girl.” I extended my fingers once more, this time silently forming the questions as she lowered her head: “What’s going on? How are you?”
“She is!” Her person shifted, moving her wet nose away at the last moment as he bent to kiss the top of her chocolate head. “Who’s a good girl? Who is?”
“Oh, please!” Sage—or whatever her true name was—whined, but it was the affectionate sound of a long-suffering pet. As if on cue, Luge reached for her foreleg. The paw he held out to me, ever so gently, was trembling in the way that Chihuahuas do. Not with fear or stress, I sensed immediately, as I touched the leather pads, but with happy anticipation.
“I’d say she is,” I commented, although the question hadn’t been for me. It was a natural response to the query in those deep dark eyes that now pleaded with me, asking in the manner of spoiled pets everywhere, “Treats?”
Chapter Nine
I couldn’t say I was satisfied as I drove back to what I still thought of as “real” Beauville. But Luge and the dog he called Sage seemed happy enough—and after the old man took my card, I figured I shouldn’t risk any possible future appointments by overstaying my we
lcome. It wasn’t until I was cruising through our meager downtown that I realized I’d never even heard what happened, or how the lost pup had ended up found.
“Probably hiding under a cushion,” I muttered to no one but the birds as I pulled up to the curb in front of our one Chinese restaurant. Fish are as dumb as you’d think, but they were still grateful for the weekly cleaning I gave their big tank. Besides, the little sucker fish who was supposed to do his own version of that was a notorious gossip. He filled me in on who’d come by and with whom—the restaurant’s bar was a popular rendezvous—as I replaced the filter and tested the pH. That was about as exciting as the rest of my day would get. When you start your day with an interrogation—even by a good-looking cop—it’s all downhill from there.
“The company you keep.” Wallis jumped off the windowsill and sauntered in my direction as I let myself into the house. “I don’t know why I bother.”
“Good evening to you, too.” I placed the grocery bag on the table and headed for the fridge. Wallis might expect to be served first, but I yearned for a beer.
“If you simply went for what you wanted…” She twined around my ankles in an almost pet-like fashion. “You wouldn’t need to drink.”
“‘Want,’ Wallis.” I twisted the cap off and took a pull. Cold and refreshing. “Not ‘need.’”
“Whatever.” Another figure-eight and an anticipatory purr began to rise. She knew me well enough to know that once the beer was half downed, I’d fetch her dinner. “Fetch” being one of those words, like “want,” that didn’t really translate, I realized as I rummaged around the fridge for the remainders of last night’s chicken. Although I had interpreted Wallis’ rebuke in human terms, she might as well have been saying I should hunt for the prey I sought. Or—it occurred to me as I pulled the foil from the carcass—that I should ask.
