by Clea Simon
“Hmmm, bird.” Wallis sauntered over to examine this evening’s offerings. I hardly ever gave her canned food anymore. It’s hard to keep my refrigerator stocked, even for me. We were more like roommates than pet and person now, anyway, and so what I got she got. Within reason.
“That so-called drink is disgusting.” She filled in my thoughts as she began to eat. Soon she was purring and kneading the floor. I felt strangely gratified.
Finishing my whiskey, I contemplated a second, then decided I should wait. Wallis clearly had something to tell me, and I’d understand it better if I had my wits about me.
“Such as they are.” She sat back and began washing her face. To me, it looked spotless, but she rubbed her white front paw over her fur as if she were scrubbing a stained sheet.
“Interesting thought.” I got that. I hadn’t realized Wallis understood metaphors. “A sheet, where you sleep. Those two old ladies. You were wondering about the one who takes care of them, yes? ”
Genie. “Yes, I was.” A wave of sadness hit me. Bourbon can do that. “I like her, though.”
A flex of the ears dismissed this all too human weakness. “And she survives, how? ”
“By helping the old people. That’s her job.” Wallis understood jobs, after a fashion. She knew that I had to do certain things in order to bring back food.
“And that other one? ”
I looked down into emerald eyes. Wachtell? Or did she mean Jane? “Wallis, can you explain?” I lifted my glass as an excuse.
She didn’t need one. She only sniffed a little as she led me to the living room. Cats like to have the upper edge. “The one the bird was talking about.”
“You said he felt guilty, right? You mean about Polly?” I stood while she jumped up to the sofa and began to knead the pillow.
“He feels guilt? ” The tabby glanced up at me, and I could have I kicked myself. “What is this guilt? ” No matter how well we communicate, Wallis is still a cat. She translates my thoughts, and in some way, I do the same with hers, automatically putting the gloss of human emotions on them. That leaves a lot of room for misinterpretation.
“Shame. Feeling bad.” I was grasping at straws, trying to remember the sense of the original. Not only did I have a buzz on, Wallis was beginning to nod off. “He feels like he’s responsible.”
A spark of interest. Those green eyes focused on me once more. “Yes, that’s it. He did it. He knows that. The rest…animals in a cage.”
The parrot did it? Wallis fell asleep after that, not that she’d deign to explain herself anyway. I was stuck trying to figure out how Randolph could believe he was responsible. Maybe he’d cried out, and that had woken Polly in the middle of the night? Maybe she’d been the one yelling for him to shut up?
I thought of those bare spots on his breast. Maybe they had pre-dated her death; maybe he’d been distressed about something else and had begun the self-mutilating behavior. There were certainly a few possibilities that could unsettle a bird: his person’s declining health, her increasingly medicated state. The fact that the aide didn’t seem to like him and that somebody might be stealing from her only added to the list. And if he had been in distress and she, his longtime owner, had heard him cry…
There was only one thing I could be sure of. Randolph didn’t intentionally kill Polly. I was beginning to doubt that anybody had. He might have been responsible for her death, though. Stranger things have happened.
The concept gave me something to think about as I made my own way to bed. If some form of avian guilt was the cause of both his feather-plucking and, possibly, his self-destructive verbal behavior, then maybe confronting it with him might give me an edge. I wasn’t sure, exactly, how parrot psychotherapy would work. Then again, they use therapy on children, and Randolph was at least as intelligent as some kids I knew. It was something to think about. Better that than the throbbing in my hand, or the angry color of the wound as I changed the bandage, a fresh glass of bourbon balanced on the edge of the sink. Better than wondering why I was going to bed alone before midnight, yet again.
It was just as well, I thought, pouring on the hydrogen peroxide. I’d told Jim about the raccoon. He was smart enough to put two and two together. Besides, he and I didn’t have that kind of relationship. We were too different, for starters. I could never be completely comfortable with a straight-shooter cop.
