Dogs Don't Lie

by Clea Simon

  “No.” I was halfway out the door. “I’m going over to Eleanor Shrift’s. She never called me back about her Persian.”

  “Can’t it wait? I mean, it’s just a—”

  “Don’t say it.” Something of my mood must have carried in my tone because finally he seemed to get it. He still got out of the car, and with his long strides caught up with me before I reached my own front door.

  “Want some company?”

  “No.” I fumbled with my key for a moment, but managed to let myself in. Before Mack could follow, I turned back to him. “Thank you for the lovely dinner,” I said, and closed the door.

  ***

  I didn’t mean to listen to him drive away, but as I stood there in the dark I couldn’t help but notice how dark and lonely my house was. That is, until I felt the brush of fur against my skin.

  “Wallis?”

  “You were expecting someone else?” I reached down for the hefty tabby, and, probably sensing my mood, she allowed me to lift her. “Your mind is full of that Persian—and that dog.”

  “I know, Wallis. I’m sorry. Life has gotten complicated.”

  She snorted, a small delicate sniff. “You always had a choice.” I felt the pinprick of claws through my shirt. “You still do.”

  Wallis must have sensed my intentions, but I was having second thoughts. “How do you feel about letting the Persian stay the night? I mean, I want to talk to Eleanor, but maybe bringing him into it—”

  “Wouldn’t be the smartest idea?” Wallis drew back to look at me. I had the unnerving sense that those green eyes saw more than she let on. “You getting all heroic on us now? Does that mean you might be getting brave enough to return to the city soon?”

  I sighed and put her down on the floor. “It’s just, well, I feel responsible.”

  “For everyone but yourself.” Wallis began neatening the fur I had disturbed. “But in answer to your questions, plural. No, I wouldn’t mind. That flat face has the personality of an ottoman, but he knows his place.” She kept washing, clearly avoiding my eyes. “And, no, he couldn’t tell me any more about his person’s man. Some big guy. Very hands on. It seems the human had the good sense to prefer fur.”

  “Oh?” Wallis had more to tell, but she likes to know her audience is listening. “Into bestiality, was he?”

  “Please.” She twisted around to work on her back. To anyone else, it would seem like she was ignoring me. I knew better. Wallis liked her dramatic pauses. “It was a rebound affair. Burned out quickly.” She moved on to her tail. “I gather everything was hot and heavy for a few months, then, well, then he turned his attention to the cat. Sensible human.”

  I knew better than to take everything Wallis said at face value. Cats, for example, have a very different sense of time. But the rebound factor was something new. I thought of Mack, and of Delia’s perfume. If he had been Eleanor’s summer fling, maybe he’d ended it because the younger woman had taken him back. Which left me—where? Were Chris Moore and I both serving as beards, while Charles’ supposed fiancé and his business partner carried on? Or was the Persian’s petter someone else entirely?

  I had questions for Eleanor, but I wasn’t going to submit that cat to humiliation and rejection—or an unnecessary car trip. I grabbed my keys and, with a nod to Wallis, headed out.

  By the time I found that college station, the jazz DJ was winding up. Close to midnight, he’d said, and I wondered for a moment if I was going too far. Sane animal behaviorists don’t storm over to their clients’ houses at this hour. But, hell, I’d seen Eleanor Shrift up and about not that long before. Besides, my messages had asked her to call me whatever the time. She was back in town. She hadn’t called. She had this coming.

  ***

  Eleanor’s house was dark when I pulled up into her driveway, but the closed garage door kept me from speculating whether she was home or still out. For a minute, I hesitated. Then, sitting in my car, I dialed her number.

  “You’ve reached 413-” Great. All that told me was that Eleanor still wasn’t answering her phone. I hung up. No reason to let her think I was stalking her. But after one more tune—something by ‘Trane—and the DJ’s signoff, I decided to stop wasting gas and try her door.

