by Clea Simon
I’d gone too far. “You think it’s that dashing Mack Danton, don’t you?” Her voice had gone from syrupy to harpy sharp in seconds. “Everyone knows you’ve set your cap for him, but you don’t know the half of it.”
“Bye, Mrs. Horlick. See you tomorrow.” I refused to rise to the bait.
She barely paused in her tirade. “He’s the one you should be keeping on a leash. Sneaking around.”
I smiled and started to close the door. Just in time to hear her parting shot. “But it’s not him! It’s the police.”
“What?” The question was out of my mouth before I could catch it. Damage done, I turned back toward the door, only to be rewarded by that thin smile. “The cops were asking about me?”
She had Bitsy in her arms now. The dog’s black button eyes fixed on mine, but I didn’t have the time to focus. “They wanted to know what your habits are. How stable you seem.” That grin would’ve fit a crocodile. “Seems they’ve been looking into your past.”
“Great,” I muttered to myself. To her, I tried for a brave front. “I guess they’ve got to worry about anyone who comes back to this town.”
The old harridan sputtered for a moment, during which I remembered that she was now one of my only regular paying clients. With a deep sigh, I set about to backtrack. “But if I hadn’t come back, I’d never have met you and Bitsy.”
I reached over to pet Bitsy’s fluffy head, and as soon as I touched him, I got it. “Watch out for the old ones, walker lady. They bite.”
***
I confess I was a little shaken as I drove back home. Tracy Horlick’s venomous sputter hadn’t told me anything I hadn’t expected, but hearing that the cops were asking questions about me so soon still made me uneasy. Maybe they didn’t have much else to focus on in this godforsaken town, but this was going fast. Too fast.
Bitsy had given me a lot to think about, too. So Delia was pregnant? She seemed awfully calm for a potential single mother, especially if she wasn’t inheriting from Charles. There might be something else—something she wasn’t talking about, like insurance—but I had to wonder if she’d already lined up another potential mate. That could lead to motive, too. If she had been seeing Chris while Charles was alive, he might have found out. Maybe—I mulled this over as I waited at one of our town’s two traffic lights—maybe Chris was the father, and Charles had learned the truth. As I started up the mountainside to my house, I played that scenario over in my head. Perhaps she’d planned on deceiving Charles, getting a moneyed husband for herself, a better father for her baby, and he’d dumped her. A pregnant woman, hormones running mad…could she have torn his throat open like that? Stabbed him repeatedly with something sharp and lethal? What if she’d sprung the news on him—and then found out that he was having money problems?
Along the same lines, Chris Moore might have a motive for killing Charles, especially if paternity or custody of a child-to-be were involved. He seemed like an old-fashioned type, the kind of mug who might get involved in something dirty if he thought his honor or his woman’s was involved. Or, if my mind was running along these lines, was there a third man in Delia’s life? I’d seen the stir she caused. It was possible.
I pulled into my driveway, thinking that all bets were off. “Wallis, I’m home!” I called. I needed some support here, someone to figure out my options with. But the only answer was a small peep. The orange kitten came bounding down the stairs to twine around my ankles.
“Hey, kitten, what’s up?” I lifted the kitten and felt a purr starting as I looked around for my adult feline companion. “Wallis?”
Nothing, but as I carried the kitten into the kitchen, I got a flash of thought. “The big one doesn’t like me.”
“Wallis? That’s not true,” I lied and put the kitten down. Reaching for the can opener, piercing a can of imported tuna in olive oil. No matter how nonchalant the tabby liked to seem, she rarely missed a meal, and the fish was fragrant. I raised my voice, “Wallis!”
