“How do you know who this kid is?”
“I did a PLL-themed sweet-sixteen bash a few months ago.”
“PLL?”
“Pretty Little Liars. And, yes, before you say it—I know way too much about teenage stuff. It comes with the job. Don’t even get me started on Bieber fever.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t.” But I’d just realized something. “Since you know so much about it, where would you go hang out if you were a wangster who thought you looked like a teen heartthrob?”
“I’d start at the Regency Square Mall.”
Then that was exactly what I’d do.
CHAPTER 5
I had a dream I was on a powerboat. The engine rumbled as we sped over the water. Contentment washed through me as I turned my face to the bright sun, until suddenly I had the feeling I was being strangled. A beach towel had somehow gotten wrapped around my neck. I tried to untangle the towel but couldn’t.
I woke with a start and lifted my hands to my neck. My fingers connected with soft fur and I let out a sigh. Apparently, my new kitty had decided my larynx would be a great place to sleep.
Scooping the kitten onto the bed, I sat up and glanced at the alarm clock. Six fifteen. I started to lie back down but noticed Moss was nowhere in sight. My dog was not an early riser. After a quick mental scan, I felt him near the front door. There was a sense of urgency radiating from him.
If he had needed to pee he would have gotten me up. Had someone been knocking? Why hadn’t I heard him bark?
Tossing back the covers, I hauled myself out of bed, jabbed my legs into a pair of sweatpants, and shuffled toward the door.
Moss wasn’t in the hall or the foyer.
“Moss?”
The door burst open and my sister and my dog came barreling toward me.
“Hang on, you lunatic!” Emma dropped the leash and Moss charged past me. He lost his footing on the marble floor as he tried to turn toward the bedrooms. Skidding and slipping, legs splayed, with a grunt, he crashed into a potted palm.
Oops.
“Moss!” What are you doing? I put some force into the question.
He ignored me, scrambled to his feet, and disappeared down the hall.
“Your dog has lost his mind.” Emma panted from behind me. “I was going to take him out for a walk, but he didn’t want to go past the sidewalk. He stopped and lifted his leg on the first patch of grass and then almost yanked my arm off trying to get back inside.”
I stared at her, bewildered, before I realized what was going on. I focused on Moss’s thoughts and smiled.
“What’s funny about this?” Emma demanded.
“Moss was in a hurry to get back to his kitten.”
“Seriously?”
I motioned for her to follow me down the hall. We stopped in the doorway of my bedroom. Moss was on the bed, his body so tightly curled around the kitten that all you could see sticking up out of the wall of off-white fur were the points of two black ears.
“Did he really think something would happen to it?”
I shrugged. “The novelty will wear off soon enough. Once the kitten gets some energy back, Moss will be glad to get a break from his mothering duties.”
We headed into the kitchen, where I made coffee and Emma brewed her green tea.
“So, what are you going to name the kitten? It’s a girl kitty, right?”
“Right,” I said as I poured a cup of coffee. “I haven’t thought about names yet.”
“How about Voodoo?”
I smiled. “After her queenly benefactor?”
“Why not? It’s better than Fluffball or Blackie.”
“I like it—Voodoo it is.”
Emma finished her tea and headed downstairs to the dojo to warm up before class. I showered and started the manhunt for Brooke’s boyfriend, Stefan.
I was so hopped up on caffeine that I’d made it halfway to Cesery Road before I made an astute observation.
My chances of finding a low-life druggie like Stefan out and about before eight on Sunday morning were pretty much zip.
The coffee would not be defeated so easily. I needed a way to channel my energy. I thought about what Kai had said about the police being unable to start the search for Brooke until she was reported missing. What if I could convince Brooke’s parents she hadn’t just run away?
I called Ozeal, who’d probably been up since dawn, and asked her for Brooke’s home address. “I’ll have to call you back, Grace. I’m still making the breakfast rounds.” Before she hung up, I heard the lion, Larry, belch out a hungry roar.
