by Clea Simon
Chapter Three
“What did you expect?” The question was rhetorical, the tone biting. “Keeping company with…a dog?” The pause may have been for effect. It was also functional. Wallis, the tabby who shares my house, was bathing. And even though her thoughts came to me silently, I heard them in her voice—well, what would be her voice if her mews and chirps were translated into sardonic English.
“I don’t know, Wallis.” I looked over at her. I’d come home only a few minutes before and sat, now, in our big country kitchen, a tumbler of bourbon before me. “I don’t know.”
She looked up, whiskers on the alert. I knew why. As much as I’d wanted to ignore the subtext of her question, I couldn’t take it at face value. Not with those green eyes on me. Not with her ability to hear my thoughts—even those thoughts that I’d rather not be thinking.
The image of the woman’s face was hard to banish, and the whiskey had only muddled my initial sense of recognition. Wallis’ scorn had a bracing effect, however, and I focused on that. Death wasn’t a big deal to a cat. Not to any animal, really, except for us. But scents—clues, causes—they could matter. That’s what she was telling me, in her own way. She had a vested interest in my survival, and so did I. That was reason enough for me to focus.
First, there was the question of what Spot had been trying to tell me. Not that there was a body—that, he had shown me. But before. The scent I’d been getting from him wasn’t of decay. It wasn’t even human. It was wild. Fierce. And while the death of a human may be traumatic to a dog, I didn’t think that was what I was getting. I’d picked up fear, or at least a sense of heightened alertness. That’s what had made me so jumpy as we’d gone through the woods. A dead body doesn’t fight back.
Then there was the problem of Spot’s caretaker. Although I worked with the dog almost every day, he didn’t live with me. He lived with—was being fostered by—a newcomer to town. She’d been waiting when I brought the dog back. Not worried, exactly. She was too cool for that. But attentive, as I gave her the briefest rundown of our day. Not that strange signal—that strange scent—but the outline of what he had found. Of what we had seen. It was important for Spot that I do so. He’d had an unusual experience. If he acted out, if he had experienced more stress than I was aware of, I needed her to notice. To care for him, and to let me know.
As much as I disliked her, I figured she could handle it. Laurel Kroft—Dr. Laurel Kroft—was a therapist, a professional. Smart and city-trained, a shrink who saw the possibilities that service dogs had in our area, especially as the number of retirees began to boom. Maybe she was being generous, taking in an animal who would eventually go help someone else. I suspected more venal motives. Then again, she was also a honey blonde and had recently become chummy with a certain detective I knew.
“Jealousy is such a cruel emotion.” I looked up to meet Wallis’ eyes.
“Hey, you were the one talking about dogs just now.” I had made sure that the good doctor knew that I had already spoken with Creighton. She didn’t have to know that our interaction was barely civil. “I was only taking care of business,” I said out loud.
“That’s just…” She went back to licking. The one forepaw was going to be spotless. “Common sense,” she said, her voice full of fur. “I wasn’t talking about myself, anyway. When I’m…” Lick. “…discontent, I take action.” Another lick. “Pounce, bite.” Here she stopped to sink her teeth into a mat. “Done.”
“Good to know.” I looked at the glass briefly before emptying it. “But not exactly useful.” She knew what I was talking about. Creighton and I were good together. We had been for over a year now. But for so many reasons, I couldn’t see myself committing to more than we had. A few nights a week. Some laughs. He was law and order. I…wasn’t. Even if I could ever find a way to tell him about my special gift—that is, tell him and not have him back away before calling the funny farm—I wasn’t sure if I could ever live within his rules. Hell, I had thought he liked it like that: no strings and a chance to visit on the wild side. I should have known that he was too conventional at heart.
“You act like it’s a done deal.” Wallis again, reading my thoughts. Before I could object, however, she pushed her point. “He hasn’t said anything yet, and he still keeps calling. You have to make your move, though. While there’s still time.”
