When Bunnies Go Bad

by Clea Simon

  My mouth was too dry to respond. I had reason to suspect that this man had offered similar invites to others. Reason to suspect that they never returned.

  “I only want to share some thoughts,” he said.

  I caught his eye. It might not have been difficult to guess at what I’d been thinking. Then again, I couldn’t be too careful with this man.

  “I don’t have long.” I managed not to choke out the words. “I didn’t exactly tell the dog’s owner I was taking him here.”

  “So much the better.” A smile creased his face. “He looks like a dog who wants to break the rules.”

  With one last look at the woods—Growler had disappeared among the leaves and hillocks—I nodded and followed Benazi as he walked up toward Teddy Rhinecrest’s condo. Ronnie’s truck was nowhere to be seen. The development was quiet. Deserted, I would have guessed. I would not, I told myself, go inside with him.

  “I am wondering if you can help me with a problem,” he said, finally, as we approached number six. “It’s a delicate issue, and I believe a woman’s touch may be useful. Especially,” he paused to look back at me, “a woman of your particular sensitivities.”

  I nodded. His use of that word sending another chill down my back.

  “I would be most grateful.” He gave the last two words extra weight, and I began to breathe again. Perhaps this was a promise, rather than a threat.

  “You may have heard that the late Mr. Rhinecrest had dealings with,” a pause—a brief look of distaste passing over that craggy face—“unsavory types.”

  He waited again for confirmation, and I nodded. There was no sense denying what we both knew to be true.

  “That’s as it may be, of course.” Benazi waved off his words, as if he were shooing a fly. “But it is possible that in the course of some of those interactions the late Mr. Rhinecrest may have become involved with some, well, shall we say keepsakes?”

  “Sure.” My curiosity had gotten the better of my fear. “So you’re looking for a way into his condo?”

  “Oh, no, my dear.” A low chuckle. Of course, bribing Ronnie would have been child’s play for a man like Benazi. In fact, he probably would have sent an underling. No, if he was here, there was something larger afoot. “You see, the keepsake seems to have gone missing. And Mr. Rhinecrest’s family—his legitimate family, back in New York—would very much like to have it restored. As a remembrance of the man they lost, of course.”

  “Of course.” I stopped short. “You think Cheryl Ginger has it.”

  “No, not at all.” He shook his head. Of course, her belongings would have been searched as well. “But she may have some awareness—some vague recollection that could help us locate it. Only, she is refusing to work with me.”

  “Hey!” I turned, distracted by a sound. A bark. A ball of white was bouncing toward us, breaking away from a patch of snow and over the browns and blacks of the sodden woods. Growler. “Come on, walker lady!” More yaps, the sounds of an excited pooch. “Old smoke teeth is going to bust a gut. And I may have found something!”

  “Go.” Benazi raised his hand as if in benediction. “But if you would keep my request in mind, Ms. Marlowe, I would be more than grateful.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was a tactical retreat, nothing more. I had little to gain from lingering, and if Benazi thought I was on his side, well, that might give me a little leeway. Besides, Growler was right. I needed to get him home before his absence was noted. And I wanted to hear what he had found.

  “Come on, boy.” I opened the passenger door and called. Not that Growler needed my urging. “Come on.”

  “Huh.” He jumped up with a soft chuff. “There’s no fooling that one. You know that, right?”

  “A girl can hope,” I said, as much to myself as to my fluffy white companion. With that, I floored it, bouncing toward the main road at a speed my suspension would pay for.

  It wasn’t until we were on the highway that I turned to look at my companion. Growler had his nose out the window I’d left partly open, sampling the wind.

  “Crows, grackles, nests and eggs…” A proper catalogue of wildlife occupied him, and through the list, I could sense his pleasure. “White tail fawn, early yet. Raccoons and possum. Bobcat?”

  “Better you enjoy that from in here.” I took advantage of his momentary surprise. Growler might know a bobcat’s scent from his genetic memory—the size and ferocity of the creature, however, had set him back.

