by Clea Simon
I stopped myself. If I kept going this way, I’d make the case for the prosecutor. “Jim, you know Albert as well as I do. He’s sloppy, but he’s not violent. He’s a screw-up, that’s all. I’m sure he was just following someone else’s lead, and I thought, if I could just take a look at that trap…”
I searched my beau’s face for clues. He gave up a sad smile. “Is that why you’re trying to drag Larry Greeley into this? Or do you really think I wouldn’t have spoken to him? That I don’t know Beauville as well you?”
“Larry Greeley wasn’t there?” I couldn’t draw any other conclusion.
“Pru.” He was shaking his head again, the smile gone. “What’s going on here? You can’t really be worried that he’s competition for you, can you?”
Kayla was absorbed in paperwork as I walked out. Chuck had fled the scene. Not that I cared any longer. Creighton no longer had the trap, and he wasn’t doing to pull any strings to get me access, either. On the other hand, in terms of who was out there, he knew what I knew—no, he knew more. In fact, I realized as I stepped out onto the pavement, in addition to confirming what I’d already known about Ronnie, Creighton had given me a couple of pieces of valuable information. First, that Larry Greeley must have given Creighton some kind of an alibi. Second, that Paul Lanouette had been killed in a vicious and personal manner, and, finally, that what Greg had hinted at was true: Albert wasn’t only being held because of the trapping of the bear. Despite all my protestations to the contrary, the bearded official was a suspect in a murder.
Chapter Eighteen
I looked in on Frank. Literally, through the glass door from the foyer that animal control shared with the Beauville cops. He was napping on the desk, and I didn’t have the heart to wake him. If he had taken his person’s keys and hidden them, he probably had a reason. But until he was willing to share that with me, I needed to pursue other avenues to get at the truth—and to get the slinky beast’s person out of the box—as he’d envisioned it—that he’d trapped himself in.
Creighton was a good cop, I told myself as I walked back to my car. He might be holding Albert, but he wasn’t going to charge anyone until he knew for sure what had happened. Even if the state was getting involved, Jim would still be the point-man for the case. And well, maybe Jim had a point. Maybe I did have a soft spot for so-called dumb animals—and the burly man my beau had in custody was certainly one of the dumbest.
At any rate, there was little more I could do for Albert now. And at least until I replaced him as the one behind that desk, I needed to earn my living the best way I knew how. It was time to pay Doc Sharpe a visit.
“Well, look who the cat dragged in.” I adore the old vet. He’s been a staunch supporter ever since I returned to this two-bit town. Pammy, his assistant, who now eyeballed me from County’s front desk, I’m less fond of. “Late night?”
“You should watch it, Pammy.” I brushed by her with scarcely a glance. “Your face might freeze like that.”
It wasn’t nice, and from the little squeal I heard as I walked by, I knew she’d make me pay for it. I didn’t care. As grateful as I am to Doc Sharpe—and as much as I respect what he does—visiting the combination hospital and shelter is hard for me. He does good work, I know. And even Pammy is only really guilty of negligence—her cage-cleaning skills needed some work—and awful taste. None of the spring’s kittens or returned puppies would complain about the pink geegaws that held her hair in check or the way she popped her gum. True, the good doctor should speak to her about the fragrance—what Pammy thought was floral would register as a chemical assault to anything more sensitive than the iguana who now paced in his box. And all he cared about was the rival he’d glimpsed in the mirror last week, which was the reason he’d been off his lettuce and plum slices.
But for me, the waiting room was a battlefield. Animals who came here were likely either in pain or lost. They picked up on the emotions of the children who cared for them, who were often as scared as they were, because Spot needed an operation or Fluffy had to go to a new home. On occasion, I’d been able to step in and alleviate some of the worst of these fears, but the overall impact of all that terror was hard to bear.
“Pammy.” I growled. She knew I had clearance to go back and see the good vet. She wasn’t buzzing me in as punishment. When the door still refused to click, I turned to see the back of her head. But as I did, I also heard another voice.
