by Clea Simon
The idea was looking better and better, especially if I didn’t have to do anything much to stop it from coming my way. It wasn’t like I’d be leaving a lot behind. I’d probably even still walk Growler. I couldn’t abandon him to Tracy Horlick. And then there was Frank…
I closed my eyes and leaned forward, resting my forehead on the steering wheel. Frank. No, I couldn’t. I remembered too well the visceral thrum of fear as the sleek little creature waited for his person to return. I took a deep breath and let myself linger, for just a moment more, on the fantasy at hand. And then I started the car and continued on my way. I had work to do, and—if I could—another big, dumb beast to set free.
Chapter Sixteen
Frank. I needed to find out what the ferret knew. He’d been there, when the bear had been trapped, and even if he’d not witnessed most of the day’s happenings, he’d have picked up thoughts and memories from Albert and possibly from the other men as well. I could tell Creighton that Ronnie had been there; he probably had figured that out already. The two fat men were thick as thieves. But I didn’t yet have any proof that another man—Larry, most likely—had been there as well. Nothing I could take to a cop, anyway. What I did know was that two other men had been there, with Albert and Paul, and that Paul had been alive when the bear was trapped. As for what happened after? Well, that remained a mystery.
I also was beginning to suspect Albert’s pet of being more than an observer in this particular tragedy. When Creighton had said that the fat man’s defense hung on his keys being lost, it had struck me as both odd and appropriate to the burly animal control officer. He would think that losing his keys would absolve him of being implicated in anything locked up with those keys. But Albert isn’t anything if not lazy. Being unable to drive seemed a bit much for him to do willfully. Add in that Frank, for his own reasons, was protective of the bearded man and had definitely been hinting at something that I couldn’t yet decipher—and that ferrets had a propensity for stealing bright, shiny objects, and I had to wonder. Was Frank behind the loss of the keys? Did he think he was protecting his flannel-clad person by making some piece of evidence disappear?
Preoccupied with these questions, I probably wasn’t at my most alert as I pulled up to Tracy Horlick’s split level. If I had been, I’d have noticed that her lips were more pursed than usual, her silence even more loaded as she drew on the ever-present cigarette and regarded me.
“Back on time today.” The way she said it, I knew I couldn’t win. “For a change.”
“I try to be prompt, Mrs. Horlick.” For Growler’s sake, I kept my voice neutral.
“Maybe you should be.” She flicked ash into her own sad boxwoods. “Now that you’re not the only game in town.”
That startled me, I’ll admit. But I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of seeing it, and so I kept my poker face on until she relented, once again freeing the small white dog in her care.
“What’s that about, Growler?” As soon as we were around the corner, I put the question to the bichon, using his name for his jailor. “Is old smoke teeth going to hire someone else?”
“Nobody else coming around.” He snuffled, digging his nose under last fall’s leaves. “Not for what she’s offering.”
I caught my response short. Growler had reason to disparage the old lady. If he wanted to interpret my question as more personal, so be it. Besides, this was the bichon’s time, and I tried to let him enjoy it. I wasn’t worried about competition—not for the white fluffball’s affection, rough as it might be—but I was aware of the inherent inequality between our two species. Just because I could scoop him up with one hand didn’t mean I shouldn’t respect his privacy.
“Thanks, walker lady.” As he trotted up the concrete walkway to the Horlick front door, he turned to me with a soft bark. “You’ve always been a straight-shooter—unlike some.”
I know that what I hear is translated—I couldn’t really imagine the tiny dog knowing what a straight-shooter was, even if he wanted to use the phrase—but I still had a smile on my face as I turned over his lead to the scowling Tracy Horlick and went about my day.
In some ways, I’m lucky. Not only in terms of my basic health, considering the years I spent abusing it in the city—and the fact that I probably still drink more than a human should. Not even in that I cohabit with a cat who has seen fit to fill me in on some of the subtler points of my strange sensitivity. No, I was thinking of my career, such as it was, and how through no fault of my own I have a leg up on any competition that might be out there.
Take my other morning appointment, for example. Karen Fell’s aged basset hound Louis was acting oddly again. Karen had taken my advice and brought Louis in for a checkup, and Doc Sharpe had given him a clean bill of health. So it was up to me to find out why the floppy-eared hound was behaving strangely, falling over in the garden whenever she let him out, apparently deaf to her calls.
In a way, it was child’s play. Even as I went through the motions, asking Karen about the dog’s habits and diet, Louis was spilling the beans.
“I’m worried about Rascal,” Karen was saying, using the rather undignified name she had given the hound. “I know he’s getting on, but we always used to take such brisk walks. Now he never goes past the corner, and when I let him out—well, look at him.”
I did. Lying on his back, the pink showing through his white belly fur, he might have appeared to be ailing—an aging pet. What he was letting me know, however, was just the opposite. Louis, despite his geriatric status, was in love—madly in love—with the Persian cat two doors down. A Persian who, unbeknownst to Karen, returned his canine affections by coming by the yard on her nocturnal ramblings and marking this particular patch of dirt.
The challenge, for me, was reconciling the species-crossed lovers in a way that their people would understand.
