3 Panthers Play for Keeps

by Clea Simon

  “So was it Bill who told you about the SUV or Laurel?”

  She shrugged, but her smug smile let me know I’d come close. I had to wonder why anyone would confide anything to Beauville’s biggest gossip. Then again, some people need an audience, and cards could be awfully dull.

  “I guess it just wasn’t that important to them,” she said at last. I’d thought the Haigens cared more for the big Benz than they had for Mariela. Maybe both were ultimately disposable. Maybe we all were. The thought didn’t improve my mood.

  “Yeah, well, I’m kind of in a rush.” I caught myself: I wasn’t the one who would suffer for my comments. The old witch would take it out on Growler. “I’m supposed to meet Detective Creighton,” I gave her that with a smile, “and I wouldn’t want to cheat Bitsy out of his exercise.”

  In the brief pause created by her intake of breath, I called out to the little dog. “Bitsy!” He hated the name, but he’d forgive me. And in response, old lady Horlick turned. Sure enough, she’d locked him in the basement. I heard the scramble of claws on the wood stairs and barely had time to clip the lead onto his collar as he pushed past me.

  “Took you long enough.” Rage came off him like heat.

  “I’m sorry, Growler.” I made a point of using his chosen name. “I was late, and she was…” I lacked the words.

  “I get it.” The waves of anger subsiding, he chuffed out his gruff acknowledgment. “Come on.”

  Still fighting the fog of my hangover, I let the bichon take the lead, and we made our way down to the corner with unusual speed.

  “You okay, Growler?” This couldn’t all be because of my recent interaction with Tracy Horlick. “I’ll make nice with her when we go back.”

  “Huh, she doesn’t care.” I felt him sniffing the damp earth around a birch. Felt, too, his relief as he watered it. “She laps this up.”

  Of course. I could have slapped myself: Tracy Horlick enjoyed seeing me react. It gave her something to talk about—with who? I remembered that table. Those feet.

  “Growler, who does she gossip with?” I was wondering about those hand-sewn Italian shoes. “Can you give me more?”

  “Huh.” Onto the next tree. I wasn’t sure if Growler didn’t know any more, or if the subject was simply too painful to revisit.

  “After that time? I wasn’t invited.” He’d read the question in my head, even before I’d decided how to word it. “She went for him. For the man.” I couldn’t help it. I pictured Benazi. No, it wasn’t possible.

  “Ha!” A short bark. Confirmation. “No! The other one. The one with Sal’s lady.”

  “Jim?” No, that wasn’t possible. This was getting confusing. “Sal’s lady? Who is that, Growler?” Nothing, he’d moved on. “Is Mrs. Horlick—old smoke-teeth—going back?”

  Another yap. This time, I took it for a no. “Ha! Not there. Not with that lady. She smells too good.” Of course, Tracy Horlick wouldn’t want to spend much time anyplace she couldn’t smoke. I imagined what Benazi’s woman would smell like. Something sophisticated from Paris or Milan.

  “Good!” Growler was quite vocal today. “Not like a city, walker lady. Good, like sheep.”

  Like sheep? I pictured a shearling coat. Laurel? If so, who was Sal? For a moment, I wondered if she had another man—someone Creighton didn’t know about—and my traitorous heart leapt. Growler took care of that, tugging at the lead with a look of scorn. A low growl confirmed his annoyance, and I realized I was imagining caramel-color fur and a moist nose. Spot. Was Spot’s real name—his chosen name—Sal? If so, why had he never told me?

  “He doesn’t care.” Growler had moved onto a fence post. “Never did.” I looked down at the bichon. That white fluff, the black button eyes: it was harder for him to express his dignity than it would be for the big shepherd-hound mix. Was that why Growler insisted on being properly addressed, and Spot didn’t?

  “It’s his job, silly.” Those black button eyes were looking up at me now. “Spot’s his work name.”

  I nodded. What else was the service dog keeping from me?

  “Trying to protect you, most likely.”

  “From what?” Another glance, as Growler turned around and started back to the house. “Hang on, Growler. What are you saying to me? What is Spot trying to protect me from?”

  “Dog help us.” He was muttering, a low rumbling growl too soft to be audible. “She thinks she can hear. But she doesn’t listen.”

  “Help me then, Growler.” I was walking fast to keep up with him. I couldn’t imagine he wanted to go back to Tracy Horlick. Only his annoyance with me was making those short legs move so quickly.

  “All this time and she doesn’t get it.” More grumbling, and I had to fight the urge to scoop him up in my arms and force him to talk.

