by Clea Simon
I waited too, my curiosity growing. The way she was crouched was suspicious, and though I couldn’t see the her squatting in the woods like—well, like Stewie—I couldn’t rule out such a basic explanation. From where I was, I only saw the fur of her jacket. When she rose and turned, I saw she hadn’t undressed, and the mystery deepened. Whatever Cheryl Ginger had gone into the woods to bury, it wasn’t something natural.
I had little doubt this had been her mission. Even as she stood there, looking around, she visibly relaxed, her shoulders settling down and the tight lines disappearing from her face. I was lucky, in fact, that her mood had lightened. Whereas on her way into the woods, she had been wary—moving slowly and carefully on those ridiculous heels—now she picked her way—slowly, but without that frantic urgency—back toward the road. Right by where I had flattened myself, breath held, behind a yew barely wide enough to hide my hips.
“She’s gone!” The squeak of relief as a chipmunk head popped out served as my all-clear. Daring to move once more, I saw the white of her jacket moving into a patch of shadows, and I took my chance. Running, half-bent toward that giant stump, I marked where the exposed wood shone wet and red. Yes, the leaf mold here had been disturbed, the darker under layer inexpertly spread as cover. It struck me then, how odd it had been, to see the coiffed beauty crouching here, digging in the dirty forest bed with what must have been manicured hands.
I had no such restrictions. My nails are utilitarian—although Wallis would disagree—and dirt is part of my job. I moved carefully to brush away the leaf cover, however, unsure of what I would find. When I did, I still didn’t understand. Two inches below the leaf cover, under an oak leaf made lacy by its own acid, I found it: Stewie’s fancy collar, with all its jewels intact.
I picked it up and turned it over. No, I saw, the pretty, foolish thing wasn’t entirely intact. One of the decorations had come loose and hung from its setting. The stone was red—a garnet, perhaps. Certainly not a ruby. And with a touch it snapped back into place. Surely, this couldn’t be why Cheryl Ginger had discarded it, and even if it was, why go to the bother of taking it out here into the woods?
I was pondering this, turning the gaudy thing over in my hand when voices interrupted my reverie. Whispered voices but elevated by anger. I dropped to my knees and peered around the young tree.
“Where have you been?” A man, for sure. I could make him out, by the edge of the woods. He was tall—taller than Cheryl, whom he held by the arm—and while his face was in shadow, I could see short dark hair. “I’ve been waiting.”
“I can’t do this anymore.” Cheryl, her newfound calm dispelled. “They’re watching me!”
He pulled her close at this, and I waited for the kiss. He was too angry, though, and only whispered in her ear. Whatever it was, it had its effect, as she slumped in his grasp. I confess, I felt disappointed too. The redhead hadn’t seemed that different from me, not at heart. And I hadn’t wanted to think that a woman, alone, had been so predictable. The older boyfriend, the handsome lover. A plot, a pact, and now the revelation.
Only it seemed this soap opera had another tawdry act to run.
“So you see, you can’t back out now.” I could hear him, now that her head had dropped in grief or shame. “The stakes are too high.”
“I don’t care.” She was shaking her head, backing away, and I liked her for it. “I can’t do it,” she said. “He’ll just have to fend for himself.”
Chapter Thirty-two
The dog gave me away.
I waited till the dark-haired man had taken off, making his way into the depths of the woods with more grace than his female counterpart had been able to summon simply getting to their rendezvous. She watched him, too, though I didn’t think she was admiring his stride. Then I knew I had to act. What I’d heard sounded like the aftermath of a conspiracy. And while I’m no rat—Wallis would not stand for that—I knew this was worth bringing to Creighton’s attention. He could take it to the Feds, or not. Hey, maybe it would win him some points. I had no problem with helping my guy out.
But even though I managed to sidle through the woods, working my way around Cheryl Ginger and back to the drive more quickly than she could manage, I’d forgotten about Stewie. The twenty minutes locked up must have been maddening for him, and as soon as I popped open the door, he slipped out, barking like a watchdog at a free-for-all.