Still no response, so I fed three-dollar tuna to the kitten and went into my office. The laptop sat there, accusingly. I’d not gone back to the information on the keychain drive since the fight. Playing with it seemed preferable to worrying about the cops, so I opened it up again and poked about some more. Maybe the adrenaline had sharpened my wits. On second viewing, I located two spreadsheets, and both seemed pretty clear. These were definitely someone’s budgets—Charles’ most likely, given that my invoices showed up with regularity on the smaller of the two. What I didn’t see were deposits—on either of them—and both accounts were running low. Of course, Mack had said that the company was near launch. At this point, it was probably running off its startup capital. No wonder it looked like the bottom lines were sinking. So, was the company viable? In this economy, any kind of funding had to be tight. Still, a good idea, low overhead…what was Charles’ great idea, anyway?
I didn’t have anywhere near enough info, and I really didn’t want to spend another night lurking at Happy’s. A bit of poking about and I turned up a phone number for one Malcolm Danton.
“Mack, it’s Pru. Can we talk?” A part of me wanted more than information, not the least because I’d been warned—repeatedly—about the dark-eyed stranger’s bad-boy ways. But I’m not the girly type, never been good at flirting. And I did have questions I wanted answered. I left my number and figured he’d call me back. He hadn’t given me the impression that he wanted to avoid me.
Wallis, however, was another matter. After she didn’t show for lunch, I started poking around what I’d thought were her usual hiding places. Back of the closets, under the bed. I knew the old tabby could hold a grudge, but this was getting ridiculous.
“Wallis? Are you around?” I called from the top of the stairs. “Look, I’m sorry! Come on, let’s make up, can we?”
Nothing. I checked the kitchen clock and saw that I’d managed to waste a good chunk of the day. And so after a few more minutes of fruitless searching, I grabbed my coat and headed out once more.
***
“Oh, it’s you.”
This wasn’t my day to make friends and influence people, but still I’d expected something a little better than a dead-eyed stare and that toneless greeting. Eleanor Shrift had run to the door quickly enough. I’d heard her call as she fumbled with the lock and had a flash of a smile as the door came open. As soon as she’d seen who it was, her face had fallen, and she’d turned and walked back into the neat split level.
“Ms. Shrift,” I raised my voice as I walked in behind her. “I don’t mean to intrude on your valuable time.” I wasn’t doing a very good job of hiding my sarcasm. But then, she wasn’t being particularly polite either. “You’ve got a beautiful cat wasting away at the shelter, and I’m here to find out why.”
She turned toward me, cigarette in hand, and muttered something as she lit it.
“Excuse me?” We were in some kind of entrance hallway. The living room, to our left, had a fake fireplace and an abundance of overstuffed furniture, all in shades of cream and white. I wondered if the cat were ever allowed on any of the chairs.
She took a long draw, and I waited while she let the smoke out. “I said,” she looked up at her own smoke as she spoke, “‘you’ve got him now. You deal with it.’”
“Yeah, well,” I looked around and walked toward a snow-white sofa. “That’s why I’m here.”
I sat and waited. She didn’t shoo me off, which was a good sign. Instead, with a deep, theatrical sigh, she picked up an ashtray and joined me, settling herself into a matching armchair. “So?” she asked.
“Your cat’s problems aren’t physical. They’re emotional.” She rolled her eyes. I kept on talking. “Something in his home environment is upsetting him. That’s why I’m here. For starters, can you tell me how long you’ve had him?”
“He was a gift.” Another drag. “From a friend.”
I noted the emphasis. We don’t usually get gifts from our enemies.
“I’d just
moved in. I guess it was, what? June?” Another drag and suddenly Eleanor Shrift was grinding the butt out as if she wanted to kill it. “You want a drink?”
“Sure.” Something was going on, and I followed her into a pristine kitchen. No sign of a pet here. No sign of any kind of life. “Do you travel much?”
“What?” She cracked an ice tray open into a shaker and reached for a bottle of vodka. “Oh, yeah. Travel. I cover the East Coast, sometimes Cleveland. I’m a detail woman. Pharmaceuticals?”
I caught myself before I declined that offer but took the proffered martini. “Have you been traveling more recently, or been away longer?” The black Persian’s excessive grooming could be a stress reaction.
She looked thoughtful. “No, not really.” She took a sip, a big one, and gestured me back into the living room. I noticed that she took along the shaker.