  “Like you’re so tough.” He turned, and I sensed a touch of embarrassment that he’d been caught out.

  “It’s always smart to avoid alpha predators.” I thought of another small but fierce creature. “As you said, there’s nothing to be gained from engaging.”

  “Huh.” The bichon shifted on the seat, settling down in the leather bucket. “That’s not what I heard going on.”

  “I had to say something to him.” I couldn’t believe I was explaining myself to a dog. “I didn’t agree to do his dirty work.”

  “You think I’m talking about the little gray man?” He paused to scratch his ear, nearly losing his balance in the process. I’d have to check him for fleas and ticks. “He’s not the one who’s been hunting in those woods.”

  “Cheryl Ginger?” I visualized the redhead—and the image of her late boyfriend followed hard on that. It wasn’t like she didn’t have motive. “Is that who you smelled out in the woods?”

  “Huh.” He shook, rattling the tags on his collar. “Humans…after the hunt. He was on a trail! The one who follows!” In his excitement, the little dog’s thoughts became excited yaps. “Tracking!”

  “A tracker?” As he turned back toward the window, I realized my mistake. “You mean a retriever?” I racked my brain. Surely, the bichon would recognize different species, different talents. Unless that was a human distinction. “Do you mean the spaniel? What was his name, Stewie?”

  “Bird, squirrel, squirrel…”

  “Was he the one hunting?” Nothing. “Growler, please.”

  “You were on the track, walker lady. Now leave me be.”

  We were nearing his home, and he could smell it. As I turned off the highway, I saw his perky ears begin to droop. Animals experience time differently than we do, but the bichon knew his morning of freedom was drawing to a close.

  But I had given him that morning. “I thought Cheryl might have gone out there for a reason. To meet somebody. To meet a man.” I tried to remember precisely what Ronnie had said about clandestine meetings. I wasn’t sure how his words would translate to the altered male on the seat beside me, but surely the intention would come through. It was spring, and some behaviors are universal.

  “One-track mind.” He was staring out the window again. I was slowing. The street we were driving down was residential, but it was more than that. I felt Growler’s resistance—his resentment toward the woman who was more jailer than friend. “Women…”

  “I’m sorry, Growler.” I meant it. I was.

  “No, stupid.” He turned, pinning me with his wide black eyes. “I don’t care about old smoke-teeth. I get my own back.” An image of something gnawed—a trunk, I thought—and of a quilted robe stained with urine—flashed before me. “I mean, you. Not even in heat.”

  “There you are!” Despite my pace, we’d reached Tracy Horlick’s house, and as I coasted up to the curb, the old lady was marching down to meet us. “I was about to call the cops. Not that the Beauville police would take a helpless old lady’s side against you!”

  I opened my mouth. Tracy Horlick was the last person I’d have called “helpless.” But Creighton could defend himself against her insinuations, and I needed the steady gig.

  “Especially with the company some of them have been keeping.” She squinted at me, waiting to see if her dart had hit home.

  “I’m so sorry.” I ducked out to op
en the passenger side door. That made it easier to ignore whatever it was she was insinuating. “You see, Bitsy’s usual play space is all muddy because of the melt, and so I wanted to take him someplace where he wouldn’t mess up his coat.”

  As I lied, I bent to stroke his white curls. Silently, I apologized. “If she takes this out on you, I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

  “He’s in great shape.” I kept my eyes wide as I looked up at her from the dog’s side. Along with the smile, I was signaling submission. “And after the winter we’ve had…” I waited, the unfinished sentence my version of the tentative tail wag.

  Her eyes narrowed as she reached into her pocket. For a moment, I worried. Did she have a gun? A knife? But she only fished out a pack of Marlboros and proceeded to light up.

  Growler barked. “Hey! Answer her!”

  I smiled down at him in gratitude.

  “I didn’t authorize any additional outing,” she said at last, smoke leaking from her nostrils. “Unlike your detective friend.”

  “No, you didn’t.” I was not going to be baited. “And there’s no extra charge. My treat,” I added, in case she missed it.