“Sometimes, animals act out because of a need to socialize,” I ventured. There was some evidence for this in the discipline. Not that I needed that. “We love our pets and, of course, they love us,” I was quick to add. “But animals—dogs, especially—are social creatures. Have you noticed Lou—I mean, Rascal reacting to any particular houses when you go out on your walks?”
“Well, now that you mention it.” Karen nodded, her face thoughtful. “There is one house that always has a cat sitting in the window.”
“She’s so beautiful! So beautiful!” Louis started to howl.
“Have you considered talking to the cat’s owner?” I did my best to suppress a grin. “Asking if she could come out to play?”
It would take some tricky footwork, being the intermediary between the cat’s people and the aging dog’s, but by the time I left the appointment, I believed something had been accomplished.
It was as I was leaving that my earlier concern came to mind again.
“If this works,” Karen was saying, “I’m going to call you the basset whisperer.”
“Thanks.” I wasn’t going to let her know how on target her compliment was. “By the way, have you heard of anyone else doing training or—you know, animal services?”
She shrugged. “No,” she said. “I mean, it’s not like Beauville is that big.”
“Well, thanks.” Curious, I thought, but even as I walked back to my car, another idea had suggested itself. Or been suggested, rather, by Louis and his smitten scent. The black bear was long gone, and I had to hope he’d never come near humans again. But before he disappeared—while he was trapped—he must have left some scent trail. Saliva or even urine, in his panic, that would have seeped into the rope or the framing device that had held the confining net in place. Something that would carry pheromones from what had undoubtedly been a stressful time. Maybe there would be something in those traces that could help me fill in some blanks.
Chapter Seventeen
“I’m sorry, Pru.” Greg sounded genuinely bummed. And not, I couldn’t h
elp thinking, simply because he had to disappoint me. I’d called him back as soon as I got into my car. Even if he had no leads, that trap might, or so I’d thought.
He’d had the grace not to bring up his earlier speculation—or the job offer that still hung between us—and I’d been quick to tell him why I’d rung. My excuse was that I was intrigued by the idea of a net snare and wanted to check it out, just to see what kind of knots were used. I’d spent a few minutes trying to come up with a rationale—I mean, what was I going to say? Was I going to tell a state fish and wildlife warden that I wanted to feel out what psychic clues I could get from some old bear spit? Partly, well, it was a nice change to talk to a man who wanted to please me, even in something as small as letting me examine an illicit trap, simply because I was curious.
“You see, it’s evidence,” he finished. Still, I was taken aback. Was everyone out to block me? I mean, yeah, he was a state official, but still... “I don’t have it anymore.”
“Ah, thanks.” I was driving, which always helps my mood, but Greg’s explanation sweetened the pot. He wasn’t holding out on me. And he did sound honestly sorry to disappoint. “Well, it was just a whim,” I kept my voice light.
“You should talk to Jim Creighton,” he was saying. “You two must know each other, right?”
“Yeah.” I left it at that. Plausible deniability. But he had just clued me in on something I hadn’t realized. I’d thought that perhaps his department had someone doing what I was claiming I was going to try—examining the trap for some indication as to where it had come from or who had purchased it. Clearly, the bear was part of the larger investigation—animal cruelty subordinated to a murder case.
The hunky warden had also cemented my resolve. I’d not had a chance to tell Creighton what I’d learned from my all-too-brief encounter with the confused bruin, not that I had figured out how to explain it. But now I knew, I had to make sure he knew about Ronnie, although I would need to come up with something concrete to explain my knowledge to my straight-arrow beau. As for the keys—well, I am an animal behavior expert. If I could suggest that maybe Albert’s pet was responsible for the missing items, maybe I could win the bearded suspect some slack.
I’d been planning on swinging by County. Doc Sharpe had left a message about some clients of the canine kind that he wanted to discuss. Our local vet had been a solid ally, and besides, his consults usually ended up in paying work for me. Beyond that, all I had on my schedule was Jeanine Cooper’s Siamese, and the prissy little girl would be just as happy to wait for her weekly nail-clipping. Midday was her prime nap time, and she got annoyed when that was interrupted. But before I went about my own duties, I’d see what I could about saving someone else’s.
With a slight flutter in my belly that I couldn’t quite explain, I veered off the Pike and back to Beauville. It would be good to beard this particular lion in his den.
“Pru.” Creighton was standing behind the front desk, talking to his deputy, Chuck, over a sheaf of papers, when I came in. “You just dropping by?”
Chuck must have mumbled something, because Creighton handed him the file they’d been looking over as he slunk away. Just as well, seeing as how the young deputy had witnessed my debauch at Happy’s the other night. Over by the phones, Kayla, the desk clerk suddenly became very busy.
“Hey, Jim.” I said, and nodded at Kayla, but she turned away. I didn’t know how word had gotten out, but clearly Creighton’s staff had heard we were on the outs. “Can we talk?”
His eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch, but otherwise his poker face held. “Of course.” He buzzed me in. “My office?”
“I’m here in a professional capacity,” I said, as soon as we were back in his office and he’d closed the door behind me. I didn’t want him to think I was trying to make up—not this way. “I mean, about the bear.”
