Fear on Four Paws

by Clea Simon

  “No.” I held up my hand. “Finish your sentence.”

  “I don’t know nothing.” He addressed the ferret in his lap. Frank was strangely silent.

  I was done. “Have you spoken to a lawyer yet?”

  “Me?” Another squeak. “No, I don’t—I mean, those guys are expensive. Anyway, I thought, you know, maybe because you know Jim?”

  “Forget it.” I growled. That was an even worse idea than he could ever know. “Look, Albert, if you’re charged, the state has to appoint a public defender for you. But it still makes sense for you to talk to someone first. I’ll see if I can get any referrals. There’s probably a legal clinic in Amherst that might be able to help.”

  “Amherst?” I could tell from his voice that the reality was beginning to sink in. I had pulled up at the modern brick building that housed animal control by then, and he shifted in his seat to face me. “Pru, maybe I’ll just—you know—turn things over to you for a few days?”

  “Albert—” I didn’t know how to break it to him. The man had some serious deficits.

  “I mean, I’ve got my things with me. Maybe, after we get something to eat, you could give me a ride back to the bus station?” Even Frank appeared to be waiting on me, his ears pitched forward in hope.

  “Albert, no.” I parked the car and, as a precaution, pocketed the keys. “In fact, we’re not going to breakfast. And you’re not coming into the office. You’re going to do the right thing and go back and tell everything to Jim.”

  There was some squealing after that, both from Albert and from Frank, who was probably more upset at his person’s sudden bolt for the door. But I’m a lot more limber than my portly colleague, and I was there to take his arm when he finally managed to stand and extricate himself from both the seat and the ferret.

  “Look,” I said, “maybe he’ll just take your statement and let you go.” I didn’t believe it myself, but I hadn’t gotten that much out of Creighton the previous night. “Don’t you want to find out what happened to Paul?”

  The whimper I heard in response told me more than Albert intended. Creighton was right—the bearded man I had hold of was in the thick of it.

  “Pru, Albert.” Creighton was talking to Kayla when we walked in, me with my hand as firm on Albert’s arm as if I were guiding any large animal into a cage. “Thanks for coming in.”

  “Oh, I’m just the taxi service.” I kept my voice level, my eyes on Creighton’s baby blues. “In fact, I’m going to take off now. Got mouths to feed, you know. But Albert here has had a change of heart.”

  I was rewarded by a flash of Creighton’s dimples. “Come on in, Albert. You’ve got some more to say?”

  The expression on the bearded man’s face was much less amused. If I had to categorize it, I would have said, he looked in fear for his life.

  It wasn’t until I stepped outside that I realized he’d left Frank behind. As I walked toward the GTO, I saw him, standing on his hind feet, craning for a view through the passenger window, and watching the man who was the center of his existence as he was led away.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  “I guess it’s you and me.” After a moment’s hesitation, I started the GTO and began to drive. Partly, that’s my default mode: when in doubt, step on the gas. Partly, I couldn’t see any other option. I didn’t necessarily want the ferret accompanying me on my rounds. But he’d been left alone in the town office too often recently. Besides, I had a strong sense that he wanted something from me.

  What it was, I didn’t know. As I pulled away, Frank leaped from the passenger seat into the tiny backseat of my car. In my rearview I could see him peering through the rear window until the cop shop was out of sight, his obvious longing tugging at my heartstrings as no mere human’s could do.

  His presence—especially standing on the back upholstery, holding himself up with his tiny hands as I accelerated—also pulled at my sense of responsibility. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t have let any animal roam my car as I was driving. It certainly wouldn’t do to have any of my clients see us riding around together, like this. But these weren’t normal circumstances and Frank was not any animal. Besides, I felt for him, seeing his person taken away like that—another beast to be caged. “Albert must know you’re with me, right?”

  The advantage of my sensitivity is that I knew the dark-eyed beast could understand me. The disadvantage is I could also tell that he was now ignoring me. “Frank?”