“Still time…” I thought about that. Dr. Laurel Kroft had only come to town two months ago. She can’t be more than a year or two older than I was, but she’d done well for herself. Bought one of the nicer old houses and had it fixed up before moving in. She had taken some kind of administrative job with the new “retirement community” at the edge of town, but I’d heard she was thinking of opening a private practice as well. Who had I heard it from? Creighton, of course. He’d kept a close eye on the new development, partly because of some trouble we’d had with an assisted living place a few months before. I’d thought he was interested in the licensing, looking for potential trouble spots.
That was before I met our new shrink. I’d been just leaving the town shelter, when I’d caught it—not a scent, but a signal. Every animal in the place had just gone on alert, and I’ve learned enough over the years to take that seriously. I’d stepped into the foyer, looking around for the skulking or the furtive. Instead, on the other side of the glass enclosure where the police station lets out, I’d seen shearling, and the kind of creamy wool that costs more than an entire sheep.
“Thank you so much, Jim.” The voice had been as expensive as the coat. Warm and as smoky as Scotch, it made her few extra years an advantage—the seduction of experience. “I look forward to it.”
“My pleasure.” That was what had raised the alert. Creighton, and he was definitely not using his business-as-usual voice. “I’ll give you a call.”
I’d stood in the doorway then, watching as she smiled and slowly sauntered away. Only when she’d gotten into her SUV—a Range Rover, naturally—did I turn toward my sometime-beau.
“What’s that doing here?” No, it wasn’t nice. Wasn’t smooth, either, but I’d been cleaning cages. Even when I wasn’t, my hair never swung like that.
“Afternoon, Pru.” Creighton didn’t miss a beat, and I had to wonder if he’d seen me there. “Looks like you’ve been busy.”
I am not often at a loss for words. I was then, though, and as he stepped back into his side of the building I found myself thinking.
Since then, I’d made a point of meeting the good doctor, director of therapeutic services for the LiveWell Community. I had already started working with the regional service-dog group, and I was looking for volunteers, people to foster likely animals. At the time, it had seemed a reasonable solution. Keep an eye on the problem. Get to know it. Befriend it, even. Now, as the spring thawed and Creighton’s visits became as scarce as the snow, I wondered if I should have done something different.
“Huh,” Wallis had very clear opinions. “Like you’d want to be that kind of pampered house pet.”
“No, but…” I did enjoy Creighton. Enjoyed him as long as it could be on my terms.
“Well, do something then.”
I stared into space. Considered more bourbon. “Like what?”
“Kill it.” Wallis is first and foremost a predator, small but fierce. My mind jumped back to the impressions Wallis had shared earlier: the sharp snap at the neck. The quick shake. The piercing bite. “Kill it before it grows into anything. That’s what one does.”
I couldn’t help it. I flashed back to the body. “You may be right, Wallis. You may be right.”
Chapter Four
Whether his official duties or some other cause kept him away, I didn’t know, but Creighton didn’t stay the night. He’d only shown up after I’d fallen asleep on the sofa. He’d probably tasted the bourbon on my breath; he certainly knew my body rhythms. That might have been why we didn’t talk as I led h
im upstairs, our union quick and practically soundless but no less satisfying for its economy. He slipped out sometime after, having waited till I drifted off in the wake of pleasure. I knew him well enough by then to suspect that he’d told himself his visit was medicinal, a means of comforting me after a rough day. I also knew him well enough to wonder if it meant good-bye.
The latter thought haunted me more than I’d have liked, and once the sky started to gray I became restless, though the image of that body kept creeping into my mind as well. In part, I blamed Wallis. She had joined me in the bed once Jim had left—a holdover from the coldest part of the year—and I knew the image fascinated her. The scalp half off, leaving the flesh raw underneath. That one eye.
“You’ve got a bloody mind.” I was barely up to making coffee when she sauntered into the kitchen.
“And you’re suddenly squeamish?” Tail coiled neatly around her feet, she sat waiting. I ignored her long enough to get the coffee started, before cracking open the four eggs we’d share between us. “Besides,” she licked her chops as I sliced a healthy pat off the butter. That had been intended for the pan, but I put it on a saucer for her. “You need something to occupy your mind.”