I did wonder, as I rewrapped my tender hand, how it would end. Would he get sick of my solitary ways? Trade me in for a local girl with her eye on a ring? It made me smile, and almost made me reconsider the Tylenol with codeine that I slugged back with the rest of my drink. I rarely bothered to look that far ahead. Old Jim Creighton must have gotten to me.
Or maybe it was Beauville. Being back here, I’d fallen into the slower pace of my old hometown. Maybe I’d be the one looking to settle down soon. As my relationship with Wallis proved, almost anything was possible.
Either way, I promised myself, I could deal with it tomorrow. Creighton. Randolph, and that damned raccoon. My hand was still smarting as I drifted off to sleep. Another thing on my list. Tomorrow was going to be a busy day.
Chapter Thirty-three
The phone call that woke me, rather to my surprise, was about none of the above. Instead, the voice that penetrated my sleepy whiskey fog had a lilting Haitian accent—an accent that softened the words she said.
“It is Rose,” Genie was talking quietly, but with an urgency that quickly brought me around. “She is being taken to the hospital. I only just arrived myself.”
“Hang on.” I grabbed the clock. A little past six. I could get over to LiveWell and be back in time to walk Growler no problem. “I’m on my way.”
I didn’t have time to look for Wallis and only downed a large mug of water before hitting the road. The previous night’s excess should have had me driving more slowly than usual, but I was taking the turns hard. I knew I should have insisted, last night, that Rose see a doctor. Wachtell wouldn’t have been that hard to find. My tires squealed as I pulled up at LiveWell, and I jumped out while the engine was still rumbling. Talk about feeling responsible.
Rose was gone by the time I got to her room. Nancy had simply waved me past, but I didn’t even see the EMTs as I ran down the hall. Only Genie, making the bed, was there to greet me.
“Genie!” The face that rose to greet me looked bereft. “Is Rose…?” I was afraid to go further, but she shook her head.
“They took her to the hospital. She was not conscious, but she was breathing when they came.”
Relief, in the form of exhaustion, hit me, and I found myself sinking into the chair that Rose had been sitting in, only hours before. “What happened?”
Genie shook her head. She’d moved on by then, and was folding what appeared to be Rose’s morning outfit, all laid out on the dresser. “I came in to get her ready for breakfast. Rose says she does not want help, but these days…” She didn’t need to finish that sentence. I had seen how weak the old lady was. “She was still in bed. I should have known. Her dog—she was barking fit to wake the dead.”
As if startled by her own turn of phrase, she shut up suddenly and blinked. And I woke up a little, too. “Buster.” I stood. “Where’s the dog, Genie? They didn’t take her.”
“No, no.” Genie pointed toward the restroom. “She was making so much noise. I couldn’t think.”
I ran over to the bathroom and put my hand on the door. The dog inside was silent, as she had doubtless been trained to be. Someone had shown up, a person was taking charge. She must have heard me, though, or felt the thoughts that were reaching out to her. A faint whimper—“what? what? ”—came through.
“Hey, Buster.” I opened the door and got down on my knees. To Genie, it would look like I was hugging the dog. Comforting a confused animal. I was, but I was also making as close contact as I dared. “What happened? What did you see? ”
“Help! ” The dog barked once, so close to my ear I pulled back.
“Help? ” I repeated the word, as I’d heard it, in my head, looking into those large and soulful eyes. “Did you call for help? ”
“Help! ” The bark was softer, and I made myself hold still. Poor Buster really wasn’t capable of a whisper. Nor, I decided after another moment of holding her, was she capable of complex thought.
“You called for help.” The dog only whimpered, and I found myself looking at her as Wallis would. Loyal, certainly. Articulate? Not so much.
“She has calmed down, certainly.” Genie was standing right beside me. “I’m glad you asked. I almost forgot. Her and that bird.”
“Randolph!” Standing so quickly I startled the dog, I ran over to the cage. Still covered, the parrot inside was quiet, and it was with a shiver of trepidation that I whisked off the cloth. A yellow eye blinked at me.
“Hello!” Randolph cocked his round gray head. “Sqwah?”
