by Mollie Hunt
“What did you say?”
Simon started at my abruptness. “I was telling you that’s when I came back.”
“But what else? Something about me, wasn’t there?”
He sighed. “You weren’t listening, were you? I’m sorry. I must be boring you to tears with my chatter. It’s been bottled up for so long, I’ve forgotten which parts are relevant and which are pure drivel.”
“That’s okay, it’s my fault. I’m exhausted.” I looked at the clock on the wall and it told me why. “I’m surprised I’m awake at all after the day I’ve had. Up at six this morning—or I guess I should say, yesterday morning—tending to the gala. But I want to hear your story, really I do. Maybe if you could skip to the essentials, though, and we could pick up on the details later when we’ve had a little rest.”
“Okay. I owe you that for hearing me out at all after what I did tonight. You got the part about my being in Idaho?”
“Yes, the art museum.”
“It was there that I received word you were in trouble. And that’s why I came rushing back.”
This was what had caught my ear, but still it made no sense. “Who told you I was in trouble?”
“No one, really. At least, it wasn’t anyone in particular. I checked in regularly with Tulsa at the shelter, so she could deliver my messages. See? I wasn’t all the way off the grid,” he added, forcing a tepid grin that didn’t last.
“About a week ago when I called, she said she’d heard a rumor that you were in trouble. I asked what sort of trouble and she didn’t know. It was something that had been going around, like—‘Have you heard? The woman from the art retreat has got herself in trouble.’ That’s all she knew. I asked her to follow up with anyone who might have more information and immediately headed to Portland. After what happened to the others, I couldn’t take a chance that someone might be after you too.”
I thought about what he’d said. “But I’m not in trouble, Simon. The strangest thing that’s happened to me lately is you. Bursting out of my dressing room, then breaking into my house certainly qualifies as unusual, but that’s it. Everything else has been perfectly normal. Nothing to start rumors about.”
He looked at me quizzically with those mica eyes. “You sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. Unless...”
I paused, recalling the odd feeling I’d had at the hotel, the feeling that someone was watching me.
“Unless, what?”
“Simon, have you been following me?”
“Oh,” he said sheepishly, “Yes, that. And doing a very poor job of it. I should have known you were far too perceptive for me to get away with it.”
“But why?”
“I wasn’t trying to stalk you, honestly, Lynley. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. And I needed to see you. Privately, you know? I found out you were at the hotel for the gala and sought out your dressing room to wait for you. I didn’t realize I’d locked the door until you came. I was about to open it when I heard you talking to someone. I panicked. I thought maybe it was the police, so when it got quiet again, I ran. I’m so sorry I hit you on the way out. I didn’t realize you were still there. Did I hurt you?”
“It’ll heal,” I said, checking my elbow which was turning puffy and reddish-purple.
“Oh, Lynley. I am so sorry!” Simon flopped back in the chair, a picture of dejection.
“It’ll be fine. But why would you think it was the police? And what would be the problem if it were?”
“Well, it’s kind of because...”
I sat up, displacing Tinkerbelle who jumped to the floor and sulked away. Dirty Harry, who was in his donut bed near my feet, took the opportunity to usurp her seat on my lap. He’s bigger than Tink and twice the poundage. I winced with his weight, then said, “Because why?”
“Because, if you must know, they are after me. They say it’s only to ask questions, but for goodness sake, three people have died. Three people I knew well.”
“You heard about Paul Hartley, then?”
He nodded. “I called him when I got to town. A detective answered. I know the way they think and I’m just afraid that once they get their hands on me, they’ll quit looking for the real killer.”
I wanted to tell him he was wrong, but in fact, that very thing had happened to me. I ended up going after the murderer myself to clear my name. The police, though they have my undying respect for the difficult and dangerous job they do, sometimes settle for the most available suspect. I understood completely why Simon might not want to be the handy choice.
“So you’re on the run?” I asked.
