by Clea Simon
“Rival.” Wallis’ word stuck with me. If I was looking for a motive for the young woman’s death, I could see Dierdre Haigen having one. I didn’t doubt that her husband could be cruel. He may have cheated on her. He seemed the type. But he was also rapidly growing more dependent and, if anything would give her the upper hand, his blindness would. Why would she kill a rival when in a few months, the younger woman’s youth and beauty would be worth a lot less than her committed caring? When, soon, he would be essentially in her control?
Unless, of course, she didn’t want to become her husband’s caretaker. Maybe she and Raul…No, none of it added up to a mauled body in the woods.
“Are you going to eat those?” Wallis was staring at me, but her thoughts were on my breakfast.
“Yes, I am.” Last night’s steak had been interrupted, just as my exploration of the Haigen grounds had been. Laurel Kroft had been out there, though, and she knew more than she’d said. Creighton had seen it, too. He’d be questioning her, I had no doubt. I didn’t want to think about what means he might resort to to get the truth out of her. Better to think of my own methods.
Pouring my coffee into a travel mug, I scraped the last of my eggs onto Wallis’ dish. Thoughts of Laurel with Creighton had soured my stomach, and Wallis likes her food. It’s the only appetite she has left to indulge. I don’t think that was why she was purring, though, as I got ready to start my day.
First, there was Growler. In the year since I’d been walking him, his person—if old lady Horlick counted as human—had started using me more often. That wasn’t out of concern for the bichon’s health, I was pretty sure. More likely, she was hoping to put me on a leash. Gossip was like oxygen to her. Or, more likely, nicotine. And while I never gave her anything intentionally, the fact that I had been in the middle of some small-town scrimmages made her want to hang onto me. At least, that’s what I figured her interest was. Until Growler had made that comment about the old bag losing her man, I’d not given any thought to any other possible desires.
“Hey, Growler.” I broached the subject once I had freed my charge from his noxious human. “What’s the story with old smoke-teeth?” I used the name he’d given her with a certain relish. After all, she’d been the one to saddle him with the cutsey-poo Bitsy.
“The story?” He looked up at me, a bit peeved. I should have waited. He’d just gotten to the birch on the corner, and the thaw had released a winter’s worth of scents.
“Sorry.” I didn’t think he heard that often enough. “I was wondering about what you’d said, that she’d ‘lost him.’” I paused, unable to tell if he was ignoring me or if I wasn’t getting through. “Did she have a relationship with someone? A man?”
A short bark let me know he’d heard. And that he was amused. “If you can call it that!” For a tiny, neutered animal, Growler was very conscious of his masculinity. “Yes. They sit together.”
I pondered that as we walked on. If we think the ways of our domestic animals are strange, imagine how they feel about us. Sitting could mean almost anything. Did they dine together? Did she babysit some old codger, maybe someone who didn’t have the wherewithal to escape her tar-stained clutches?
“Yes, that’s it. They hold things.” Of course, Growler had been monitoring my thoughts. He’d also stopped walking and was staring up at me. And so I tried to blank out my mind and simply accept what he wanted to show me. I looked into his black button eyes and got an image of…
Feet. Well, yes, to Growler, most human activity was too high up to observe in detail. But another sharp bark brought me out of myself, and I realized I was getting more. There were feet, four pairs of them. But they weren’t holding weight; the people were seated. Close together, at a small table.
“They play cards together?” It was my tone. It was all wrong. Scornful and a little amused. I knew it as soon as the words were out of my mouth, but by then it was too late. Growler was walking again, tugging on the leash as he made the rest of his rounds. Even as I apologized, he pulled me forward, exerting just enough pressure to remind me that I was, after all, the servant here, the one hired to do his bidding. By the time he squatted to crap in the middle of the sidewalk, I was as repentant as I’d ever been. I cleaned up his mess without a word of reproach, and let him set the pace the rest of the way back.
Before we turned up the Horlick walk, however, I had to try again.