  “Huh.” Her grunt sounded so much like the little dog’s, I looked at him in surprise, even as she took the leash from my hand.

  “Thanks for the run, walker lady.” He looked back at me as Tracy Horlick started back toward her house. “I’ll track for you again, but you’ve got to listen!” A short, sharp bark as he jumped up the steps. “Listen!”

  I stood there smiling until old lady Horlick closed the door, partly to continue to allow her dominance and partly because I was trying to figure out what Growler was trying to tell me. I wasn’t going to listen to the old bat’s taunting, so it had to be something we’d found in the woods. I’d tried to picture the scene Ronnie had described to me—Cheryl Ginger meeting a secret lover—but Growler had seemed to reject that scenario. Instead, he talked about a hunter. Had that hunter been the pretty redhead? She was still the likeliest suspect. Unless, perhaps, her other man had done the deed. Maybe she’d let him in. Maybe they’d set up the wealthy Teddy together.

  Or maybe I had misunderstood the little dog entirely. For all I knew, he’d been referring to that bobcat, whose scent had so shaken him. A hunter—or a retriever? Or both?

  When my phone rang, I was almost grateful. “Hello?” I didn’t recognize the number.

  “Pru? Pru Marlowe?” The number was unfamiliar. The voice warm and decidedly feminine.

  “Yes?” If this was about selling me a time-share, I was going to enjoy venting.

  “You said to call you, you know. If I needed some help.” My ears don’t prick up like Wallis’ do, but I confess my curiosity was piqued. Cheryl Ginger—I placed that honeyed voice—calling me for help.

  “I said I would be happy to take your spaniel on as a client.” Always good to set your boundaries from the start. People or animals, it didn’t matter.

  “Of course.” There was a chuckle in her voice. This chick knew what I was doing. She even seemed to respect me for it. “That’s entirely what I meant, Ms. Marlowe.”

  Ms. Marlowe. Well, she’d heard me and raised me one. I waited.

  “Pudgy and I are staying at the Chateau for, well, the foreseeable future. Only I do think he needs to have someone who can work with him regularly. All the changes…”

  “Yeah.” “Changes” wasn’t the word I would have used. But I got it: the little dog was acting out. Having your master murdered and then being uprooted will do that to you. “I may have some time free this afternoon.” I ran through my mental calendar. It was pretty empty. “How about three?”

  “Looking forward to it.” She signed off, leaving me wondering. That poor spaniel could use a sympathetic ear, and if I could ease his pain, I’d be doing good work. But as I considered the dog’s grief, I couldn’t help but notice the contrast. The long-haired dog might be acting out, but Cheryl Ginger seemed to have quite recovered from her boyfriend’s murder.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “When I referred to a nose, I did not mean that stunted, little…” The rest of Wallis’ comment was smothered, as she bent to wash her bottom. It was a significant gesture, I knew, adopted from a life spent with my species.

  I’d gone home after my morning appointments: running a potential guide dog through his paces and clipping the claws of a particularly spoiled Siamese, who allowed my weekly visits as a form of obeisance. The break gave me a chance to drink more coffee and to do a little passive snooping via the Internet. But the bitter brew—I’d reheated the remains of the pot—reminded me I’d skipped breakfast. So as my old laptop booted up, I’d sat down for a turkey sandwich with Wallis. She skipped the bread, though she did lick delicately at the mayonnaise, and listened as I debriefed her on my run-in with Benazi.

  “Growler did say he’d gotten something.” I said, assuming she was referring to the bichon as the stunted, little… Wallis had more respect for the gangster. “Only, I’m not sure what. At any rate, I’m going to see that spaniel again, so maybe I’ll be able to find out what he was searching for.”

  “Huh!” She’d moved on to her tail, smoothing the fur with long strokes of her tongue. “Probably an opossum in heat, stupid, little…”

  “No, I don’t think so.” Growler had rejected my initial suggestion that a romantic—or sexual—liaison had taken place. At the time, I’d assumed he was responding negatively to me and to his female- and hetero-dominated world. Now, I wasn’t so sure. “But maybe I can find something on Cheryl Ginger.”

