“Zeke!” A young teenager sprinted over the dunes toward us. “He won’t hurt—” He stopped, eyes widening.
I wasn’t sure whether it was the sight of a wolf tackling his dog or the sound of my deranged laughter, but the kid looked like he was about to faint.
“It’s fine,” I said with effort, still winded from the run and buzzed from the joy-zap. “Just playing.”
And play they did. Though in a limited way, because I, unlike the kid, still held Moss’s leash.
“Okay, enough,” I told the dogs, feeling like Officer Unfriendly of the Fun Police. They stopped with reluctance. I bent, picked up Zeke’s sand-coated leash, and held it out to the kid.
I could hardly give him much grief, having just been given the slip by my own dog the day before. Still . . .
“You need to be careful,” I warned the kid.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“There are people who would panic if a pit bull tackled their dog, even if Zeke just wants to play. Panicked people can be dangerous.”
As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized what bothered me most about the message I’d gotten from Ortega: He hadn’t just sounded upset, he’d sounded desperate.
What would make a guy like Ortega, who lived to control everything and everyone around him, lose his cool?
Could it have something to do with his murder?
The buzz I’d gotten from the pit bull had worn off by the time I climbed the steps to the condo. I stepped through the front door and stopped to pull in a deep breath.
Coffee.
Emma was up and had put a pot on for me.
“Is she a great sister or what?”
I freed Moss from his leash and followed him into the kitchen. He stood, loudly lapping up water as I poured a cup of coffee.
As I raised the mug to savor the first, rejuvenating sip, I saw the note I’d left for my sister on the counter. Below my writing, she’d drawn a smiley face followed by the words Sorry, had to run. Talk later—E.
“Really, Em?” I asked aloud.
Had she not read my note?
Aggravated at my sister’s sparse reply, I tried calling her, but got her voice mail. I decided not to leave a message. I was going to have to head to my first appointment soon and wouldn’t have much time to discuss the Ortega situation in detail. I pushed the issue to the back of my mind and headed to take a shower.
After our walk, I’d needed a caffeine boost to remain ambulatory, Moss, in contrast, seemed indefatigable. I was still toweling off when he started dancing around me asking to go for a ride.
Once upon a time, Moss had often joined me on errands and appointments with clients. He loved to ride in Bluebell and acted not only as a deterrent to theft but as backup on the rare occasions I’d ventured into areas where it was needed.
Things changed the night Emma had brought the kitten home. Voodoo had been worn-out, malnourished, and frightened. Moss had taken one sniff of the kitten and morphed into a helicopter parent. He’d been hovering less and less, as Voodoo had gained strength and it was obvious my dog wanted to get out of the house for a bit. Today, he was revving to go.
“Need a break, huh, big guy?”
Go. Ride!
I was hesitant to leave Voodoo alone for very long. Her claws were small but could shred a roll of toilet paper with no problem. I hated to imagine the damage she could do to the couch if deprived of her playmate for an extended period.
I decided to let Moss ride along to my first appointment, which happened to be with a woman and her cat who lived in Marsh Landing, which wasn’t far.
Moss would get his ride and a break from kitty-sitting duty and I could swing back by the condo to drop him off and check on the kitten before I headed to R-n-R to talk to Boomer.
I grabbed Moss’s leash and we headed out the door.
Marsh Landing is a luxe country club neighborhood which, like most, had a guard posted at the gate. In order to gain entrance, you had to be on the list and know where you were going. The homes were expensive. Many of them, especially those along the water, were mini-mansions. Mrs. Hurwitz’s place was no exception.
Leaving the windows partway down to catch the cool marsh breezes, I left Moss in Bluebell with some water and a kiss on the head. My client opened the door and ushered me into the living room.
“The vet said he was fine, but I can tell. Something just isn’t right with him.”
I nodded and studied the “him” in question.
Her cat, Sir Thomas T. Lipton III, or just Thomas for short, was a handsome orange tabby with bright, golden eyes and a long, triangular face. He gave me a cursory glance then closed his eyes to nap. When she’d made her appointment, Mrs. Hurwitz had explained that Thomas had started “acting crazy” a few weeks before. He’d destroyed a set of curtains and was meowing to be let outside—something he had never been allowed to do.
“You said he’s always been an inside cat. Has he escaped lately?” Sometimes a taste of the outside world inspired a rebellious streak.
“No. He hasn’t gotten out in years.”
“Can we bring him to the window where he damaged the curtains? I’d like to observe his behavior.” And ask him what the problem was.
Luckily, I could say things like “observe” and “watch for his reaction” to cover the fact that I was having a mental conversation with an animal.
As soon as we made it to the window, Thomas became fixated on the thick, wooden plantation blinds, leaping up to claw at them with an obsessive intensity.
“See? He’s gone crazy,” Mrs. Hurwitz said.
I opened the blinds and peeked outside. A squirrel chided me from a tree less than ten feet away, its tail waving as it called out a warning to its kits.
Bingo.
I glanced down at Thomas.
Squirrel!
I had to grin. Squirrel, indeed. A whole family of them.