  Some of that must have gotten through, because the bichon stopped in his tracks, turned and looked up at me. “Hey, walker lady. Are you deaf?” I had a brief flash of an all-white cat, and shook my head. “Then listen. Look around you. He likes toys. He collects…” I got a confused image of something bright and big. Too big for our town.

  “Spot? I mean, Sal?”

  “No!” A short bark. “Shoe!”

  “Benazi likes pricey toys, I get it.” I did, at least I thought so. “And, what? He’ll hurt anyone to keep them? What?”

  “Sheesh.” Growler had started on again, and we’d come to the edge of his walk. I could see Tracy Horlick scowling out the window, and before I could ask Growler to explain, the door opened. With another bark, Growler trotted up the walk, with me in tow. I didn’t have a chance to make up with the old lady as I’d promised I’d do before one clawlike hand took the lead from me and the little dog slipped inside. I guess I just had to accept that Growler had made his peace with the human who had collected him. Either that, or straightforward animosity was preferable to the scorn he felt for me.

  As I walked back to my car, I realized why. The other man at the table—the one Tracy Horlick had hoped to snag—must have been Richard Haigen. Laurel must have put a game together for local seniors, though the pairing of Tracy Horlick and Richard Haigen would be ludicrous to anyone who knew them. And Benazi? Well, he fit the demographic, though I didn’t think his hawk eyes would need the extra large cards the retirement community dealt out. He must have been there for Haigen, and Tracy Horlick must have been in hog heaven. Everyone in town knew the old man had a roving eye. Granted, both his latest wife and all his rumored paramours were younger—and better looking—than the old shrew who had just slammed the door in my face. But she didn’t necessarily see herself that way.

  Still, it was a reach. Not only was Haigen currently married, his taste clearly ran to a different kind of woman. “Pretty toys.” Women like Dierdre or…yes, it seemed clear now, Mariela. Plus, try as I might, I couldn’t see Tracy Horlick in any kind of romantic relationship. Birds do it, as I was becoming increasing aware in these early spring days. Bees, too, though I’d been spared their amorous buzzings. But Tracy Horlick?

  There had to be some other explanation, I told myself as I unlocked my car. “He’s no longer calling the shots.” Something was going on that led her to think she could grab onto the man. Manipulate him. His eyesight? I imagined her nicotine-stained fingers closing over his on Spot’s harness, and I shuddered. No wonder Spot—Sal, whatever—didn’t want me to get too close. Unless it wasn’t old lady Horlick…Could this have been what Laurel was hiding?

  Despite my distaste for the shrink, I’d have to pursue it. Later. Although he’d been trying not to let anything show, Creighton had not sounded happy, and I knew that his mood would not be improved by the wait. I had fifteen, maybe twenty minutes of peace left. I wasn’t going to waste them on Laurel Kroft.

  It’s not easy for me to turn off the things I hear from animals. My own thoughts, though. That is a little simpler. Driving, for me, is hypnotic. Not that
I’m ever not fully engaged, but the act relaxes me. Takes the edge off and lets my mind run free. The road was my own this early, and the light flashing through the bare trees dappled the road with shadows. There were no tourists. Wouldn’t be till May, probably, but this season had its beauty, too. Wilder and less compromising. It was almost enough to take my mind off the pretty shrink and my upcoming confrontation with Creighton. Still, my head felt heavy, and I rolled down the window for some air.

  “Flee! Flee! Flee!” Well, beauty came at a price. I was moving fast enough so that I didn’t hear what had alarmed that crow.

  “Danger!” Something on the ground: an opossum? Again, gone before I could follow it. So much for spring’s rebirth. Besides, I was coming up on the turnoff for Beauville center. Time to face the music.

  Just then my phone rang. Creighton must be getting impatient. Well, I hadn’t lingered. And I’d be there in five minutes anyway. I ignored it as it rang two more times, then reached for it. No sense in antagonizing my former beau.

  “What?” I wasn’t in the mood to be friendly. “I’m almost there.”

  “Pru?” It was Albert.

  “Sorry, Al.” I thought of that possum, and what silent cry our poor old animal-control officer would be sending off right now. “I thought you were, well, someone else. What can I do for you?”

  “Oh, uh…” My offer probably frightened him more than my bark. I smiled while he gathered his wits, fighting the temptation to ask him to put Frank on the phone. “Are you coming down here?”