Simon looked aghast. “Oh, no! Nothing so criminal. I just haven’t let them catch up with me yet. So far, they only want to talk and haven’t gone at it with much zeal. But I wouldn’t mind holing up here for the night, if you didn’t mind.”
“Why not? You found your way in—I’m not sure kicking you out would do any good. How did you do that, anyway? Get past the deadbolt and the alarm system?”
Simon chuckled. “You’ll kick yourself when I tell you. The key was lying on the mat by your back door.”
I reddened. I keep a single key near each of the security screen doors in case of fire. I remembered taking out the compost earlier in the week. After that I couldn’t find the key, but I’d been so busy, I dismissed it. “Okay, my bad. But what about the alarm system? I definitely armed it before I left for the gala.”
“Two-seven-four-six?”
I frowned.
“Don’t you remember? That was the number of the locker we shared at college. We built many a code and secret cipher around those numerals. Two-seven-four meant pop-quiz—”
“—and six-four-seven-two meant party! I remember now! It had completely slipped my mind.”
“It was just a guess. I would have been S.O.L. if I’d been wrong,” Simon reflected.
“Wow! That’s so strange. I’d totally forgotten about it being our locker number. I don’t remember why I picked it for my password when the alarm was installed. It just seemed like a good number at the time.”
We both laughed. At youth, at life, at fate. Then the laughter died out leaving only the tick of the clock and Harry’s kitty snores.
“I’m beat,” I finally said, “but I want to know one more thing. You said you’d been following me. Did you find anything of concern?”
He looked away. “I’m not really sure.”
“What do you mean you’re not sure? Either you did or you didn’t. Which is it?”
“I told you I’m not a very good detective, but I think I did. I’m almost certain someone else has been following you, besides me. Lynley, I think you’re being stalked.”
“No way!” I dismissed much too abruptly. It was only later that it came to me, if Simon had been stuck in the dressing room at the gala, then whoever was in the hallway must have been the dreaded Someone Else.
* * *
Stalked.
The word oozed through my mind like dirty motor oil, black and toxic, corrupting even the smallest cracks and corners. I felt tiny and frail in my bed; even the cats curled up on the covers didn’t bring their usual purry peace. I was glad Simon was downstairs in the guest room; I was afraid to be alone. I knew it was partially due to exhaustion, but not entirely. I don’t think there is a woman on earth that doesn’t cringe just a little at the thought of being stalked.
Simon was not an investigator, as he had readily admitted. He could be mistaken. Or an even darker possibility was that he could be lying. What if the police were on the right track after all? What if, instead of my knight in shining armor, the killer himself were tucked up in my spare room?
But no. I refused to believe my old friend was a killer. I refused to believe I was in danger, for that matter. It made no sense. Simon was wrong. I’d talk to him about it in the morning, which was growing closer by the minute. I checked the clock by my bed, the red digital numbers shining three-thirty-five like a neon sign. If I got up at nine—thank yo
u, retirement life!—that would still only be five and a half hours sleep. And if I didn’t quit my worrying, it would soon be down to five.
Determinedly, I rolled over, momentarily displacing Big Red, and switched off the light. “G’night, kitties,” I whispered, and switched off my mind as well.
Chapter 22
In the wild, cats eat as soon as they kill their prey. This prevents spoiling and minimizes the need to defend their meal from other predators.
I managed a good four hours quasi-rest before the questions became too much to bear. Simon was still sleeping or at least the door was shut. I wondered if he’d had as restless a night as I.
Accompanied by a clowder of hungry cats, I made for the kitchen. Coffee and cat food, my morning routine, only today it was a little later than usual. The cats were confused. Confused and hungry and letting me know all about it.