My stomach grumbled, echoing the sentiment. I spotted a Krispy Kreme up ahead. The HOT DOUGHNUTS NOW sign flashed like a neon beacon guiding the wayward and lost to the goodness of fried dough and sugar glaze.
Five minutes later, I was hopped up on coffee and sugar.
My fingers danced on Bluebell’s steering wheel and my leg bounced up and down as I sat next to the empty box of doughnuts and stared at the clock.
What seemed like an hour later, Ozeal called me back and read off an address not far from the Krispy Kreme.
“You’re going to talk to the Ligners?”
“I’m hoping to persuade them to file a missing person report on Brooke.”
“You going to tell them about the other missing girls?”
I winced at the reference to my lie.
“I’ll do whatever I can to convince them,” I assured her before hanging up, feeling terrible that I had been dishonest.
My conscience chanted Liar, liar, pants on fire! as I pulled out of the Krispy Kreme.
The Ligners’ neighborhood surprised me. I was expecting an area of Arlington with a harder edge, but the houses were spacious and neat. Solidly upper-middle class. Lawns were manicured and trash cans and skeletons kept well hidden from view.
I parked in the drive behind a newer Lexus SUV and climbed out of Bluebell. A few doughnut crumbs and flakes of glaze clung to the front of my shirt and I brushed them off as I walked down the path toward the front door.
I rang the bell and stood admiring the cheerful Halloween wreath while I waited.
The woman who opened the door looked to be in her forties. A blonde with blue eyes. I wondered if I had the wrong house. Aside from her coloring, she didn’t look like the mother of a missing teenager. No trace of worry lining her face or dark circles under her eyes.
“Mrs. Ligner?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Grace Wilde. I work with Ozeal Mallory at the rescue facility.”
She blinked at me for a moment before seeming to connect the dots. I wondered if this woman, with her perfect hair and spotless shirt, had distanced herself from the unpleasant reality that her daughter was in a program for troubled teenagers.
“I’d like to talk to you about Brooke, if you have a minute.”
“Brooke?” A little frown creased her brow.
“May I come in?”
She glanced over her shoulder and back at me. “I don’t know . . . we were just on our way to church.”
“It won’t take long. Do you know that Brooke is missing?”
Again she blinked at me as if she didn’t quite understand. I was beginning to think I would get more response from a goldfish. I tried again. “Brooke hasn’t been to work in three days.”
“Oh, yes, well, Brooke does that. You know how teenagers can be.”
“I think you should file a missing person report.”
“A what?” Her eyes went wide.
“Anne? Who was at—” A man appeared behind her, stopping when he saw me.
“Hi, Mr. Ligner? I’m Grace Wilde. I work with Brooke,” I lied as I offered my hand. He gave me a perplexed smile before taking it.
“She’s looking for Brooke.”
“Have either of you spoken to her in the last few days?”
Mrs. Ligner shook her head, then looked to her husband as if he held all the answers.
He laid a hand on her shoulder. “H
oney, why don’t you go finish getting ready.” He gave her shoulder a squeeze and she turned and walked away without another word. Her husband watched her go with a small shake of his head.
“Come in, please. I’m sorry about Anne. Everything with Brooke . . . it’s just gotten to be too much,” he said, pulling the door wide.
I followed him into a foyer that opened onto a spacious living room. The decor was modern—angular, sleek, and white. The wall leading to the backyard was made of solid glass. Sunlight streamed into the room, reflecting off an abundance of stainless steel. I had to squint in the glare.
“I didn’t mean to upset anyone,” I said when Ligner turned to me. “But I’m concerned about Brooke.”
He blew out a hard sigh. “If I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard those words.”
“You’re aware that she hasn’t come to work since Wednesday?”
He nodded. “I talked to Mrs. Mallory. She’s being patient with Brooke, and I appreciate that. I haven’t had the heart to tell Anne that Brooke has missed work.”