  Nothing showed up for the redhead. Nothing at all, which was odd. Most people, you get at least some old Facebook reference or a mention from their high school paper. Then again, Cheryl’s name sounded enough like a nom de strip club that I shouldn’t have been too surprised. When I tried the same for Benazi, with similarly blank results, I toyed with the idea that this name was also assumed. It wouldn’t be the first time. The old gangster probably had plenty of tricks up his tailored sleeve. The only shocker was that the old gent was Web savvy, as well as smooth enough to avoid leaving even a virtual fingerprint.

  The deceased was neither so skilled nor so lucky. With only a few clicks, I found a photo of one Teodros “Teddy” Rhinecrest and recognized the prominent chin and those beady little eyes. Seems Cheryl’s late ex had skated on a federal charge—an art heist from some big-name museum—several months before. The site showed that same picture I’d seen on the TV news, a woodland scene called Berkshire Forest.

  Now that I had a chance to examine it, I understood the name. It could have been painted around here, although those old-growth trees were now mostly gone. In the painting—“circa 1858,” the report said—they stood tall and proud. Beeches, probably, their bark silver in the shaft of sunlight that centered the picture’s composition. I remembered that slant of light from the TV, the way it illuminated those majestic trunks and the rabbit that sat there, grooming. Because of that tiny figure, the white belly fur picked out by the lighting, the painting had acquired the nickname Bunny in the Sun, the article said, listing a value that made me whistle. No wonder they were still looking for it months later. That bunny was worth more than Beauville.

  I skimmed over the painting’s history—Hudson River School, blah, blah, blah—to get to the case. As of this story, the investigation had gone stale. The only one of the crew they’d gotten had been the driver, some kid named Paul Gittelson. Even in the bad perp-walk photo, Gittelson looked like a fall guy, scrawny and pale with a brush of freckles across his face that made him look like he was twelve years old.

  “Good luck to that poor loser.” I couldn’t help voicing my thoughts out loud. Where he was going, I didn’t expect he’d have any.

  Wallis refrained from commenting, and I looked over at the clock. I had renovated recently—a house fire had taken out the entrance hallway and badly damaged the s
tairs that ran up to the old house’s third floor—but the kitchen, off to one side, remained pretty much as it was in my mother’s day. The gas stove was old but functional, sturdier, really, than most contemporary appliances. The refrigerator was on its last legs, but I didn’t keep much food in it. And this old wood table, scarred and notched, served as my center of operations. My mother would have had words for Wallis, who had finished her toilette and now sat, inches from my plate, eying the dab of mayo on its rim. She’d tried to discipline me too, back in the day. But my mother wasn’t here, and that old clock was reminder enough.

  “Go for it.” I pushed the plate toward Wallis. She gave it a ladylike sniff before lapping up the drop. I contemplated more coffee—and maybe adding something to it. I had a few hours to kill before my appointment with Cheryl Ginger, and the day loomed long. I’d told her three p.m. at random. It never hurts to have a potential client think you’re busier than you are. If the weather were just a little warmer, I could’ve started out back. The trash from the demo was still mostly piled there, exposed by the recent melt. As much as I wanted to ignore it, it wasn’t going away, and I didn’t have the kind of money to pay someone else to deal with it.

  I was saved by the bell. The ringer on my phone, actually, though when I picked up and heard the panic in Marnie Lundquist’s voice, I almost wished I hadn’t.

  “Ms. Marlowe? It’s Henry.” It took a moment before I realized she was talking about the rabbit. “Something’s wrong—something’s very, very wrong.”

  “Mrs. Lundquist, I’m not a veterinarian.” I used the low soothing voice I would for any spooked animal. “If you have a medical emergency, I recommend calling—”

  “It’s how he’s acting,” she said, her voice high and tight. “I fear—I fear I made a mistake.”

  I had to make another attempt. “Mrs. Lundquist, often if an animal is acting strange, there’s a physical reason—”