“Growler, I’m sorry. You know I am.” An appeal to his pride couldn’t hurt, I figured. Acknowledging that he could read me better than I could him was the kind of admission he’d usually get a kick out of. “I simply don’t understand.”
He trotted ahead of me, looking for all the world like a happy pet. When the door opened ahead of us, I realized what he already knew: Tracy Horlick had been peeking out her window. Whether she was simply waiting for our return or had been hoping to catch me in some bizarre behavior was immaterial. She was sharp enough to recognize that I didn’t quite fit into our small town. I didn’t need her guessing at anything else.
“It’s about time.” She stood in the door, ignoring the lead I held out to her. “I thought, maybe, since you’ve been spending so much time alone, you’d tried to steal my dog.”
I’m taller than she is, but she was in the doorway, while I was standing two steps down. It was a power play, expressing dominance. I smiled back up at her, refusing to answer even as she let out a cloud of smoke and took Growler’s lead. I forced myself not to blink as it hit me full-on and Growler, still silent, walked past her into the house. It was a petty victory, and she’d probably make me pay for it later. I didn’t care. I have my limits.
“I hear we’re both spending some more time on our own.” I couldn’t resist.
She blinked and drew back. I’d scored.
“I don’t know where you get your information.” Her eyes, already heavy lidded, narrowed like a snake’s, and she hissed. “Or maybe I do, considering…”
I held my smile and waited.
“You are a cold one.” She stepped back, unwilling to give me more. It didn’t matter. Something about her response, watching me. Studying my face. She had clued me in: The feet? They were seated around a card table. The “he” who had gone missing? Probably just a bridge partner. Knowing what I did of the old lady, I doubted there was anything more tender going on. Maybe they had signals arranged. I could easily see her cheating. That had to be it, though. Some old man had changed his seat, sick of her domineering ways or the stale scent of unfiltered Marlboros.
I could take some satisfaction in knowing that I’d gotten to her, but that was it. I was musing on her final comment as the door closed, and had turned to walk away when I heard a sharp yelp.
That shook me. Tracy Horlick was a horror. She certainly wasn’t above taking out her frustrations on her dog, and if I’d made her mood worse, I was just as responsible for his pain.
“No! No! No!” I almost stormed the door, some latent instinct fighting with my common sense. Anything I did now to intervene would only make things worse for the little guy. “Stupid lady!”
I paused, frozen in place. Yes, Growler was barking, but he wasn’t addressing Tracy Horlick. He was talking to me, the one who could understand him, only his voice—as well as those clipped cries—were fading. I heard the old lady muttering to herself, and could easily imagine the scene inside as she dragged him by his lead down the hall.
“Growler?” I put everything I had into the question, leaning my head against Tracy Horlick’s front door. If anyone passed by, they’d have something to talk about. I didn’t care. “What is it? Are you okay?”
“Stupid lady, getting her angry.” The answer came with the scrabble of claws as an inside door closed. “Look at the shoes, walker lady! The shoes! Shoes! Shoes.”
Chapter Twenty-two
The shoes? God, I was dense. Growler would know that I lacked his sensitive nose. Tha
t any scents that he’d tried to convey with that one image would be lost on me. Still, there was something that he thought I would see—that I could have seen, if I’d only had half my wits about me.
I’d driven around the corner and parked. Sitting there, I tried to reconstruct the image the bichon had presented. Yes, I’d seen Tracy Horlick’s shoes—faded aerobics shoes, the kind that allowed plenty of room for her bunions. I’d never seen her in anything other than scuffed-up slippers, but something about those feet was familiar. Maybe I wasn’t as hopeless as I’d thought. She was partnered with someone similar: tan walking shoes, the orthopedic kind. The third belonged to a man, a big man and one who still had it together enough to go outside. Topsiders, a bit worn, but paired with socks, I was glad to see. The fourth pair had been clad in leather. Old leather, to be sure, but surprisingly nice, now that I thought of it. Soft-looking, and evenly worn, as if they’d been crafted particularly for this wearer.