  Nothing. As I drove, he slipped back into the passenger seat, slinking between the two front buckets so smoothly I barely felt the brush of his sleek fur. But all I got in response to my repeated queries were muttered chirpings of anxiety and despair. Even without a clear answer, I had a good idea what was bothering him. He was worried about his person, and at some level, I suspected, he blamed me for not coming to Albert’s aid.

  “Hey, I tried to help him.” I was getting defensive. I didn’t need to justify myself to the ferret. I wasn’t the one who had trapped a bear and—just maybe—been involved in a murder. And I had given Albert my best advice. But here I was, making excuses. Wallis would have a field day, but I couldn’t help but be moved by the little creature’s loyalty and distress. “He’s got to tell me—or, better yet, Jim—what happened out there.”

  “The beast.” The mutterings formed a word in my mind—a feeling of dread and threat—but they didn’t provide an answer. “He’s in danger.”

  That wasn’t what I had expected, having walked Albert into the local precinct—or “box” as the ferret had dubbed it—and for a moment I doubted my special sense. “Danger” was different from “cage.” Then again, perhaps in the ferret’s experience, the two were connected. After all, Frank had been in Albert’s car all that day, and I didn’t know what his experience of the bear had been. Between the trapped animal’s panic and fear, there must have been heady mix of menace and pheromones in the air.

  All I did know was that the ferret’s day out in the woods had deeply unsettled him. I resisted the urge to reach out and stroke his silky fur. To soothe his mind as I smoothed his glossy coat. I wasn’t sure how such a, well, human gesture would be received. Better I should be honest and straightforward.

  “Albert’s not in danger from that bear.” I put it as plainly as I could. “Not anymore.”

  “Bear?” The question caught me off guard, and I glanced down. The black eyes that met mine were bright with curiosity, and I bit back my usual sarcastic retort. Animals don’t dissemble. It’s one of the reasons I prefer them to most humans. Clearly, I had confused him, thinking in words that might not have any meaning to a ferret. Instead, I tried to conjure up an image of the bear, as I’d first seen him.

  “Danger, danger...” It was too much. Frank was growing agitated —and I had arrived at Tracy Horlick’s house.

  “It’s okay,” I said, and this time I did reach out to pet him, hoping he would sense my good intentions through my fingertips just as I picked up the tension in his muscular body. I looked up at the Horlick house. “I promise. Hang on for a bit, and we’ll talk some more.”

  And leaving the window ever so slightly ajar, I went off to start my rounds.

  If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought Tracy Horlick could smell something on me. Frank or, more likely, Albert, whose funk had permeated my car during the brief drive. The woman’s ever-present Marlboro bobbed below her snout, however, and so I went with the assumption that the audible sniff with which she greeted me was in response to that smoke, rather than any olfactory insight.

  “Good morning.” It would take more than a nonverbal slight to faze me. “And how are we this morning?”

  “We are exhausted.” Her voice did sound more hoarse than usual. “I don’t know what you did to Bitsy, but he was up half the night, barking and carrying on.”

  “Is he okay?” As soon as the question was out of my mouth, I realized how
pointless it was. This was a woman who locked her dog in the basement overnight. “Have you taken him to a vet?”

  “He’s fine.” She sneered, her eyes narrowing further, although, again, that could have been in response to the smoke. “I’m the one who’s suffering.”

  I bit back my response. There was no winning here, and I didn’t want to cause Growler any more hardship than he already had to bear.

  “I understand.” I managed to get the words out. I really wanted to see the bichon, to find out what had actually happened. But the way to the dog was through his person, and clearly the old harridan wanted some sympathy. “Would you tell me what happened?”

  Another sniff, and she reached up for her cigarette, flicking the ash into the long-suffering boxwood. We were standing on her stoop—or I was, she leaned on her doorframe like a gorgon standing guard. And although I was doing my best to appear interested in whatever she had to say, I was listening intently for any sign from behind her—any clue at all to what was happening with the little white dog.

  “Growler?” I tried to think a query—visualized us walking down to the river. I could almost hear his sharp exclamatory bark.