“I have a job.” While the second pat melted, I salted the eggs. Wallis had trained me to hold off on the pepper until I had divvied up the portions, but the Tabasco was already on the table. “Several.”
“Huh.” She’d made quick work of the butter and looked up, appetite whetted for more. “Dog walking—and more dog walking.”
“It isn’t…” Why did I bother? Yes, my newest gig had me spending more time with canines than the motley assortment of animals I might usually help in my role as unofficial animal behaviorist of Beauville. It was also potentially steady work, and it got my main sponsor—Doc Sharpe, the local vet—off my back. And since the idea of writing a thesis had about as much appeal as scabies, I didn’t seem any nearer to getting full accreditation, so this would have to do. I reached for her plate, sliding half the scramble onto it. “Hey, it keeps us fed. And it kept the heat on this winter.”
“Barely.” Despite her tone, I picked up the purr as she lapped up the eggs. My own I blasted with hot sauce, just because I could. Besides, I needed to wake up. I was already running late for my appointment with Growler, a butch little bichon I walked on weekdays. He didn’t require much exercise, but he could be temperamental.
“At least that puffball has sense. Not that you bother to ask for his help.”
I nearly coughed out my coffee. “Can you not do that?”
“Huh.” She hadn’t even looked up.
“Besides, what do I have to ask him about?” Growler was a smart little dog, a lot sharper and more mature than his harridan of an owner gave him credit for. He could be grudging with his insights, however, even with me—his one human ally. And particularly because of his sexual orientation, I couldn’t see asking him for romantic advice.
“Jesus.” Wallis looked up, licking her chops. She’d been picking up more human expressions from me, and the effect was disconcerting. “What is with you today, Pru? I’m not talking about Creighton. I’m talking about that body. You know you’re going to get involved.”
I didn’t even answer, just pushed the rest of my uneaten eggs onto her plate. She sniffed at the Tabasco, but withheld comment as she carefully licked around it, and I went off to get dressed and start my day.
Twenty minutes later, I was trying not to inhale. The woman in front of me smelled of stale smoke on the best of days. Today, she seemed intent on breaking some kind of EPA record as she leaned in, malice in her eyes.
“Makes you wonder what the connection is, doesn’t it?” It wasn’t a question, not really. She squinted as she waited for my reaction, and I realized that unless I gave her one, I’d never get away. So I did.
“I don’t think there is one, Mrs. Horlick.” I fought off the urge to blink as she exhaled in my face. “I took Spot out for some exercise after an intensive afternoon of training. It was pure coincidence that he is being fostered by Dr. Kroft.”
“Fostered, huh? And I thought she spent all her time with those rich people, looking out for what she can get.” For a moment, she sounded like Wallis. Only Wallis would never let her neat tiger stripes become as shabby as old lady Horlick’s housecoat. “Trying to make them as crazy as she is.”
That was it. “Is Bitsy not up for his walk today?” I used Growler’s human name, the belittling moniker his woman had bestowed on him, and kept my voice level. The first rule in training is not to reward bad behavior with a reaction. “Because without twenty-four-hour notice, I will still be charging you for the day.”
“No, no. Hold your horses.” She turned back into her dark hallway, leaving the door open for me to follow. I stepped up into the doorway, where I could reach the lead that hung on the coat rack, and waited. I value my lungs. “Come on, Bitsy.”
I heard the scrabble of claws on a hard surface and one excited bark as she opened the door to the basement. The white dog bounded out to greet me, tiny tail wagging in spite of himself. I clipped on the lead and made eye contact with those black button eyes. One nod and we were in agreement.
“Sorry ’bout that.” I let the little dog set the pace as we walked back to the sidewalk. Neither of us could get away quickly enough, but his legs had their limits.
“It’s nothing,” I said under my breath. I could feel Tracy Horlick’s eyes on me.