I could have laughed. Maybe it took another tragedy to make my training sink in. Or maybe the parrot was more intelligent than I’d thought. “Hello, Randolph.” I said out loud. “Hello.” Silently, I asked, as best I could. “Did you hear anything? Rose? In the room? ”
“Hello!” The bird repeated. “Pretty bird!”
“At least he’s getting better.” Genie was right behind me, watching the parrot, who began to groom. “That’s good, yes?”
“Yes, it is.” I was thinking fast. “Maybe being with Rose was good for him.”
We were both silent for a moment. So much depending on one frail old woman. “Did they say anything? When they took her?”
Genie only shook her head. Of course. Why would they talk to an aide? I wondered if I would have better luck. I could say I was a relative. Being white wouldn’t hurt.
Genie had finished folding everything in sight by then and was simply wringing her hands. “I should be moving on. Alice will have covered for me, once I called for the EMTs, but still…”
I nodded. Life went on. She was waiting for something more though. “Randolph.” Her face relaxed as soon as I’d said it. “Genie, I’ll come back for him later today, I promise. I just need to sort things out.” Sort out Wallis—or Jane. I doubted the bird’s sudden quiet heralded a permanent change. If anything, it meant I needed to keep working with him. I couldn’t leave him with the aide, though. She had other, paying charges to care for.
“And, maybe, the dog?”
I looked over at Buster. Buster looked up at me, whining again softly. “What? ” For an inarticulate dog, she sure picked up on people’s moods. “Yeah,” I said to them both. “I’ll think of something.” Another whine. Rose didn’t have family, Genie had said, but there had to be protocols. A service dog association. Someone I could call, even on a Saturday. “In the meantime, she probably hasn’t been out this morning, has she?”
“No. With all that went on, I didn’t think.” Genie looked exhausted, and I had the feeling she had a good twelve hours left to go.
“I’ll take her.” I reached for the harness. “I may bring her back here for a while, but I promise, I’ll think of something by the end of the day.” I saw my day eaten up by phone calls to answering machines. LiveWell had to have some arrangement for service dogs, didn’t they? Buster whined again, softly, and I realized she had more pressing concerns. “I should take her now.”
“Thank you,” Genie said as she walked us to the door. “And, I’m sorry.”
Behind her, I heard Randolph skitter along his perch. “Hello?,” he called. “Pretty bird says, ‘Hello!’”
***
I took advantage of Buster’s guide harness to take her into the Starbucks. We all have our morning needs. Other than that, I let her guide me around the block. “Go wild,” I said, sipping from the hole in the plastic lid. “Wherever you want.”
With a dog whose routine is that tightly regimented, I didn’t expect much deviation. But if there was anything to be gotten, beyond that basic call for aid, I thought this might be the way in: Dogs love the outside world. The scents, the life. Buster was a good guide dog, maybe even a great one. Life with an elderly woman, however, could not have indulged all her doggy fantasies.
Already I could feel her, fighting her own impulses. A squirrel scurried up a nearby maple. The smell of wood smoke—and another dog. Still, she kept to the path, too well trained to do more than tilt her head.
“What are you thinking, Buster?” The connection—my hand on the lead—wasn’t the best. Still, I’d communicated with Growler with much less. “Are you thinking of Rose?” I pictured the old woman, not as I’d seen her last but as I’d first met her. Feisty and foul-mouthed and full of fun.
“Bite! ” That wasn’t what I’d expected.
“Bite? You mean, you wanted to bite Rose?” A wave of revulsion hit me. “Rose wanted to bite.” I laughed, thinking of her fearlessness. “Yes, she did, didn’t she?”
“Bite!” Buster stopped and looked up at me. “Bite! ” She barked again.
“Wait, you don’t mean her attitude. She wanted to attack. To fight?”
That big tail whipped the air. We were getting somewhere.
“She didn’t like Wachtell. Didn’t like Marc, either.” The names got me nowhere. “Do you mean last night? This morning?”
Another series of wags and a little whine. “What? ”
“She might have been fighting, Buster, but she was a sick old lady. The sickness got the better of her.” I put it as gently as I could. The dog was having none of it.