Hearing the chattering of the young squirrels as they raced around the tree had flipped the hunting switch in the typically lazy house cat. Interestingly enough, after speaking with him for a few minutes, he revealed what he really wanted was a way to watch the squirrels.
I explained my “theory” to Mrs. Hurwitz and suggested Thomas’s cat tree be moved to the window and for the blinds in the upstairs bedroom to be kept open. I also invited her to call in a couple of days if he hadn’t calmed down.
All in all, the session had taken only about thirty minutes, putting Moss and me back home in less than an hour.
With slight trepidation, I scanned the condo for Voodoo, searching for any sign of destruction as I headed to where she slept in my bedroom.
Apparently, the kitten hadn’t moved.
She blinked squinty, sleepy eyes at me when I turned on the lights, spread her tiny mouth into a tiny yawn, and went back to sleep.
Emma arrived just as I was pouring coffee into a to-go mug.
“Where have you been?” I asked, snapping the lid onto the cup.
“Running a few errands. Why, what’s wrong?”
“I have three hundred things I need to talk to you about.”
“Really? Three hundred?”
“Okay, more like five, but that’s not the point.”
“Sorry,” she said with good-natured sarcasm. “I had to pick up a new iPad to use while the cops have my stuff.” She held up the slim, white box.
“You could’ve just used my laptop.”
“Windows?” She made a face. “No, this Mac girl will stick with what she knows.”
She opened the box, lifted the new tablet out, and plugged it in to charge.
“Listen, Tony left me a message. He said it was about you.” I fished my phone out of my purse and played it for her.
“Well?” I asked when she didn’t offer a comment.
“Well, what?”
“What the hell is he talking about, Em?”
“I have no idea. If I had to guess, I’d say he didn’t like that you hadn’t returned his calls.” She lifted a shoulder. “He knew you’d respond if he mentioned me.”
“Don’t you think he sounded a little desperate?”
“Tony was good at manipulating people.”
True enough. “What about the time stamp? He called me the morning he died. And the last thing on his computer was a newspaper article about me.”
“How do you know that?”
I explained Jasmine’s phone call and subsequent request for my help finding Heart. I went over everything that happened at Ortega’s house, including my run-in with Boyle. I also told her Kai’s story about Boyle’s suspicions of my involvement with Sartori.
“Well,” Emma mused, “you can’t blame Boyle for drawing a connection between you and Sartori. She’s right.”
“Come on, Em. I’ve only met the guy once.”
“After you saved his daughter. Even if you forget about Logan and his weird gift—or whatever you want to call it—look at it from her perspective. A month ago, Sartori’s daughter, Brooke, runs away. You inexplicably decide the girl’s in danger and start looking for her.”
“But—”
“I know.” Emma held up a defensive hand. “You had intel from a tiger who knew Brooke had been kidnapped. But I’m going to go out on a limb and guess you haven’t told Boyle about your ability.”
I made a face.
“Right. Bottom line here is this—you risked your own neck to find Brooke and, ultimately, saved her life.”
“Yeah, well, I had help,” I said, giving her a pointed glance.
Emma waved away the comment along with her involvement in the girl’s rescue.
“I’m trying to point out that in Boyle’s mind, what you did makes you and Sartori allies.”
I wanted to scoff, but it actually made sense. Especially considering Boyle’s history with Sartori and her partner’s betrayal.
“And,” I said, hesitating before jumping in with what I wanted to ask, “there was something about the way Kai defended her. He called her Tammy.”
Emma turned to walk out of the kitchen, motioning for me to follow. “I need to dig out an old briefcase to use. Keep talking, I’m listening.”
“What do you think?” I asked my sister, stopping at the door to her closet.
“About what?” She pulled a slim, nylon briefcase off one of the upper shelves.
“About Kai and Boyle. You’re better at this stuff than me. Do you think they could, you know . . .” A quiver of anxiety did some interesting things in my stomach, but I took a sip of my coffee and pushed on. “Have a thing?”
My sister eyed the bag critically and said, “I’m going to assume by ‘this stuff’ you mean interacting with Homo sapiens, in which case—” Emma stopped when she lifted her gaze to me.
Whatever expression my face wore made her sigh and set the briefcase aside to focus on me. “If Kai has a thing—it’s for you.”
I made a face. “Doesn’t mean he can’t have a thing for someone else.”
“True, but I don’t think so.”
I wasn’t convinced, and my sister knew it.
“Does this sudden suspicion have anything to do with Dane Harrington?”
I started to reject the idea but thought better of it.
“I don’t know, Em. Maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t.” I slumped against the door frame to mull it over.
Until recently, I would have denied a breakup from so long ago would still be affecting me. But I’d learned just how difficult the past could be to ignore.
“It’s so stupid,” I told her, studying the lid of the travel mug.
“No, it isn’t. You were young. The blush of new love is a powerful thing, kiddo.”
“We spent every day together for over six months. I thought I knew him.” I looked at Emma, willing her to understand even as I struggled to do the same.