“She’s been bad lately.” We turned onto the sidewalk. “Worse, ever since—”
“Don’t you let him run all the way down the block.” Tracy Horlick was yelling and waving her cigarette for emphasis. “I don’t want him getting hurt.”
“Not to worry.” I forced a smile as I waved back. “I won’t let him overexert.”
“Huh.” The white dog slowed his pace. He was getting older; it was true. But I didn’t have the heart to hold him back on his one real outing of the day. “Old bitch.”
I waited. Growler—his chosen name fit him a lot better than the cutesy one Tracy Horlick had given him—would have his say on his own time.
“Hmmm…Gary’s been out.” The white dog stopped to sniff at a fence post. “Sean, too.” I was curious as to what the bichon had been about to say about his person, but I didn’t feel I could interrupt. When I wasn’t around, she let him use the tiny, fenced backyard as a lavatory, which meant that our rounds together did not only constitute his only real exercise, they also had to fulfill all his social needs as well. As gruff as he was with me, I knew the little fellow liked me. Didn’t matter. I wasn’t a fellow dog.
“The old kidney trouble…” I tagged behind him as he moved onto a tree and then a hydrant. It seemed rude to interrupt. Instead, I let my mind wander. But as I found myself picturing my hunky local detective with that honey-blonde head on his shoulder, I caught myself. Better to wonder about the dead body—and its effect on my canine charge.
“So you want a consult, or what?” I looked down to see those button eyes staring up at me. I didn’t know how long Growler had been trying to get my attention, but there was no use denying my interest.
“Yes, I do. About—” I stopped myself. The body. Spot. Laurel Kroft. Whatever was going on with Tracy Horlick. It all was of interest. “About anything.”
He cocked his head, and I tried not to smile. Growler knows we humans think he’s adorable. He hates that about us. I didn’t know how successful I was, but I figured I’d get credit for trying.
“That big guy will be okay.” I was right. “He’s got the imagination of a cat, but he’s solid. I can smell it on you. He’ll file all that information and someday he’ll get to use it.”
I bit back my own response to that. Spot would have other opportunities with bodies? Should I be looking into corpse-retrieval programs?
“Don’t need to. All the same skills.” The response came even t
hough I hadn’t voiced the question aloud. I had to remember how transparent I was.
“You said it.” The bichon had moved on, and I was following him as he trotted, more slowly now, down the sidewalk. The movement didn’t seem to impair his reception in any way. “What got him was the panic. The—how would you say it?—the desperation.”
I didn’t want to think of that body as anything but a puzzle, but Growler’s observation made me. Panic. Desperation. I sure didn’t want to see that still, torn flesh as a person. Now it hit me, hard. That poor woman.
“No!” Growler’s response was as loud in my head as a bark. The lead had gone tight, and I realized that Growler had stopped in his tracks. I’d stepped past him. “Not her,” he said again, looking up at me with obvious frustration.
“Sorry.” I halted. Desperation…that could cover a lot of things. A lot of people. “You don’t mean me, do you?” I didn’t like to think of myself that way. Certainly not about men, about Creighton.
Growler seemed to consider his point made. “Clueless,” he muttered, doggie style, but he started walking again.
“Okay, so she was scared. I get that.” I didn’t know if I had that right. Growler wasn’t helping. A sniff, almost a growl, was all he gave me, so I kept talking. “Do you have any ideas about that body?”
“She’s pissed off because she lost him.” I started to object, when Growler barked. One short, sharp yelp. “Not you, walker lady. Focus!”
“Sorry.” So this was about Tracy Horlick. “Whom did she lose?”
“Whom, ha!” Another little bark. I thought perhaps Growler was getting tired but squelched the thought as quickly as it appeared. The bichon did not like being patronized. “Next block.” He’d heard me anyway. I silently voiced an apology. “Old sharpie.”
“Excuse me?” I would imagine Growler would have appreciated company. But maybe he was more competitive than I’d thought. “A shar-pei?