“Help! Help! Help! ” She started barking, making so much noise that I looked around. I really didn’t need anybody complaining that Pru Marlowe couldn’t control an animal.
“What are you saying, Buster?” I knelt on the sidewalk, reached one hand up to cup those sensitive ears. “What did you hear?”
“Help! ” The internal voice rang out in my head. Out loud, Buster’s bark had changed to a whimper, her training kicking ing. “Get help! Raccoon? ”
That startled me, until I realized I’d been stroking her with my right hand. “Sorry.” I sat back on the sidewalk and took a moment to think.
What if Rose had been fighting with someone? Had called out for help—a cry that her dog had echoed into futility? A possible sequence of events played out. Genie had said she’d found Rose and been unable to wake her. Then she had locked the dog in the bathroom and called for help.
What if that wasn’t what happened? I’d heard of other cases—nurses whose patients begin to die. I liked Genie, but then I would relate to her. Everyone else in that place was abhorrent.
“Did Genie do something, Buster?” I tried to picture the aide, her calm face and gentle manner. “Did Genie think she was helping?”
“Help! Help! Get help! ” The ears were sagging, the tail now hanging flat. Still, Buster whined, “Help! Get help! ”
Chapter Thirty-four
I don’t know why I was surprised to see Wachtell when Buster and I got back to LiveWell. He had duties here, and it sounded like the EMTs had taken Rose to a competent medical facility. Still, I paused when I saw his white-coated back, joking again with Nancy. Maybe it was the laughter, after all that had happened.
She must have said something, because he turned to greet me with a smile. I nodded back, unwilling to fake happiness this morning. I was being unfair; I knew that. As the staff gerontologist at an assisted living residence, he undoubtedly had a lot of mornings like this one. Maybe a day that started with a sick resident carted off to the hospital was one of the good ones. Still, I was unsettled. Partly, I realized as Buster led me forward, that was because I wasn’t sure how to greet him.
“Help! ” Buster barked once, her voice loud in the nearly empty reception area.
“Enough!” I used my command voice, low and stern, and reinforced it with a gesture, holding my hand out flat to signal “stop.” I understood her impulse: she must have recognized the white coat, if not the man. This was not the place, though, and I didn’t want her to get into bad habits under my ca
re.
“So that’s where it went.” Wachtell turned from me to the shepherd mix. “We were wondering.”
“Genie was busy, so I took Buster for her walk,” I explained. I could feel Buster’s tension—the desire to bark again, to alert the doctor—but the only sound she admitted was a low whine. “Good dog,” I said to her, to reinforce what seemed a great effort of will. To Wachtell, I did a version of the same. “I’m glad I ran into you.”
I wasn’t, not really. For starters, I wasn’t sure how to ask what I wanted to know. Wachtell would be only too glad to suspect Genie, or any aide. I almost did myself. What I needed was an honest account of who might have been in her room either overnight or early this morning. Someone had been, I was pretty sure. In truth, though, all I had to go on was what I’d picked up from Buster.
“I was hoping you could tell me about Rose.” I started with the basics. “And what her prognosis is.”
The doctor raised that famous eyebrow of his. “I don’t believe you’re family, Miss—ah—Pru.”
“No, but I am a friend.” I was using the same tone as I’d used with Buster, low and firm. “And I am helping care for her service animal.”
He nodded. “She’s over at Berkshire General. It’s too soon to tell, but I did get a call from the admitting M.D. It seems that perhaps she took a few too many of her sleeping drugs.”
“Rose?” This wasn’t making sense. Even forgetting her objection to medication, the woman I’d seen last night was half asleep before she’d even undressed. The reality of what he’d said sank in. “An overdose? How is that possible? You were checking her medications only hours before.”
“That’s what we’ll have to look into.” He looked down at Buster. “Help! ” the whine picked up. “She had an aide with her last night—and this morning, too.”
I didn’t like what he was implying. “Was anyone else with her?” Wachtell only shrugged.