“No! No! No!” I dived for the spaniel, even as he headed toward the woods. “Beware! Beware!”
“Stewie, no!” I missed, slipping on a damp patch and landing hard on my outstretched palms. “Quiet!”
“I’m here! I’m here!” The little dog called. “Come back!”
“Stewie!” I climbed to one knee. It hurt. So did my hand. But what stopped me cold wasn’t the scraped raw skin, or even the embarrassed awareness I felt at having been outrun by a toy breed. It was the sight of Cheryl Ginger standing there, all five-eight of her in the skin-tight jeans and those stupid shoes, holding the longhaired spaniel in her arms.
“Pru Marlowe.” She sounded shocked rather than frightened. Then again, I was the one who’d been sprawled on the road. “What are you doing here?”
“Your dog…” I gasped as I stood up. My knee was not happy. Did I exaggerate the pain to buy myself time? Maybe. “He was anxious.” It was the truth, and as I paused for a moment, rubbing my knee, I wondered if she’d heard me use his real name.
“Anxious?” she asked. I looked up to see her glancing from me to the silky pup in her arms. “Pudgy?”
“Severe separation anxiety.” I brushed off my palms, relieved to have something I could explain. “He started whining as soon as I took him out. I was going to take him back, but we saw you leave…” I left it at that. Explaining that I’d tailed her without her knowing—and then second-guessed her destination—would sound a little sinister, even if it was the truth.
“Oh.” She nodded. This was too easy, and it hit me. She wasn’t thinking about me or the dog. Her mind was still back in the woods, with the dark-haired man and the plans she no longer wanted to be part of.
“I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation,” I said. Sure, it had taken place beyond earshot of the road. I wasn’t going to get into that. “You and your friend.”
“You heard?” From the way her eyes darted to the woods and back again, I thought I’d gone too far. She was going to call me on my claims—both that I had accidentally overheard anything and that I’d been following her for the dog’s sake. “It’s not what you think,” she said instead.
I had her attention now.
“You know what I think, don’t you?” I took a step closer to her. More to intimidate—and, okay, to retrieve some of the dignity I’d left in the gravel—than because I thought she could make a run for it in those shoes. “You want to hear me spell it out?”
Those wide eyes took on a deer-in-the-headlights look. Her mouth opened slightly, but when no protest emerged, I proceeded.
“You killed Teddy Rhinecrest,” I said. “Really, you helped your friend do it. You both made sure you had an alibi. Made sure people saw you skiing, all day, miles away. But there’s no reason for a real skier to come out here. You came for the privacy, and because it’s close enough to the city so that your friend could come and go easily. Maybe establish his own alibi back in town.”
“No.” She was shaking her head. Stewie squirmed, and she let him go. “No,” she repeated as he jumped to the ground. “No, that’s not true.”
“You knew Rhinecrest was getting tired of you. Maybe you even egged him on, in case you needed an excuse—self-defense. A battered wife, only he had a real wife who was clamping down. Your days with this particular sugar daddy were numbered.”
“No,” she kept saying. The dog at her feet looked from one of us to the other. Waiting, I thought. Watching. “I never meant him any harm.”
Th
at stopped me. Something about the phrasing: never meant him any harm? It wasn’t simply that the words were cold. They were too damned polite.
“But, wait a minute.” She was looking at me now. Truly seeing me, I thought, for the first time. “Why did you come here? Who are you, honestly?”
“Uh, me?” I stumbled as I fished for my own name, stuttering as I tried to answer, my mouth suddenly bone-dry. This was what I’d long feared: the confrontation I couldn’t explain. So much for Cheryl Ginger being a vapid airhead. So much for my exposing her web of lies. The redhead had caught me out—my taking my cue from her dog. My talking to her dog, using a name other than the one she’d given him.
“Ms. Marlowe is who she says she is.” I whirled around as a familiar figure stepped out from the shadows by the condo. Gregor Benazi, looking courtly in a trench coat and shoes too well-buffed for this weather. “One of the finest animal behaviorists I’ve had the pleasure of meeting. A real animal communicator, if you will, rather than a simple trainer.”