I saw tassels, the kind of detail an Italian shoemaker might…
No, I blinked to clear my mind. Clearly I was conflating memories. Putting my own thoughts on the picture Growler had given me. My imagination was getting away with me, much like that fifth pair that I now saw, walking up behind the old man. Those weren’t old lady shoes. Nor did they belong to a nurse or a servant. Unable to stop myself from watching the movie playing out in my head, I saw the glow of buffed leather. The pointed toe of a boot and, when they turned, a stylish heel. Not too high for Beauville. Outdoorsy, though still sexy. The kind of heel that elongated legs that were already long and lean. The kind that went with a four hundred-dollar pair of boots. Provided, of course, you were one of the better paid professionals in the area. Though what Laurel Kroft had to do with Gregor Benazi or Tracy Horlick, outside of the fevered imaginings of my sleep-deprived mind, was totally beyond me.
Chapter Twenty-three
That was it. I needed to sit down with Laurel Kroft and find out what the hell was going on. She could dally with Creighton. He was fair game. She could even fool around with Benazi, if she wanted. It would be her funeral. Or not. In reality, I found myself thinking as I drove across town, the sly old coot was much too suave to do violence to a woman he had a personal relationship with. Business, well, that was a different matter.
And it hit me, with a force that made me pull over to the side of the road. Maybe she had been in that scene on business. A quartet of oldsters, playing bridge—or poker—around a card table. That scene could have taken place at the retirement community where Laurel consulted. Hey, for all I knew, her high-priced services involved monitoring their card games. That would also explain some of Tracy Horlick’s latest gossip. Maybe Creighton had visited the good shrink while she was making her rounds. Nothing untoward needed to have happened. Horlick had a nose as keen as Spot’s for that kind of thing. And Benazi? I didn’t see him as a resident, not even if he did fit the demographic. Visiting a friend…or a client. Yeah, that was possible, too.
Was that what he’d been trying to talk to me about? Was he warning me about Laurel Kroft?
Pulling back onto the road with an urgency that left rubber, I headed into town. Laurel Kroft was going to answer some questions. And if she wasn’t willing, her dog would. But first, I needed some background. Doc Sharpe had originally referred me to her. At the time, I’d been grateful enough not to ask any questions. Part of my charge was to find a suitable foster for Spot, the first dog in my care. The fact that she was a single woman, with the means to feed and house an animal and without any kids to grow overly attached to the temporary pet made her seem perfect. Talk about gift horses.
That didn’t mean I couldn’t prime the pump. As I drove, I called. The call went straight to voice mail.
“Laurel? Pru Marlowe here.” I paused. I hadn’t totally thought this out. “I wanted to talk with you today before I take Spot out. I’m wondering if he may have some issues interacting with other animals, and if that’s something we need to work on.” It was a reach, but if I wanted to link Laurel with Tracy Horlick—and maybe Gregor Benazi, too—I would use what Growler had showed me. I hadn’t seen Spot in the bichon’s vision, but I could fake that. I could ask what other animals she’d come in contact with. Maybe even facilitate a meeting, see what came of it.
My mind was wandering over the possibilities as I drove. Yesterday, I’d acted hastily. I should’ve taken Spot over to the Haigens’ house. Could I do that today without arousing suspicion? Was there any other way to get more info about the dead girl?
Another call. Another direct to voice mail beep. “Hey, Laurel. Pru again.” It hit me as I spoke. “Do you know if there’s going to be a funeral or any kind of memorial for Mariela? I might want to take Spot to it, if so. Animals can really benefit from closure.” I managed the shrink word without choking. Jargon aside, I was telling the truth, although I doubted that any service devised by a human would do the trick. Besides, I’d just about reached County by then.
Pammy wasn’t who I wanted to see. But like some ponytailed Cerberus, she sat at the front desk of the animal hospital, popping her gum with a ferocity no guard dog could emulate. I didn’t think it was stupidity that made her gaze so blank, though. No, as she looked up at me, slowly blinking, I felt something else going on behind those pink-shadowed lids.