We sat. Properly medicated, Eleanor Shrift looked almost relaxed, her porcelain face less strained. I took a chance. “Look, Ms. Shrift. It’s simple. Something changed for the cat. Maybe something you’re aware of, maybe not. But something set him off. Can you think of what that might have been?”
“Something set him off?” That tight look was back and I noticed how her makeup sank into the lines around her mouth.
“I’m sorry, did I say something wrong?” I wasn’t sure why this woman was so edgy, but for the Persian’s sake, I’d find out.
“It’s nothing.” She shook her head and then looked at me, hard, as if seeing me for the first time. “Maybe you didn’t know.”
I waited, always a good strategy with animals.
“You’re too young.” She refilled her own glass without offering me any. Just as well, I put my glass down on an end table and let the silence build.
“You still—” She stopped. A few more sips, another minute of silence, and then those black lashes fluttered and the steely voice cracked. “He called it off, okay? My ‘friend.’ We had a perfect arrangement. No strings, no expectations. He said there wasn’t anyone else, but I’m not a fool. A man like that…” She glowered at me as if I were responsible. “You probably think I was too old for him.”
“Hey,” I raised my hands in surrender. “I’m just here about the cat.” It wasn’t three o’clock yet but I’d begun to have the feeling that this wasn’t her first shaker of martinis. I needed to bring her down. “I don’t know the guy.”
“Oh, really? And everyone so interested in you?”
“It’s not what you think.” I didn’t know what she’d heard, but I didn’t want to get into this. “Look, I can sympathize.” I thought of Leo, the chef. We’d said “no strings,” too, and it worked for a while. Until he started trying to keep tabs on me. But I was willing to talk if it would help. I was just about ready to start reminiscing about Leo, with his scarred hands and his wild laugh, when she gave a little sniff. For half a moment I was afraid she’d start crying. I needed to cut into this and fast.
“Your guy, did he have a lot of interaction with the cat?
“With the cat?” She was angry now. In a way, that was easier. “Yes, he had a lot of interaction with the cat. Smoke was my pet, but he was always the one petting him. Always the one picking him up and carrying him onto the furniture. Even into bed. The cat.”
“Well, that explains it.” She looked up at me and blinked, and it occurred to me that Eleanor Shrift had no idea what she’d said. “Your cat, that gorgeous black Persian. What did you call him? Smoke? He misses your friend, and since you travel a fair amount, you probably haven’t taken up the slack. He’s over grooming himself because he’s lonely. Smoke wants comfort.”
“My cat wants comfort. Great.” Eleanor Shrift stalked off into the kitchen. Usually, at this point, I’d start talking to the pet owner about alleviating the problem, trying to find ways to get the human to modify her behavior, at least temporarily. Once you name an animal, you start thinking of it differently. And the animals themselves are extraordinarily adaptable. I suspected that with just a modicum of affection, the Persian would return to normal—and be thrilled to be back in familiar surroundings. But right now Eleanor Shrift was hurting and angry. She seemed about to jump down my throat for being younger, and she wasn’t about to forgive her cat—whom she barely acknowledged—for getting more attention in her grief.
Attention, that was key, I thought as I got up to leave. I might sympathize more with the Persian, but there was a lesson in his behavior that applied to his person. Eleanor Shrift might not be capable of love, but she wanted attention. She was hurting in part because her affair hadn’t been acknowledged. She’d been someone’s secret, and she’d still been thrown over. The Persian had found a way to make his sorrow public, and she envied that. Well, I’d discovered the source of the black Persian’s problems. But finding a remedy for the situation when the owner saw herself as competing with her cat was going to be a bit more difficult. Especially when the cat was still in his prime.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Wallis didn’t show for dinner either, so maybe I sounded a bit eager when Mack called me a bit after eight. I mean, I like attention, too.
“Hey, doll.” There was a warmth in his voice that I didn’t quite trust. “Good to hear from you.”
I could have kicked myself. Wallis would have made some cutting remark, if she’d been there. But as I looked around, all I saw were the kitten’s guileless eyes.