“Please.” He gestured to a chair and sat himself down behind his desk. We’re not an overly affectionate couple—not in public—but usually he at least offers me coffee. “Coffee?”
I blinked. No, I was the one who could hear things. Me and Wallis. Still, I had to smile.
“No.” A flood of warmth—could it be relief?—rushed up me, and I could feel my cheeks grow warm. “No, thanks. I’ve got—well, I’m supposed to be meeting with Doc Sharpe out at County.”
He nodded, waiting. Being a cop isn’t that different from being an animal trainer. I knew what he was doing, staying quiet like this and leaving the space for me to fill it. Right now, that was fine by me.
“Greg Mishka told me you have the trap—the net the bear was held in.” I jumped right in. “I thought I should take a look at it. I might have a better sense of where it came from or who built it.”
Creighton’s eyebrows went up, though whether that was because I’d mentioned Greg or because of what I was suggesting, I couldn’t tell. He has good instincts—too good for my comfort level—and so I went for the distraction.
“I’ve also heard that Albert isn’t talking,” I said. “And I have some ideas. If he’s here and I can—?”
I started to stand, when a cough from Creighton stopped me.
“Pru.” Forget command voice. This was cop voice.
“Please, Jim.” I couldn’t believe I was pleading. I figured it was a step up from pestering him with questions. “We both know Albert wasn’t the one in charge out there and that he wasn’t alone. He and Ronnie work as a unit, and you know maybe they’ve got half a brain between them. Plus, neither would turn on Paul Lanouette. They’d be afraid to. I mean, clearly booze was involved, and I’m guessing Ronnie took off before Albert passed out—and that somewhere in there, Paul—well, something happened. But it’s pretty clear Albert wasn’t the only other person there, besides the dead man. And...”
Those blue eyes had gone cold. I might as well have tried grilling him again. He wasn’t giving me anything, and this was the tricky part. I had no hard evidence. Nothing that I could explain to Creighton, anyway, and I didn’t want to say anything Albert would deny later. Then again, he was fuzzy under the best of circumstances. That realization gave me my in: “Albert wasn’t too clear on this, when I drove him back. But I’m pretty sure there was a fourth man out there, too. Larry Greeley, I’d say. I bet if you’d ask Albert, or let me—”
“Pru…” This time, there was a growl in his tone. Still, I figured I might as well get it all out.
“Also, about those keys?” I licked my lips, my mouth suddenly dry. This was a little close to my own secrets for comfort. “I think—well, I don’t know how much you know about ferret behavior.” I focused on the facts. “They can become possessive of toys, shiny things, and the like. I think it’s possible that Albert is telling the truth. That he really can’t find his keys. He had his ferret in the truck, and it’s quite possible that Frank—his ferret—stole his keychain. It was shiny and it might have smelled of Albert, so it would be fairly normal behavior.”
His guffaw stopped me this time, laugh lines around his eyes softening that cold cop stare. But before I could capitalize on the burst of humor, he put a hand up to stop me.
“I knew it,” he said. “I was right. You’re not the tough case you’d like me to believe, but this confirms it.”
“What?” I didn’t like this.
“We found the keys, Pru. In his truck. Albert tucked them under the mat, thinking we wouldn’t find them. But I’m kind of touched that you were trying to cover for him.”
“Just because you found them doesn’t mean—”
That hand again, like a traffic cop. “Please, your loyalty is admirable, but it doesn’t matter. The state lab has them. That and the snare the bear was caught up in. They’re looking for residue, so it doesn’t matter how it ‘got lost,’ really.” At this, he made air quotes, which normally would piss me off. Only now I was intrigued.
“Residue?” Drugs, I was thinking. Maybe
Albert had taken a hit of whatever had knocked the bear out. I was also thinking of the ropes that had held the bear. I’d have given a set of radials to be touch whatever residue that poor creature had left.
But Creighton’s mouth had set in a hard line and he shook his head. “You don’t want to know, Pru. And to lock a man—a friend—up as he bleeds out...”
I had no words, but the question must have been clear in my face.
“Paul Lanouette was beaten to death, Pru. His face and body were a mess of contusions. And the back of his head—well, it wasn’t pretty. Maybe his death wasn’t intentional, but somebody wanted him to hurt, and he did. To me, that means anger or a premeditated punishment—or someone who was drunk or high enough not to care.”
I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. This was more concrete than I had imagined, conjuring up images I didn’t want to see. The men we were talking about liked their drink. I didn’t want to think they were capable of something like this.
“But Ronnie couldn’t...” I stopped. He was a large man, and he frequently drank to excess.
“We know Ronnie was there.” Now the man before me just seemed sad. “But he’d already left—I’m sorry, Pru, I’ve already said too much. I appreciate you coming in, especially after—well, what I said.”
“That’s not...” I stopped. This was becoming untenable. “Jim, I understand that this is your job, and I’m not trying to interfere. But I work with Albert, and Lord knows, I’m not usually going to defend him. He drinks too much, and he’s careless, and yeah, he’s a big guy, so, yeah, maybe he doesn’t always know his own strength.”