I’m pretty fast at divvying out the wet food. Everyone had little bowls at their feeding stations in a matter of minutes. Violet was served in a separate room because if left to her own devices, she would eat not only her portion but everyone else’s as well. Tinkerbelle liked to eat on the back porch, staring out into the garden, no matter what the weather. Solo ventured from her under-couch shelter to her under-table food station; that was the one time of the day she would respond to being petted, purring loudly as she ate. Then, if she felt like it and I felt like it, she would succumb to her cat spirit and play. We would have a good game of chase-the-mouse or catch-the-ribbon. Watching the svelte white cat leap and bound and twirl was pure joy.
Once done with cats, I got my coffee—black, like my mother taught me—and sat down at the kitchen table. The storm had passed but it was still gray and dismal. I found myself antsy-anxious. It didn’t take me long to decide my sanity was more important than Simon’s beauty sleep.
I poured a second cup of coffee. Unsure how he took his morning brew, I put the mug on a tray with a sugar bowl and a tiny pitcher of milk. Adding a spoon and a pot of honey for good measure, I went to his room. Balancing the tray on one hand, I knocked.
“Simon? I brought coffee.”
No response. I hate waking people up, considering it rude, but sometimes a bold approach is required.
I knocked louder. “Simon, wake up. We have to talk.”
Still nothing.
I opened the door a crack and peered into the dim. “Simon?”
As my eyes adjusted to the darkened room, I saw the plaid bathrobe tossed across a chair, the rumpled blankets of the bed, but no Simon. The Bird had flown.
* * *
I fumed all the way to the shelter. The clouds hanging low and close, threatening to crush me in gray fleece vacuity, did nothing to improve my mood. Distraction was my only hope, ergo Friends of Felines and some volunteer work. Trading my own self-absorption to help others helped me every time.
I had been working with a difficult cat who had been at the shelter way too long. Her name was Missy and she had been relinquished originally because she had bit one of her people. She’d gone through her state-mandated bite quarantine nine months previous and had no incidents since, but she was not all that sociable, which for a shelter cat, could mean a life sentence.
Missy and I had a routine. I’d take her to the real-life room, a room set up with an easy chair, a television that played the cat TV, and other soothing elements for both felines and humans. Simulating a home environment, it was located at the back of the shelter, out of the general hubbub, and Missy loved to go there. I was finding that after a period of hissing and hiding, she would morph into a normal, friendly cat. She’d come out for pets and affection, and if I stayed quiet and didn’t pester her, sometimes she would even sit on my lap.
That’s where we were, Missy curled in a perfect circle and me gently smoothing her glossy brown-ticked fur, when Special Agent Denny Paris poked his head through the upper part of the Dutch doors.
Portland was honored to boast a team of three Humane Special Agents, highly trained certified police officers commissioned by the Oregon State Police. Special Agent Denny Paris, Special Agent Connie Lee, and Special Agent Frank Dawson worked out of the Northwest Humane Society to investigate animal crimes, abuse, and neglect. There was a lot of liaising with other shelters, and I had come to know the three quite well.
I loved and respected them all, but Denny was more than an acquaintance; he was a close personal friend. He and I had been through a lot, and he had come to my rescue more than once. With a body like Chris Pine, curly brown hair, and cat-green eyes, he was handsome as all get out, though my feelings for him would have been no different had he resembled Dr. Zaius from the Planet of the Apes.
“Lynley,” he drawled in his cute Washingtonian accent. “I should have known it was you helping the helpless once again. And is that our pretty Missy?”
“Special Agent Paris,” I smiled up at the tall officer. “Missy and I are having a bit of a quiet time. Care to join us?”
“Sure,” he said, slipping in through the door and closing both sections behind him.
Missy took personal offense to the intrusion which I knew she would, and darted under the TV stand with a token hiss. It was important to get her used to different situations, however, so the surprise visit was good training for life on the outside.
Denny hunkered down on his haunches and gently extended a hand for Missy to sniff. After only a moment of disdain, she conceded, allowing him to pet her sideburn.
“I hear the Kitty Cat-illion was a huge success last night. Sorry I couldn’t make it. Connie and I were guest speakers for the Portland Association of Teachers, an offer we couldn’t refuse. Frank was there, though. Said it was lots of fun.”