“Pammy.” I nodded. That was as much acknowledgment as I could muster. The waiting area was full, and to my ears the usual animal cacophony had an added dimension, as hurt and frightened animals called out for help or for their people. “Doc Sharpe in?”
Another pop, as she took a sudden interest in a stray lock of hair. I’d been through this with her before. The silent treatment, a la Pammy. Usually, it was because I worked directly with Doc Sharpe if not quite as a behaviorist, then at least as an actual vet assistant, rather than a part-time receptionist. Last time, it had been worse. I’d not only refused to help her with the rudimentary crowd control, I’d spoken roughly to some young hunk. He might have been a football player, but he had no understanding of the terrier mix he’d adopted, and I’d needed to break through his jockish preconceptions.
“If this is about Igor, you’ve got to get over it.” He was big, but I’m considerably tougher. I had him near tears by the time he left. I’d probably saved his dog’s life, though, so all in all, it had seemed a good tradeoff to me. Not to Pammy, obviously. “Think of it this way. I was the bitch, so you got to be nice girl.”
That registered. I could tell because she closed her mouth. When she looked up, there was something like recognition in her wide blue eyes. “His name’s Ivan,” she said. “And he does think you’re a, you know…the B word.”
“Good for Ivan.” If this was her victory, she could have it. “Doc Sharpe?”
“In the back.” With a flourish, she pressed the buzzer releasing the door. The gesture showed off her newly lacquered nails and the kind of ring that probably counted as an all-access pass. I decided to ignore it, but as I walked past, she waved it in the air.
“You catch more flies with sugar, you know.” I smiled, tight-lipped, to keep from responding. If I wanted flies, I’d trade Wallis in for a toad.
“Pru! Good to see you.” Doc Sharpe stepped into the hallway, emerging from one of the examining rooms. “I hear you’ve had a little excitement.”
This time the smile was real. Doc Sharpe might sound like a refugee from another century, but his heart was in the right place. “You could say that,” I said. “Spot came through like a trooper, though.”
“Good.” He nodded, satisfied. “I’ve always known you’ve had an affinity for certain animals, Pru. And, given your predilection for fieldwork, as opposed to, say, an academic discipline, I believe the service-dog program is proving to be the right track for you.”
As I said, he talks like that. He had also nudged me into the training program, and as clearly as a Labrador pup was begging for a reward. “It is. Thanks again,
Doc.” I gave it to him. “It was a great idea.”
His smile couldn’t have been more doglike, and I wouldn’t have a better opportunity. “Speaking of which, Doc, I was wondering if we could talk a bit about Laurel Kroft?”
“Oh?” I’d followed him down the hallway. He’d just unlocked the large closet that serves as the hospital’s drug dispensary, and looked back at me, a note of caution on his face.
“Sorry.” I stepped back. He trusted me with the drugs, I knew that. It was training. Well, training and a recent scare we’d had in town with prescription abuse. I leaned back on the door frame, arms crossed, as he opened a refrigerator and counted out some vials. “Busy?”
He made a noncommittal noise, and started counting again. When he was done, he looked up. “Must be the change in seasons. I’m seeing a lot of stressed animals. I don’t like to rely solely on psychopharmaceuticals, even when indicated, but sometimes…”
I nodded, waiting while he closed the fridge and placed the vials on a small tray. Medicating animals is as much an art as a science.
“I’ve been seeing it, too.” This was the line I’d taken with Laurel. “In fact, I’m wondering about some interactions that Laurel may have brought Spot into. That’s why I wanted to talk with you.”
His white eyebrows went up. “You don’t think…the cougar?”
For a moment, I didn’t understand. I had a few years on Creighton. Laurel might have had a few more. But, no, he meant the cat. “I don’t think she exposed the animal to danger.” I wanted to interrogate her, not get her arrested on animal cruelty charges. “I do have some questions, though.”