  “...what you did that left him so riled up.” The image disappeared into one of pursed lips, the caking lipstick sinking into the cracks.

  “Excuse me?” From the way those lips tightened, I knew she was waiting for a response. “I’m sorry.” I gave her that. “I thought I heard Growl— Bitsy, and well, I’m worried about him.”

  “He’s fine.” She growled, exhaling smoke. “But I thought you said you could socialize animals. I mean, what do I pay you for?”

  To exercise your dog, I could have said. But this confused me. “I’m sorry.” I was repeating myself this morning. “I didn’t know Bitsy had any behavioral issues.”

  “He didn’t.” She took a long drag. “Before. That’s what I’m talking about.”

  “Yes, his disruptive behavior.” I didn’t have to have heard her whole story to echo back the part that mattered.

  “All day, after you left.” She nodded. “And I was trying to entertain.”

  I could only imagine. “Maybe he was reacting to your guests?”

  Her eyes narrowed and so I rushed to follow up. “Like a guard dog.” It was easier than explaining territoriality—not to mention the frustration of an animal who can smell and hear new creatures in his space but cannot interact.

  “Guard dog.” Another sniff, and it occurred to me. Maybe she simply had a sinus condition. However, whether she was dismissing my theory that Growler was trying to protect her or—more likely—that he could, she seemed to have vented enough. Without another word, she turned and walked back into her house, and I relaxed. She would release Growler from his basement imprisonment now, and I’d get to the bottom of what had happened.

  “Took you long enough!” The white fluffball bounded down the hall. But despite what Tracy Horlick might think, he was too well disciplined to set off on his own. Instead, he stood at attention, his tail vibrating with eagerness, as I clipped on his lead. “Letting that weasel lead you around like that....”

  “Now don’t go getting him riled up.” His person’s voice had a hint of a threat in it. “I won’t stand for that kind of behavior from an animal. Nor will my friends.”

  I pasted a grimace on my face and hoped it would pass for a smile. Threatening me was one thing. I was almost used to it. But threatening a dog? No, Tracy Horlick was pushing too far.

  “I’m sorry, Growler.” I waited until we were down the walk and near the corner, where the bichon stopped to sniff a tree. I didn’t know what had happened. I was simply empathizing with his plight. “And about Frank—the ferret. I work with his person.”

  “Huh! A ferret.” I got a wave of animals and their associations as he took in the scent, and then watered the tree to add his own. “That little weasel is hunting way out of his league.”

  Did Frank blame the bear? It was an interesting take, and one that would be worth pursuing. Only just then, Growler locked in on a new scent. “Louis, you’ve got to stop chasing after her. She’s spayed.”

  I stifled my amusement—and my curiosity. The bichon deserved his privacy, as well as such social interactions as his situation would allow. The thought did spark another one, though. Who had Tracy Horlick been entertaining? And why had her dog reacted as he did?

  “You get it, right?” The question startled me. Of course, Growler had picked up on my thoughts. He was the dog in question. “That I had...concerns?”

  “I figured.” I glanced down, but the bichon’s black button eyes were focused on a squirrel, frozen in place across the street.

  “Prey.” I heard him mutter, as if to himself. “Wild…prey.”

  Notwithstanding what the old lady had said, I let him take the lead—and he made a beeline across the street and down toward the river. The squirrel was long gone by the time we trotted across. It didn’t matter. Growler was in his element—a creature of scent and sound immersing himself in an environment so much richer than the one he had at home. No, Tracy Horlick was dead wrong. If Growler had any issues, they were caused by a lack of stimulation. Just because he was a small dog, didn’t meant he was made to live in a small world

  “Small world, heh!” With a snuffling grunt, the bichon once again inserted himself into my thoughts. “Very small, isn’t it?”

  “I know.” I thought of the basement and of the bare, fenced-in yard—more dirt than garden—where Tracy Horlick let him out to relieve himself. Beauville might feel claustrophobic to me, but at least I was here by choice. Plus, my mind drifted to the night before, I had more social options than poor Growler did.