I blinked, unsure whether to be grateful or afraid. Benazi had once again taken me by surprise, using words for me that were a little too close to the truth for comfort. Communicator, indeed. I had been planning to use my expertise on this man. To manipulate him with the tricks of voice and gesture that I use on the pampered pets of Beauville. What I hadn’t considered was that he would see through me and call me out, hinting at something dangerously close to my secret. If that was in fact what he was doing. With Benazi, I couldn’t be sure. What was certain, I realized now, was that I couldn’t try to “train” him to do anything.
Holding my breath, I waited, sure that he would make the next move. I felt paralyzed. Unable to react. But whatever I did or didn’t do was apparently beside the point. Benazi had turned from me to approach Cheryl Ginger. If I had been unclear on who was the alpha, I knew now.
“Ms. Ginger.” He smiled as he held out his hand. As dangerous as she was to me, I wanted to shout a warning. To pull her back from taking that hand. I didn’t. “I’ve been hoping that we would have a chance to speak again.”
“Mr. Benazi.” She licked her lips. Her mouth must have gone as dry as mine. “I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch,” she said. “What with everything going on.” She waved her free hand, a gesture that encompassed the condo, the woods, and everything around us. The old man kept hold of her other hand, limiting her range of expression. His smile didn’t waver. Instead he stood there, smiling. Waiting.
“I don’t have it.” Her words came out as a whisper, rasping between those dry lips.
Benazi placed his other hand over the one that held hers. In any other setting, the gesture would look affectionate. Grandfatherly. I recognized it for what it was: dominance. Possession. I shivered.
“But if you did…” he said finally. “If you find you do, then you would do the right thing, I have no doubt.” His voice was nearly as soft as hers but smooth as the silk of his tie. “You would do the smart thing. Wouldn’t you? I don’t believe in the tactics some of my colleagues use, Ms. Ginger.”
He released her hand and continued talking as if she had replied. “It’s so much better for everyone if we keep our dealings civil. Don’t you agree?”
“I don’t…” she stammered, a denial neither of us believed as she cradled her right hand—the one he had been holding—against her breast as if it had been burned. “I never found it.”
Without responding, he bent to pet the spaniel, hiking his pants legs up at the knee as he crouched by the little dog’s side. Clearly, his supposition had been just that—he hadn’t been asking the redhead what she would do. She wasn’t arguing anymore, but it wasn’t her I watched with a new curiosity. It was Stewie. The spaniel wasn’t growling. He wasn’t even whimpering. Instead, I got a sense of questioning—of waiting, as if for the answer to a question.
“Good dog,” said Benazi. “What a fine fellow you are, and what a careful dog, too.”
He stood and brushed an imaginary fleck of mud from his trousers and then turned to me with a wink. I couldn’t be sure—maybe I never would be sure—but this seemed like confirmation of what I had feared. Gregor Benazi hadn’t simply eavesdropped on us, catching my roadside interrogation of the redhead. He’d picked up on why I was there—the how of it, perhaps—or he had known all along. I was no more training him than I could train, well, any wild beast out in these woods. Which led me to wonder in what role he had cast me in this drama, and whether he had followed us—followed me—out here, or if he had known we’d be here all along.
“Good dog,” he repeated, as he turned to go. But before he’d taken two steps, he turned back again, as if struck by a sudden thought. “You would do well to listen to him, Ms. …Ginger.” The pause was obvious. Pointed. “And to Ms. Marlowe, too.”
Chapter Thirty-three
Even before we heard the muted roar of Benazi’s sportster, I was trying to digest what had just happened. That Cheryl Ginger was involved with something crooked was pretty clear. That she was trying to buck the elegant gangster was something else again. The woman had spunk, and I felt a grudging admiration for her.
Not enough to get in Benazi’s way if he felt the need to take off the velvet gloves. But enough to try to warn her, once again. Maybe even help her out of a jam.