“No, no. Can’t go.” A dog, a small one, but without the usual note of fear. “Must stay. Stay! Stay!”
I looked around until I saw a skinny little thing—male, about eight years old. Human, too. The thoughts I was hearing—in the form of sharp yaps—came from the box on his lap. “Stay! Stay!” The boy shifted, and I knew something was wrong.
“Hey, who do we have here?” I turned and knelt by the little lad, reaching my hand out to place on the box.
“Scout.” His voice, barely a whisper, was drowned out by the dog inside the box. “Guard! Guard! Guard!”
“Are you bringing Scout in to see the vet?” I scanned the boy’s face as he nodded, revealing the green of a fading bruise along his collarbone. He’d been crying sometime recently—more recently than that mark—and was struggling not to let the tears start up again. Under my hand, I could feel the box vibrating with tension. But the puppy inside seemed healthy. “Stay!” Another yap.
“Has Scout been misbehaving?” I looked from the boy to his father, who scowled and turned away. “Has he done something he wasn’t supposed to?”
My questions were purely for the father. Animals don’t misbehave. They also don’t lie, cheat, or steal. What they do is act according to their natures. And domestic animals—in particular, dogs—have been bred to respond to us, their humans. They take their cues from us. They do what we tell them to; it’s in their genes. Too often, though, we give them contradictory messages. We reward the unwanted behavior—rough housing with the puppy and then complaining when he bites, much as he would his littermates. Stroking the kitten until she is overstimulated, and not heeding the warning signs before she finally hisses at you to go away.
The little boy shook his head—and then stopped, going suddenly stiff. I waited for the man by his side to respond. “Sir?”
He glowered, and I saw my opening.
“My name is Pru Marlowe, and I work with Doc Sharpe as a behaviorist. A trainer.” I pitched my voice to be clear and authoritative, but not threatening. In this, my pose—I was still crouching at the boy’s feet—would serve as an advantage. I wasn’t entirely sure what was going on with this family grouping, but I had my suspicions. “I may be able to help with your son’s dog.”
“That’s not his dog.” His bark was rougher than the mixed breed’s in the box. “He can’t have no dog.”
I didn’t respond, not verbally. I did meet his eyes, though, and I didn’t blink.
“Is there a health issue here? An allergy, perhaps?” I waited a split second, not long enough for him to form an excuse. “Because if not, I believe this is a mistake. I’d say the boy and the dog have bonded, wouldn’t you?” My voice was as smooth as a spaniel’s coat. “And pets are wonderful for helping children learn about responsibility and empathy.”
He might’ve known that first word—the second stumped him, as I knew it would. And then I stood. I’m tall, and most men find me easy on the eyes. In this case, however, I used my height, standing a little too close for the man before me to be comfortable.
“What’s your name, sir?” He had to have heard the pause before the honorific. “I’m thinking you and your son are prime contenders for County’s home services program.”
“Wagner.” The boy spoke up, a note of hope in his voice. “I’m Billy Wagner, and this is my dad. And Scout is my dog. My mom gave him to me. We live real close by.”
I nodded, but I didn’t break eye contact with the seated man. “Then why don’t you go over to Pammy a
t the front desk then, and give her your name, address, and phone number. I’ll finish up with your father.”
Billy was off like a shot—with the box. He wasn’t leaving that dog, and I’d wager that puppy—loyal beast—would do his best to never leave the boy, either. I didn’t turn to watch them. Pammy wasn’t great, but she was competent at taking down basic information. Besides, the kid was adorable—and he hadn’t antagonized her like I had.
Instead, I leaned in until I could smell the older man’s breath. “Now, let’s get this straight.” I spoke only for his ears. “You’re not going to touch that kid or his dog in anger again. You hear me? You’ve got some beef in your life—or with your wife—you work it out. But that kid deserves something to love. Something that takes care of him, and I bet that dog does a lot better job of it than you do.”
He shifted and I thought he was going to start in on me. I didn’t want to hear it. I’d seen enough. “I’m going to be dropping by,” I said. “Animal abuse is a felony. Same as child abuse. I’m guessing something went wrong for you—but you’ve got a kid. You can be a hero, or you can go away. It’s up to you.”