  “Small world, indeed.”

  I stopped, and he turned to lock eyes with me. But there was more than the expected reprimand in those shiny black buttons. Yes, I had interrupted our passage down to the water. That wasn’t all, though. “What?” I asked.

  “Clueless.” He dug his nose under the last fall’s leavings and I got a strong sense of rot and leaf mold. “No sense at all.”

  “Sorry.” I was just out of it today, clearly, and so even as we walked on, I began to backtrack. “Small world?” I asked finally. “You don’t mean—Creighton?”

  I was under no illusion that Tracy Horlick was a threat to me, not in that way. But could my favorite local cop have come by to question to the chain-smoking old harpy?

  “Beast,” was all I got back “Wild beast...” Growler, at least, was at peace.

  On the walk back uphill I had more time to think. The little dog was sated, his nose and mind full of the wonders of the outdoors. I got images of squirrels and rats. There was a fox who had caused some confusion—he was attractive to the bichon but also, somehow, threatening. That was when it occurred to me—that the “small world” comment and Tracy Horlick’s “guests” might be joined in another way: Albert, for example. Or—more likely—Larry Greeley. I’d seen him cruising around the moneyed neighborhood, but I didn’t put it past him to prey on his own. As we made our way up the walk, I made a mental note to check out Tracy Horlick’s lawn. She wasn’t the sort to throw money away—she had driven a hard bargain with me for my services, and only my sympathy for Growler had kept me coming back—but I could imagine her falling prey to flattery from a younger man, even one with bad teeth.

  Then again, maybe they deserved each other. I watched as Growler’s pace changed from a happy jog to something slower and more resigned. Well, at least the old shrew would think I’d tired him out. Still, I felt my own heart sink as I prepared to hand his lead over to the evil woman who waited by the door.

  “Beast,” said Growler. I had to agree.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  I extricated myself from Tracy Horlick as quickly as I could. “I don’t want to keep my other clients waiting.”

  Growler had frozen at that, half
way down the hall, and turned to take me in with his large dark eyes. “Clients?”

  “The ferret.” I let myself picture the slender brown creature, the mask over his eyes, and his cream-colored snout. It was too late, though, and I realized I should have questioned the bichon more when we had the chance. Now I had only his inquisitive glance, and his human gatekeeper exhaling smoke in my face.

  “Interesting to see that you care about some of your clients.” She took a deep drag, her eyes almost closing with the pleasure. “The ones who’ve bought up all those new houses, I’m betting.” She let it out, and I stifled a cough.

  “I try to be courteous and professional with all my clients.” I didn’t know why I bothered. She wasn’t going to fire me. She enjoyed tormenting me too much, and besides, I was a more reliable dog-walker than any kid left in the neighborhood would be. “And loyal,” I added for good measure. Call it a hint.

  “Lot of good that’ll do you.” The corners of her mouth turned up, like she’d just eaten a tasty bug. She knew something, that much was clear. And I thought once again about the rumored competition. What I didn’t know was how to get any information out of her, short of asking—and I’d be damned if I did that. It didn’t matter. I’d provided enough amusement for her to start her day. Either that, or she had other plans—the much-vaunted “entertaining” she’d spoken about. Because as I stood there, blinking in the smoke and trying to conjure up a comeback, she closed the door in my face. A moment later, I heard a sharp yip—“Watch out!”—and I could only hope that she hadn’t vented her spleen on the white bichon as well.

  One of these days, I’d come up with an excuse to remove Growler but not until I could find another home for him—and certainly not without his consent. Still, it was with a heavy heart that I walked back toward my car. I’d parked a few houses over, where a mature oak cast its shade on the street and far enough away so I didn’t have to worry that old lady Horlick would get a glimpse of Frank inside. As I approached my GTO, I realized I needn’t have worried. The ferret had enough sense to stay out of the window, now that he was no longer pining for his person. In fact, I didn’t see the slender brown animal at all as I walked up to the car and opened the door.