  I knocked. There was no answer. I rang the bell and heard it chime inside, these new houses lacking the solid doors and walls of Beauville’s older houses. I tried Eleanor’s number again, and once again hung up on her voicemail. At least I hadn’t heard it ringing inside the house. Wherever she was, Eleanor likely had her phone with her, and she was choosing not to answer it. With a childish, and yet very satisfying, kick at her door, I gave up and returned to my car. Five minutes later, I couldn’t stand the wait. The next show was some kind of ambient techno, and I tuned into an all-night news station as I drove more slowly back to my own home.

  ***

  What was going on with that woman? What was the deal with Mack? And what was I going to do with the big black Persian? Wallis and I had something special, I knew that, but I also knew that animals were my soft spot. Was I going to end up taking in every unloved cat in the Berkshires?

  “Pru Marlowe, crazy cat lady.” As I pulled up in front of my own house once again, I tried that out for size. “Pru Marlowe. Hoarder.” Yeah, it could fit. I pushed open my front door. “Hey, Wallis! What do you think—” But before I could finish my question, the oddity of my own action had hit me. I’d pushed open the door. Hadn’t I locked it before I’d left? Beauville might be a small town, but I still had a city dweller’s instincts, didn’t I?

  “Wallis?” My voice had dropped to a dry whisper. I stepped into the front hall and felt the broken glass crackle beneath my shoes. Great, second time this week. I reached for the light when it hit me. Maybe I shouldn’t be walking in here. Maybe I should step back, get out. Call Creighton or one of his colleagues. I hadn’t last time. But Wallis had been there, reassuring me. Filling me in.

  “Wallis?” Where was she? I’d left her here. Alone, except for Eleanor Shrift’s long-suffering Persian. The moment of fear vanished, evaporating into sheer rage.

  “Who the hell is here?” It wasn’t my smartest move, but I was pissed. “I said—” Before I could go any further, two strong hands grabbed me from behind, clenching down on my upper arms. “No!” I yelled, twisting to my left. The arms pulled me backward, and I let myself start to fall, the movement giving me enough slack to reach into my jeans pocket. Thumb on the button, and my blade was out. It was in the wrong hand, and I didn’t have the leeway for a good strike, but using my wrist I stabbed down hard. My knife has a sharp blade, and I felt it connect with the leg behind me. Not deep, but deep enough. I waited for the smack I knew would come. Most men don’t like being stabbed. But instead of pulling me around, the stranger threw me away, toward the couch. I stumbled, trying to keep my balance, and came down hard on one knee. That knee gave out, and I found myself falling onto the glass.

  “No!” I yelled out, as much at the glittering floor as at my attacker, and forced myself to roll to the side. I didn’t need a face full of glass, and I did want to see who had invaded my home. But even as I landed, rolling up against my worn-out sofa, he—or she—was gone. I sensed as much as saw the movement: a body, a flash of dark, a leg heading out the open door. I reached to push myself up and had to fight back tears. Despite my best efforts, a sliver of glass had wedged itself into the heel of my hand, and something had gone wrong with my knee. By the time I was up, the intruder was gone. Down on the street, an engine started. A car must have been waiting there, in the dark, but I’d been too distracted to notice a strange vehicle. The sound of the car faded away, and I was left standing, in pain, alone.

  “Would you mind closing the door?”

  I whipped around. “Wallis!” My tabby was standing at the far side of the glittering mess, highlighted by the weak moonlight coming through the remains of yet another of my front windows. The broken glass, I could now see, had been one of the panes, and I found myself fee
ling absurdly grateful for small favors. At least the intruder had only smashed one pane and used the access to lift the window open. I turned to the plump tabby. I could’ve hugged her.

  She saw my outstretched arms and drew back. “You’re bleeding.”

  She was right. I looked at my open hand and even in the dim light I could see the shard that had gotten me, an angry sliver sticking out of the base of my thumb. “Wow, for a moment I’d forgotten about that.” I started to pick at it.

  “That’s the adrenaline talking, Pru. You’ve been attacked.”

  “And now my pet is telling me I’m not in my right mind?” I gave her a look, but I couldn’t stop the smile that was spreading across my face. She stared back. “You’re right, Wallis. I’ve got to take care of this.” I got up and started toward the bathroom. The knee hurt, but it worked. “But, hey, Wallis, watch out.”