“Pru?” From behind me, I heard Doc Sharpe calling.
“Are we clear?” I wasn’t leaving until I had my answer.
“Yeah.” The man lowered his head, but before he did I thought I saw a slight blush rise to his cheeks. “Yeah, I just—I had a bad day is all.”
I nodded, letting him have the last word, and then I went off to do my job.
Chapter Nineteen
“You might also be getting a call from a Mrs. Felicidad—Susan Felicidad, I believe.” Doc Sharpe was leafing through papers. He’d already outlined the few tasks he couldn’t get to—the ones he didn’t trust Pammy to take proper care of—as we walked back to his office past the warren of examination and cage rooms that made up the bulk of County’s space.
I waited. I’d been picking up what I needed along the way and now held three files in my arms, and the leather gloves we use for handling unfamiliar or aggressive animals. He’d stood at his office door, scanning the notes written in his indecipherable hand. “A cat issue, I believe. She lives near you—but on the newer side of town.”
“Thanks.” I said. I meant it. The vet was too much of an old Yankee to refer to money directly, but I got the hint. He’d steered one of the summer people my way. “Any idea what kind of issue?” I wasn’t worried, but it never hurt to have a heads-up.
The vet only shook his own shaggy mane, his lower lip sticking out in a pout. “No idea.” He was holding the page further away and squinting. “I can’t make out my own handwriting.”
“Everything okay?” Usually, the old man was as sharp as his name, but nobody’s immune to age.
“Fine.” He snapped and then caught himself. “Thanks for asking, though. I confess, I have been thinking about the future.”
I waited, my heart sinking. If he retired, I’d be in trouble. So would the whole county. Doc Sharpe was not only one of the few remaining generalists around, he was a marvel at administration, basically keeping County running single-handedly.
“I hear Greg Mishka might be looking for an assistant.” He blinked up at me. “Might be right up your alley.”
“Really?” I tried to sound surprised. The doc thought he was doing me a favor. “Trouble is, I’m developing a clientele right in Beauville.”
“Hmm.” A noncommittal sound. “Beauville, yes, well. Beauville is a small town.”
I thought of Larry Greeley and what Creighton—and Tracy Horlick—had said. “Doc, are you saying I’ve got competition? Is there someone else setting up as a behaviorist?”
“What? No.” His protest a little too forceful. “Only, Pru?” He glanced up and then immediately turned away, the diffident Yankee to the end. “It might be good for you to get out there. In the wider world again, you see.”
“The wider world.” I waited for more, but the good doc was already opening his door. Creighton—it had to be. Though how the old vet was clued into Beauville gossip was beyond me. Granted, anyone in his office might have figured out that something wasn’t right, but I’d always figured Creighton’s staff was too loyal to gossip. Then again, their loyalty would be to him—not the raven-haired dogwalker who wouldn’t settle down. I pictured a line from Kayla to Pammy—and then to Doc Sharpe? Or was Jim Creighton himself airing his woes, and—just maybe—getting the word out in an indirect manner?
Whatever. I had my reasons for keeping some distance. And, just maybe, I had some options, too. I thought of the hunky warden. More reason not to start working with him. Unless I really was in trouble...
“Pru?” I realized I was standing there, staring into space. Doc Sharpe too polite to close the door in my face.
“Sorry.” I shook off the cobwebs. “Maybe I do need a change—but, Doc…?” The question I’d been about to ask evaporated, as I saw the web of metal and leather on the desktop behind him. “What’s that?”
“What?” He turned to follow my gaze. “Oh, yes. The large animal muzzle.” He lifted it, turning it over in his hands.
I reached for it—I couldn’t help it—and got an immediate shock of panic that caused me to drop it onto the files. “From the bear?”
“What? Oh, yes.” He peered at the leather-and-metal contraption through his spectacles, a note of pride creeping into his voice. “I am rather the expert around here.”