“You still there?” Was that a chuckle?
“Yeah, Mack.” I took a breath. “I’ve got a few questions I was hoping you could help me with?”
“Aw, gee. Is that all?” The tone of mock disappointment wasn’t as endearing as he thought, and I grunted in response. He got the hint. “Okay, happy to be of service then.” He wasn’t giving up entirely. “Can we do this over dinner?”
I was glad then for the meatball sub I’d wolfed down, alone. Dinner sounded too much like a date. But some questions were best asked in person. Mack was smooth enough without the distance of a phone line. “I’ve eaten. What say we meet at Happy’s?”
His short, sharp laugh—traces of Leo—sounded so relieved I was sure he read me wrong. At that point I didn’t care, and we agreed to meet at the bar. I gave the house one last scouring, even checking under the old lawn furniture on the enclosed back porch. Nothing. I called out a greeting to my missing tabby and took off. At least if Creighton came looking for me, I’d be out, too.
Happy’s looked like Happy’s, and if the bartender nodded when I walked in, that only made me feel like I’d rediscovered a little bit of home. Mack was sitting in one of the back booths when I got there, nursing the kind of whiskey I’d grown fond of. I hesitated a moment before joining him in such an intimate setting, then realized the privacy would serve my needs as well.
“Jameson’s,” I called over to the barkeep. I couldn’t bring myself to call him Happy, but if this kept up, he was going to have to give me a name. As it was, I nodded back and left a five before taking my drink to Mack’s booth and sliding into the bench opposite.
“I hear you’re becoming a regular around here.” Mack leaned forward so I got a good look at his dark eyes.
“It’s not like there’s much else in this town.” I took a healthy swallow and thought about how to start this conversation. “I wanted to ask you a few questions.” Direct seemed best.
“You and the cops.” He must have seen my interest, because he laughed again, more softly this time. “Thought that would get you.”
“Hey, they’ve been asking about me as well.” I stopped myself as I reached for my glass. The night had gotten chilly, and it would be too easy to throw the whiskey down. I needed to keep my focus. “Probably questioning everyone in Charles’ life.”
His eyes narrowed at that. “And what have you been telling them?”
Now it was my turn to smile. I’d wanted to disarm him, but I wasn’t going to be grilled. “Everyone in town knows that I found him. But I found some other stuff, too, that you might want to know about.�
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He leaned back against the wooden booth, and I found myself examining him. With his pale skin and dark hair, he was my kind of handsome. Not as muscular as Chris Moore, or put together like Jim Creighton, but a good-looking man, broad in the chest. His arms, where he’d pushed back his sweater sleeves, were covered with thick, dark hair, and I fought the urge to trace them with my fingers. Mack Danton wasn’t a pretty boy. Wasn’t a gentleman, either. So why had my offer of information set him back?
“Of course, I don’t have to tell you.” I ran my finger around the rim of my glass instead. An old move, but an effective one.
“But you want to.” He was leaning forward again, those bare forearms edging close across the table.
“What I want,” I paused for effect, “is to know more about your startup.”
Mack made a face. “Could have fooled me, Pru. But since you asked, it is—it was—language recognition software, and we stood to make a bundle.”
“Language recognition?” I’d heard of voice-recognition software, the kind of device that turned speech into typed words, but Mack was shaking his head.
“Like an automatic translator, but a good one.” He rubbed one large hand over his face. “Or it would have been. Like I’ve said, Charles was the brain. I’d seen enough so that he convinced me it had solid applications, real-time business translation. Shit like that. Now…” He shrugged and lifted his whiskey.
I took a hit off my own drink to buy time to think.
“So if the idea was so good, what did he need a money guy for?” The idea had thrown me, close as it was to my own strange gift. But there was something I wasn’t seeing.
Mack shook his head and put down his drink. “You think you come up with a good idea and that’s it? No, not Charles.” He turned to get the barkeep’s attention. “You see, he was sort of an idealist. An idealist or a loner. You want another?”