  “Don’t worry.” She sidestepped the broken glass delicately. “I’m not a kitten. Speaking of, I trust that the little redhead got settled in all right?”

  “I hope so, Wallis.” I sensed rather than heard her follow me to the bathroom. She jumped up on the closed toilet seat and watched as I used a tweezer to pull out the slice of offending glass. “Opposable thumbs,” I bragged.

  “Useful,” she agreed. She was humoring me, but the adrenaline had already started to wear off. I washed the wound and slumped to the floor. “So, you probably want to know what happened.” She jumped down and walked up to me. I extended my legs, and she climbed into my lap, warm and soft.

  “Yeah.” My eyes started to close. “Who—” With a start, I sprang awake. Wallis stopped kneading and looked into my face.

  “There’s nobody else here, Pru. Relax.” I closed my eyes once more. “It was a single human, male. I’m not sure who. Once I heard the noise, I decided it would be prudent to stay undercover.”

  “What did he want?” I was drifting off. It had been a long night. But a thought broke in. “The Persian?”

  “He’s fine. Slept through it all. I gather that so-called shelter is not the most restful place for a feline.”

  “No.” I thought of the other animals that came in and out. The staff—Pammy—talking all through the day. The bright lights, the institutional smells. “It wouldn’t be.” My knee was throbbing, and I wondered it some glass had gotten into it as well. I should take my jeans off, check. But Wallis was settling in, so cozy. “So, it— he— wasn’t looking for that cat?” The idea didn’t make much sense. Neither did I at this point.

  “No, he didn’t come upstairs at all.”

  Good. I had few personal treasures. A brooch from my grandmother. My mother’s rings. But Wallis was still talking.

  “He seemed to know exactly what he wanted. As far as I could hear, he came straight in the window and headed toward your office. He was on his way out when you came in. I tried to warn you, but you weren’t listening.”

  I hadn’t been. My mind had been on my incipient future as a cat hoarder. To Wallis, it must have seemed like I’d been absorbed by thoughts of other cats. “I wasn’t serious, Wal.”

  “I was. I’m not entirely sure who this fellow was, but I didn’t like him coming in like that. He could have waited till you invited him.”

  “Excuse me?” I was too sleepy. Wallis wasn’t making sense.

  “Well, I didn’t catch the details, but one thing I can tell you with all certainty, there’s no new scent here—in the house, or on you. Whoever he was, you’ve had contact with him before.”

  ***

  Great. I sat there for a while longer and then finally pulled myself upright, taking Wallis with me as I climbed the interminable stairway up to my bedroom. Whoever had broken into my home was someone I had invited over at some point. Who could that be? Compared to my recent past, I’d been positively nun-like since moving back to Beauville. Still, even counting the casual guests, there was a sizable list. Detective Creighton came to mind, though I couldn’t see the straight-laced cop making a midnight raid. Albert had been by, early on, when I was first establishing my bona fides—and I didn’t yet realize how obnoxious he could be. Doc Sharp, too, for that matter. Mack had swung by, and dropped me off not—I checked my watch—two hours before. And earlier Chris Moore had come by, accompanying the always-mysterious Delia. My mind flashed on Eleanor. No, Wallis had definitely said “he,” and the arms that had thrown me to the floor did not belong to a fortysomething woman, no matter what gym she belonged to. Still, if her secret lover were out and around…No, there were too many possibilities to sort through tonight.

  I was about to open my bedroom door when I remembered why I’d closed it. I looked at Wallis.

  “It’s fine, you know.” She blinked twice. “I’ve let him know how things are run around here. As long as this is temporary…”

  Still, I wasn’t sure. I turned back to the guest bedroom. Wallis squirmed, and I let her jump down. In response, she reached up with both paws and deftly turned the doorknob, leaning against the door at the same time to push it open. “See?” With a flick of her tail she led the way in.

  I should have been asleep as soon as I hit the bed. Maybe it was the adrenaline runoff, but something was wrong.

  “Hang on, Wallis.” I took a deep breath and headed for the stairs.

  “He’s gone, you know.” She remained on the bed. “It’s just the three of us now.”