My sister’s face had hardened like it always did when I talked about Dane. I hadn’t told her about my relationship with Dane Harrington—yes, those Harringtons—until recently. Emma was still recovering from finding out I’d not only dated a member of one of the most wealthy, influential families in the Southeast, but that he’d dumped me when I told him about my ability.
“Come on,” she said, taking my arm, “I need a cookie if we’re going to talk about that jack-hole.”
We headed back into the kitchen. My sister opened the freezer and took out the box of Thin Mints.
“Is that the last box?” I asked when she opened it and I saw it contained only one sleeve of cookies.
“We’ll have to ration.” She handed me a cookie and I bit into the crisp, cold, mint-chocolatey goodness.
Moss heard the crackle of the bag and came trotting in to beg for his share.
“You are sooo out of luck,” I told him.
Treat?
I took a dog treat out of the pantry and gave it to him. Moss dropped it on the floor and looked at my Thin Mint with unsuppressed longing.
“Never going to happen,” I said.
With an affected snort, he picked up his treat and moped off into the living room.
“I didn’t think dogs liked chocolate.”
“Oh, they like it. But it’s toxic.”
“Speaking of toxic, let’s get back to Dane.”
I finished off my cookie. “He didn’t just break up with me, Em, he never talked to me again. One day we’re making plans to meet his parents and possibly build a life together, and the next day—poof!”
Dane had left me with a “Dear Jane” letter during the middle of our romantic vacation—in the Bahamas.
“And really, so what?” I said, growing angry with myself. “So a guy dumped me, big deal. The man you married, who vowed to protect and honor and love you—he almost killed you. What right do I have to be all wounded?”
“It’s not about rights. He hurt you. If you stubbed your toe, would it hurt any less just because someone else you knew broke their foot? You can think, ‘Wow, I’m lucky I just stubbed my toe.’ And it’s good to put things into perspective but it’s still going to hurt.”
“How do you do it? Move past everything. Forget.”
“I don’t forget. I think about it every day. I’ve learned to channel my emotions into something productive.” She wrapped up the Thin Mints and placed them back in the freezer. “As far as the Kai-Boyle thing goes, it seems to me Kai is just trying to be up-front. By telling you about Boyle’s issues with Sartori, and, by extension, you.” She held up her hand to ward off any protest. “Warranted or not, he’s looking out for you. That’s what you do for people you care about.”
“Yeah, I know. I wish he wouldn’t call her Tammy, though.”
My sister rolled her eyes. “Oh! I almost forgot, you know how I tried to get someone from the news to come cover the auction at Happy Asses?”
I nodded. “They couldn’t spare anyone that night for some reason.”
“Right. Well, the reporter I talked to, Anita Margulies, has offered to come do a profile piece on Wednesday.”
It was great news. “Did you tell Ozeal?”
Ozeal Mallory, owner of Happy Asses Donkey and Big Cat Rescue, lived in a humble, one-bedroom apartment above the facility’s commissary and worked tirelessly to keep it operating.
“I let Hugh tell her. Ozeal has him to thank. Anita, the reporter, took one look at him, found out he volunteered at a rescue facility, and was hooked.”
“Hugh has that effect on people.”
“Not everyone,” she said, giving me a pointed look. “Anyway, I was hoping you could come for the interview.”
“Um . . .”
She must have heard th
e panic in my voice because she amended, “Don’t worry, Anita doesn’t want to talk to you. She wants to pet the pretty animals. And to answer your question, I’m including Hugh in that statement.”
“And you want me to referee? Come on, Em.”
“Why not?”
“Haven’t you seen When Animals Attack?”
“Why do you think I want you to come? Hugh told Anita all about Boris and how they want to build a new enclosure for him. We have to get some shots with the tiger.”
I shook my head. In truth, I didn’t think Boris, the Siberian tiger to whom she was referring, would repeat his stress-induced paroxysm of rage, but it bugged me when my sister thought I could snap my fingers and make magic happen. I appreciated her confidence in my ability, but I wasn’t all-powerful.
“Come on,” she insisted. “Can’t you just Zen-mojo him like you used to do with Coco?”
See what I mean?
“Zen-mojo?”
“You know what I’m saying.”
“First of all, Coco was a poodle. There’s a slight difference.”
“There you go—they’re practically the same.”
I waited several seconds before responding, then said, “Weird.”
“What?” Emma asked.
“Nothing. I thought you really liked Hugh. But I guess you’d be okay watching him lose a limb.”
“Come on, Grace. It’s not for me, it’s for Ozeal.”
Ozeal dedicated her life to the well-being of the animals in her care—many who’d been abandoned, abused, or neglected. I couldn’t say no, and my sister knew it.
“Fine. When?”
Emma beamed. “Three. She says it shouldn’t take more than an hour or so to get everything they need.”
“Works for me.”
“Great. Listen, I’m playing catch-up with clients most of today but Wes and I are going to grab a late lunch around one if you can join us.”
I promised to try but know the chances I’d make it were slim. If Boomer had a lead on Heart, I’d have to follow it, if not, I’d need to find another lead. Either way, it was turning out to be a busy day.
Horse of a Different Killer (A Call of the Wilde Mystery Book 3) Page 9