“Of course.” It made sense, and I saw my chance. Creighton—or the staties—might have the trap, but this piece of state-owned equipment had been in close contact with the bear as well. “Greg brought the bear to you for the blood work.”
An assenting nod as the vet deposited the papers onto his desk. “Healthy animal, on the whole. Not poisoned, as I’d initially feared.”
“Why would someone poison a trapped bear?” Caging it was bad enough.
He shook his head. “Not intentionally. Not likely, anyway. But you hear things.” He peered at me over his glasses. “Private zoos—private hunts—they don’t want a healthy animal. One that could fight back. And this fellow was certainly out of it. Still it was a bit of a risk taking that off.” He peered up at me. “Greg really could use someone like you, you know.”
I answered with a close-mouthed smile. Right now I didn’t want to ask what he meant. Doc Sharpe saw more than he let on.
“Private zoos?” The hunts I’d heard about. They call them “canned.” Basically, they’re an excuse for fat, wealthy men to slaughter creatures that are far their superiors.
He nodded. “I’ve been getting advisories. Better than the alternative, but still.”
I had to agree. I was also getting so mad, I knew I had better change the subject.
“You probably need this cleaned.” I did my best to keep my voice level. Nonchalant. “I mean, we don’t want to give some poor Saint Bernard a heart attack the next time we have to use it.”
“True. I’d been meaning to return it, but...” He looked up, his gray eyes large behind his thick glasses. “Maybe you could take care of it? After you’re done?”
“Sure,” I said. At that point, I simply wanted to be gone. The muzzle lay on the files before me. It might as well have been radioactive. “I can do that.”
“Call Mrs. Felicidad first, please, Pru.” Doc Sharpe’s voice sounded very far away. “I remember now—I believe her cat has gone missing. She sounded a bit scattered. These summer people don’t understand the environment here, and I fear a feline who has gotten into the woods may be at risk.”
I did. This was important to Doc Sharpe, and besides, the principle was sound—if I could help an animal, that had to be my top priority. I’d taken the muzzle, along with the files and those gloves, back to the main storeroom. I’d have privacy there, not only from Pammy—she wouldn’t come back here unless her paycheck depended on it—but also from the hubbub of the cage room
s, three big rooms stacked like dormitories with animals in various stages of quarantine, recovery, or awaiting adoption.
Don’t get me wrong. County is well run and its animals are in good shape. But between the pets who are up for adoption and those who’ve been picked up from the streets, there’s a ton of confusion and miscommunication. Even walking down the hall, I’d picked up the sleepy emanations of a new mother. A calico shorthair, she had let herself be trapped knowing she was about to go into labor. She was purring and content now, lying on a bed of toweling in the cat room. But her squalling brood—five kittens, all doing well—were as noisy as any nursery as they took turns napping and wrestling, and their kittenish tumult was disturbing to an elderly Siamese who had dental issues and wanted everyone to know.
Stepping away from the muzzle, I dialed the number Doc had given me, working to clear my mind as the phone rang.
“Mrs. Felicidad?” The phone was answered on the first ring. Par for the course for a worried pet person. “I’m Pru Marlowe.” I introduced myself quickly and explained the services I could offer.
“Thank you.” A sigh of relief. “I’ve been—well, I’ve been distracted. I know having a pet is a responsibility, but I’ve been busy.”
I bit my tongue. A worried pet owner didn’t need a lecture, even if her excuses seemed to invite it. Luckily, she didn’t seem to notice my lack of response. “I’ve already made up fliers,” she was saying.
“That’s good.” I nodded, wondering if Doc Sharpe had suggested this. This Felicidad—what an unfortunate name—didn’t seem to have a clue otherwise. “Stay by your phone, and maybe we’ll get lucky. But I’ll be by in about twenty minutes.”
I looked around. This took priority, and I could come back to the training and, yes, the cleaning tasks later in the afternoon. The good vet would understand.
After I took down his information, I washed my hands. I should leave everything till later. Only, it was right there—the muzzle. And I’d already had a hint of what it might reveal.