  “Three?” I felt myself tense. The pain in my knee didn’t help, and I was startled to feel a familiar pressure against my shin. When I saw the thick midnight fur of the black Persian, I made myself relax. “Sorry, big guy.” I was very tempted to pick him up, but Wallis was watching. Besides, I needed to check out the first floor myself. “This isn’t the refuge I was planning.”

  I didn’t know how much he understood, but with one final head butt, he walked back into the room. I heard a brief hiss—Wallis, no doubt—and then silence. I walked gingerly toward the stairs.

  My house is old, built sometime in the late 1800s. But I’d grown up here, and I’d known its quirks since girlhood. It had been a while since I needed to descend silently; there was little need to sneak out at night when you lived alone. And I trusted Wallis’ senses, I really did. Still, I hugged the wall as I made my way down, lowering my weight ever so gently on each wooden step.

  “Hello?” There was no answer, of course. Still, I found myself breathing easier as I stepped around the broken glass. Wallis had said that the intruder had gone into my office, but through the open door I could see my laptop, closed and silent. Maybe I’d interrupted him before he could decide what to grab. I looked around the back room. Some files, more bookshelves. A folded blanket that Wallis favored for naps.

  From here, I could see through the back porch, enclosed since my father’s day. It struck me as funny. Twice in one week, someone had broken my front windows. This back room would have been easier to enter. I looked at the old wicker furniture stored there, a settee that had seen better days. A rocker with a shredded pillow. Perhaps my intruder wasn’t that smart. Or perhaps he hadn’t thoroughly cased the house.

  Well, no harm done. Relief came in the form of exhaustion, and I collapsed into my desk chair. On a whim, I opened my laptop. Yes, it woke up, and the screen staring back at me was once again the column of numbers I’d been analyzing earlier.

  Then it hit me. The keychain drive. I had everything on it, copied onto my laptop. But the little plastic drive that I had left here, protruding from its side, was gone.

  ***

  I so wanted to sleep. The damage was done, and I and the cats were okay. But some perverse sense of justice—or maybe simple annoyance—made me call Officer Creighton.

  “Yes, I am home late. I thought you should know that someone broke into my house tonight. No,” I made a snap decision. “Nothing is missing. Not that I can see.” That would give me a little wiggle room in case I changed my mind. “But you wanted to talk to me in the morning, and well, it’s nearly three now.”

  I hear
d a grunt on the line and wondered if he’d gone back to sleep. I didn’t hear any other voices, female or male, and a moment later he came back on the line.

  “Don’t do anything. I’m coming over.”

  Unsure about what exactly his proscription covered and too tired to be bothered with cleanup, I sacked out on the sofa, waking with a start when headlights cut through the dark.

  “You know, you could have called 911.” Out of uniform, his dirty blond hair standing up where he’d run his hands through it—all in all, not an unattractive visitor to have pre-dawn.

  “Could I? I didn’t know if anyone would respond.” I let my hair fall in my face and tugged my shirt down to remove some of the wrinkles.

  “Very funny.” I’d flipped on all the lights as he’d walked up to the door, but he had his flashlight out anyway, peeking under the sofa and out the broken window to the ground below. “Run me through this again?”

  So I did, from arriving home to being thrown onto the glass. “Then he ran.”

  “And he didn’t take anything.” Something told me Officer Creighton didn’t believe me.

  “I didn’t see anything in his hands.” That much was true. “And I’ve looked around.”

  He rubbed one broad palm over his face again. “Okay, well, I’d like you to check in again later, when you’re awake. And you can file a report when you come in, too.”

  “Aren’t you going to dust for fingerprints? Take samples or anything?” I gestured at the glittering glass, which by now had been spread further into the living room.

  “You been watching too many cop shows, Pru.” He looked at me, hard. “This sounds like amateur hour. Maybe some of the local kids. You’re getting a reputation, you know?”

  “Oh?” Faced with a statement like that, I find it best to stonewall.

  “Yeah, first that dog. Now people are talking about you taking cats home.” To do him credit, he tried to smile. “You’ve got to be careful, Pru. They say you’re turning into one of those crazy cat ladies.”