“Why not?”
“Last week, Brooke and her mother had a fight. I don’t know what it was about. Brooke left. We assumed she’d run off again and was staying with a friend. I’d hoped she’d keep up with the job. It’s really her last chance.”
“What do you mean?”
“She has to stick with her job as part of her probation.”
“When was the fight?”
“Tuesday night, I think.”
The day before Brooke was taken. “I told your wife—I think you should file a missing person report.”
“Missing person?” He shook his head “No. Brooke’s not missing. She’ll call eventually. When she runs out of money or, heaven forbid, needs to be bailed out of jail again.”
His jaded attitude wasn’t surprising, but it was sad. “You’re not worried at all?”
“Of course, we’re worried, but I’ll be honest with you, Miss Wilde, there’s just so much worrying you can do before you drive yourself crazy. Eventually, you have to say enough is enough.”
“I understand.” I also knew my chance of talking him into reporting Brooke missing was dwindling with every defeated answer he gave me. “It’s just that I have a feeling there’s more going on with Brooke.”
“What makes you think that?”
“It’s hard to explain.” And I wasn’t about to try. I was pretty sure Mr. Ligner wasn’t the type of guy who would buy the truth—that I’d gotten the info from a Siberian tiger. “It’s just a feeling, really. Brooke was doing so well with the cats, it’s hard to believe she just ran off.”
Ligner let out a long breath. “I know what you’re thinking—Brooke is smart and funny and charming. You meet her and think maybe she’s learning responsibility. Maybe she’s cleaned up her act. Well, she hasn’t. Just when you think she’s on the right track, she’ll let you down. I look at Brooke and still see a sweet little girl. But that’s not who she is anymore.”
This guy was killing my sugar buzz. It was hard to tell if he was sincere or just a good actor. I just never knew with people.
The thought prompted my gaze to wander around the room in search of dog toys or other signs of animal habitation. Where was a good, faithful mutt when you needed one to interrogate?
I cast my mental feelers out as far as I could and felt a low buzz to my right. Too far to tell what it was or if it was even inside the house.
“Miss Wilde?” Ligner had picked up on my not-so-covert perusal of the area.
“Um . . . do you mind if I use your bathroom?” I offered him a sheepish smile. “Too much coffee.”
He showed me to a door down the hall. The immaculate powder room was so clean it looked as if it had never been used. After I used the facilities, I poked around for all of two seconds, which was all it took to discover there was nothing to discover beyond the brand of toilet paper.
I exited the bathroom and saw Mr. Ligner had donned a sports coat and was holding his keys. I surmised this was a subtle hint that I should go. I thanked him for his time, but just as I reached the front door I paused. The animal presence I sensed earlier had come closer. I heard the distinct flop of a pet door swinging closed.
No jingle of tags and no click-clack of toenails on the tile floor. A cat?
I reached out with my mind to confirm my hunch.
Felis catus.
Not the ideal informant, but beggars and choosers and all that jazz.
I caught sight of the gray tabby just as Mr. Ligner bid me farewell with a solemn nod and closed the door.
I strolled to Bluebell, took my time getting in, and waited until I saw the front door open and the Ligners emerge before backing out of the driveway. I slowly circled the block and pulled back into the drive.
Acting as if I hadn’t just been there two minutes before, I moseyed up the walkway and pretended to ring the bell. I located the cat within a few seconds and mentally urged it to come outside and around to the front yard so we could have a chat.
Here, kitty kitty.
No response. I knew the Ligners had gone to church, so I had time on my side. But just because I could afford to wait didn’t mean I wanted to.
Come on, kitty . . .
Nothing.
Here’s the thing with cats—they have a fine-tuned ability to ignore anything that’s beneath their notice. Cats are like the kung fu masters of the kiss-off.