“Sister, you’re in big trouble.” I took a step closer to her. I didn’t think she’d try to run—not in those shoes—but I didn’t want to risk it. I also didn’t want Ronnie eavesdropping if he was anywhere on the premises. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll talk to me.”
“Sister?” She shook her head in disbelief, and again I felt a pang. I was just talking, but I got it. A woman who looked like this didn’t get a lot of fellow feeling from her own gender. Especially not one who’d made a living off those looks. “You don’t know.”
I stopped her there, before she could start the whole litany of denial one more time.
“Don’t,” I said, putting my hands on my hips. As I did, I felt an unfamiliar lump in my pocket. That fancy collar. “I saw you. I heard you,” I said, and pulling the gaudy strip of leather out of my pocket, I waved it in her face. “I saw you getting rid of this.”
She gasped, and I waited. I didn’t want to misstep here. Didn’t want to give her an out. “Pudgy’s collar,” she choked out the words, as she reached to take it from me.
“Not so fast.” I drew it back, running my thumb across the colorful stones. The red one came loose again at my touch, and I felt the rough setting with the ball of my thumb. It left a cavity like a missing molar, but a touch of glue could have set the garish thing right. “Tell me about this pretty thing.”
“What’s to tell?” Her voice was growing breathy. “It’s a collar. A silly, trashy collar. Pudgy deserves better.”
I didn’t disagree, but I also didn’t see her disposing of it in the woods. “Was it a gift?”
Another gasp. I was onto something. “From Teddy?” I looked at the bright colors. Could they be gemstones? It didn’t seem likely. “You said he would give you silly gifts sometimes.”
“Yes, yes, he would.” She was nodding. This was too easy. “The teddy bear. The ice cream scoop. All sorts of things.”
“No.” That gap. The man who came to meet her. “He didn’t. That man did, the one you were talking with in the woods.” I looked at the red stone, the way it came loose, as if it were hinged. “You passed messages with this, didn’t you? Set up assignations, maybe?”
She looked like she was going to cry.
“Maybe planned when to kill your rich boyfriend?” My sympathy only went so far.
“It wasn’t like that. That man, he’s not…” She had her hands out to me, imploring. I wasn’t going to give her the collar, though. I wouldn’t give her the time of day. But even as she pleaded, an odd thought came to me. Stewie—the spaniel who had brought me to these woods one more time—was
quiet. No whining, no growling. Although his sensitive snout was turned up to look at Cheryl as she begged, he wasn’t acting like he was concerned about her or worried about me. No, he was observing.
“What is it?” I looked down at that silky curls, willing the dog to turn those large, liquid eyes on me. “Why are you so calm?”
“He’s gone.” The reply came back immediately, silent and calm. “We are safe,” his canine composure said, as I caught the wave of peaceful observation washing over him.
He’s gone. I thought for a moment of the man Cheryl had met in the woods. He’d been insistent. But even as I pictured him, the dog didn’t change. Barely moved, as he looked up at the woman in his care. That left one option.
“Maybe this is what Benazi was looking for,” I said, turning the collar over in my hand. “Maybe it’s that simple, after all.”
“Please.” The dog didn’t respond, but Cheryl Ginger did. Our brief détente was shattered as she stepped toward me, hands outstretched. I stepped back, wary of a ploy to disarm me—or to grab the canine bauble. Creighton had said what a great skier Cheryl Ginger was, and that takes muscles. But while she might be an athlete, I bet I knew more about fighting. Besides, she was wearing those shoes. “You can’t—that man. He would kill me, if he knew.”
If he knew. “So this isn’t what Benazi and his cronies are looking for?” I held it up. The clouds had broken up, and the sun highlighted the colors. Green for the trees that would soon be in leaf. Red for blood.
“No.” She slumped, shaking her head. “No, it’s not,” she said. I was looking for the move. Waiting for the trick, but the way her shoulders hung, I thought she might really be defeated. What I didn’t know was why.
“Why?” Sometimes it pays to ask. “What’s going on here, Cheryl? Why is this thing so important? So dangerous?”