“I think it went well. Tons of people. It seemed like they were all having a good time.” I paused, not knowing what more I could say. That I was run down by my friend? That someone was stalking me?
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“Huh? Oh, just tired I guess. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
Denny stood, then came over to the adjacent chair and sat down. “Lynley, I’ve seen you tired; I’ve seen you worn out exhausted. I’d stake my detective’s reputation that there’s more going on than sleeplessness.”
Denny knew me too well. “It’s…” I began. “It’s confusing.”
“Take your time. Maybe I can help.”
I began to say no, then recanted. After all, he was a cop. Maybe he could answer a few of the hundred questions jumbled up in my mind.
“Well, it has to do with some murders, an old friendship, and the possibility I’m being trailed.”
Denny rolled his eyes. “Oh, Lynley, what have you got yourself into this time?”
* * *
Missy was back on my lap sleeping soundly by the time I’d finished telling Denny my tale. He had settled in his chair with his eyes closed. He looked like he was napping but I knew better. I knew that keen, investigative mind was taking in every detail, sifting out the extraneous, and extrapolating conclusions that I would never come to on my own.
“Have you tried calling him?” he said finally.
“Calling who? Simon?” Funny thing is, it had never occurred to me to try his cell. Assuming I got hold of him, half my questions would be answered right there.
I pulled my phone out of my volunteer apron pocket, slightly displacing Missy but not enough for her to get grumpy, and punched in Simon’s personal contact number. It rang a few times, then the message picked up—“No one is available to take your call.” I disconnected and called Cloverleaf.
“Is Tulsa available?” I asked the sanctuary receptionist.
“I’ll check. Can you hold?”
I replied in the affirmative and waited, listening to some pleasant music of an unfamiliar origin. A few moments later, Tulsa came on the line.
“Tulsa Thorpe, how can I help?”
I raised an eyebrow at Denny. “Hi, Tulsa. This is Lynley Cannon. I was at the art retreat this summer?
”
There was a short pause, then she said, “I remember you.” Though still politely agreeable, her tone had shifted ever so slightly toward the cooler side. “What can I do for you, Lynley?”
“I was wondering if you’d heard from Simon this morning. I saw him last night, but we left some unfinished business. I can’t seem to get hold of him on his cell.”
“No, he hasn’t checked in yet today. I’ll tell him you called when he does.”
It sounded like she was going for goodbye. “Wait. Tulsa, don’t hang up.”
She sighed. “Is there something else?”
“Well, yes. Maybe you can tell me what’s going on with him. He said he’d been on sabbatical since the murders.”
“Well, if that’s what he told you...”
“He said he came to Portland because you mentioned I was in some sort of trouble.”
“I can’t speak for Simon. He hasn’t been back to the sanctuary since he left in August, so if you saw him last night then you’re way ahead of me.”
“But why did you tell him I was in trouble? What sort of trouble?”
She hesitated. “Oh, well, it was just gossip. Like anywhere else, Cloverleaf has its fair share. I just thought Simon should know.”
“But there must be a reason, a basis for the rumor. Don’t you think I have a right to know?”
There was a long pause, and for a moment I wondered if we’d been cut off or she’d hung up on me. Then she said flatly, “Lynley, leave the man alone. He’s been through enough and he doesn’t need his past coming back to muck it up.”
With that, she rung off, and this time there was no doubt since she slammed the handset back into its cradle with a bang that hurt my eardrum.
“That was odd.”
I filled Denny in on what Tulsa had said on her end. He agreed it was strange, then asked, “Is there anyone else you could contact who might know where Simon is and what he’s been up to? Maybe someone not connected with Cloverleaf since that seems to be a hostile avenue.”
“No. Until this summer, I hadn’t seen him for thirty years. And he never mentioned friends or acquaintances other than co-workers at the sanctuary.”