The only other animal I’ve ever known who could come remotely close to a feline’s capacity to tune out humans was our old basset hound, Bumble. Bumble was so good at playing deaf, my parents believed he had a hearing problem. They took him to the vet and found out his hearing was fine and, after a few tests, suggested that Bumble might be a bit slow. I knew better, but didn’t have the heart to tell my parents the truth. Bumble just couldn’t have cared less.
This cat was giving my old dog a run for his money.
If I wanted to connect with Brooke’s cat, I was going to have to get closer.
Recently, I’d learned the key to avoid getting caught doing something you shouldn’t was to act natural. Keeping this in mind, I unhurriedly, but purposefully, walked around to the side of the house. The gate in the privacy fence was unlocked, so I let myself into the backyard, closed the gate, and went in search of Mr. Snobby Cat.
I reached the wall of windows and, through the glass, spotted the tabby crouched at his food bowl, single-mindedly munching away.
“Hey!” I tapped the glass with my finger.
Nothing.
I tapped harder.
A slight ear twitch.
Hey! Cat! I thrust the words at him with my mind.
The tabby paused, swallowed, flicked his tail, and resumed his love affair with his food.
“Oh, you’re good,” I said, narrowing my eyes.
At that point I was determined to get the cat to at least acknowledge my existence. I glanced around, thinking there was something I could tap harder on the glass with, and remembered the cat door.
I walked to it, knelt, and pushed the flap open.
“Here, kitty kitty!”
Nothing.
I knew the tabby could hear me. His slight annoyance every time I made a noise proved as much. I stuck my head through the cat door and made kissing noises while calling, “Kitty kitty! Come here, kitty.”
The cat remained crouched, his back to me.
I’m trying to find Brooke.
There was a slight flutter of interest when I mentioned her name. I gazed at the rear end of the tabby and tried again. Though I had a feeling it was a lost cause, I gave it one last shot anyway.
Tenacity is my middle name.
“Kitty kitty. You like Brooke, right? Come on, buddy, just talk to me for two minutes.”
“Are you okay?”
I jumped at the sound of the voice, banging my head as I yanked it out of the cat door. Wincing, I blinked up at the man standing next to me on the patio. He wore cargo shorts and a T-shirt that
bore the name of a landscaping company.
“I’m fine,” I said as casually as I could before standing up.
The first thing I noticed when I straightened to face him was that he was probably a foot taller than my five feet three inches. The second thing I noticed was his eyes—they were a light golden amber. Not friendly or warm. In fact, they were so similar in color to a wolf’s I found myself leaning forward and squinting to see if the yard guy was wearing colored contacts.
His brows knit at my overt scrutiny.
“You have eyes like my dog,” I told him, as if that explained everything.
One brow arched at that but he didn’t ask for clarification. Instead he asked, “What are you doing back here?”
“I was . . .” I trailed off when he glanced at the cat door.
“Talking to the cat?” he asked.
“Yes. I mean, no.” Man, I really needed to get the lying thing down if I was going to keep doing stupid stuff. “I was looking for my friend, Brooke.”
“In the cat door?”
“I thought maybe she was home but didn’t want to answer the front door unless she knew who it was. So I thought I’d try to call her through the cat door.”
“You’re Brooke’s friend?” He didn’t look like he bought that one.
“We work together. You know her?”
He shrugged. “She’s the Ligners’ kid. Asked me last week if I could get catnip she could grow for her cat.” He had an accent. Hard to place exactly, but he wasn’t from the South.
“Have you seen her around?”
“Not for a few days. Why?”
“I just need to talk to her. You know. Work stuff. We’re applying for a grant for enrichment supplies. Trying to get Boomer Balls.”
Stop babbling, Grace.
I had to get my head on straight. I didn’t think the yard guy was going to call the cops on me, but if he’d been around much, he might know something useful.
I needed to chat with him. Engage in small talk that would reveal a clue.
“So—uh . . . what kind of catnip did you get?”
A Tiger's Tale (A Call of the Wilde Mystery) Page 7