  “I can.” I didn’t know how I’d feel after meeting with Creighton. But now that he mentioned it, I thought of Spot. If Laurel were still missing, I would need a place for the dog to board. My place—I didn’t need to check with Wallis to make sure—was not an option. “Do you need me to bring something by?”

  I envisioned Cheetos or maybe beer. If the former were for Frank, I might even comply.

  “Yeah, maybe.” He still sounded tentative. If it involved porn, I was not going to spare him. “Do you still have access to that dog?”

  “That dog? You mean, the one I’m training?” I remembered his earlier request. I wasn’t going to let him use Spot to track an errant raccoon or someone’s lost schnauzer. Those weren’t the instincts I needed to encourage. “Why, Albert? What do you want him for?”

  “There’s a bunch of us want to go out to the preservation land, Pru, and I thought we could use him.” I knew what he was going to say before the words came out. That didn’t make them any easier to hear. “We’re going to track that cougar out there down. It’s time we finally found that thing and killed it.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  I was seeing red. Bloody red, but there was no point in shredding Albert a new one. He might be a jerk, but he was a timid one at heart. This was someone else’s bad idea, and he was merely the messenger.

  “Are you insane?” That didn’t mean I had to like it. “Albert, tell me you’re not really going along with this.”

  “We’ve got to do something, Pru.” If you didn’t know him, he might have sounded reasonable. “It’s a—uh—a public safety issue. There’s been another incident, and once they get the taste for human blood…”

  “Right.” I shut him down. Someone saw a shadow, I was betting. Someone’s pet went missing. I did feel a twinge of guilt—I’d been the one complaining about poor Mariela. How nobody took her death seriously, and no one seemed to care. I’d been gassing on about her employers, though. I didn’t buy the idea of a cougar stalking humans, but I’d have to push a little harder to get to the bottom of this. What I needed now were the details of the meet-up.

  “At the entrance to the state road,” Albert told me, apparently convinced that I would be joining them. “Everyone’s supposed to be there by noon.”

  Whoever was behind this had some sense. If the posse would be gathering at Albert’s office, I’d have been able to drop by with Creighton in tow and put a stop to this nonsense.

  He might never use them, but I knew Albert had a folder of the latest Fish and Wildlife postings, as well as the guidelines issued by the state. Short of cuffing him about the ears, invoking some of those laws—and pointing out that the Beauville police were headquartered next door—might nip this thing in the bud, or at least dissuade some of the participants from trekking out to the woods. But meeting at the preservation land made sense. The good old boys, and I just knew they’d all be boys, would have already made the drive. They’d probably be liquored up, too, which would make getting them to give this fool’s hunt up even harder.

  I had reached police headquarters. I made a noncommittal noise to Albert, stopping just short of a promise to help, and got him to agree not to start anything without me. I turned off the phone as I pulled up to the building the cop shop shares with the town shelter. I sat there, looking at the door. It would be so tempting to blow Creighton off. This was an animal emergency, after all. Something that required my particular expertise. And something that would be better tackled now, here, while Albert—and, I hoped, Frank—were in the office, rather than off in the woods.

  Albert wasn’t a threat, but I doubted he was the ringleader behind this particular circus. Albert might not be too scrupulous or too knowledgeable about his legal duties as the animal-control officer of our fair town, but he knew enough to know that hunting an endangered animal was a federal offense. Sure, there was the chance that a stray puma this close to human habitation could be labeled a “nuisance animal,” one of those tags that drove me nutty, but hunting it with a dog would violate too many laws to name. Besides which, I’d rather have a cougar in the woods than most of the idiots Albert hung out with. The cat probably had its own good reasons to be there, and it sure was more aesthetically pleasing.

  It also, I realized with a sigh, had a better chance of surviving if I got the law on my side. And that meant keeping my appointment with Creighton. So be it. I wasn’t going to let this get personal. I wasn’t going to show anything, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to touch him. In and out, surgically, like a knife.

  Tossing back my hair with a little more vehemence than usual, I started the long walk toward the front door—and the end of my sometime-romance.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  “Pru, what do you know about cougars?”

  It wasn’t the question I expected, and for a moment I wondered what he meant. I wasn’t that much older than my blue-eyed beau. Of course, Laurel might have had a year or two on me.

  Creighton must have seen something on my face, because he clarified. “The wild cat, Pru. Mountain lions, pumas. What do you know about them?”

  Christ, not Creighton, too. “What do you want to know, Jim? Family felidae, meaning they’re cats. Latin name, puma concolor, which means they’re pretty much one color—dun or tan. They’re big, they’re carnivores. They’ve pretty much come back in the West, but the ones around here? The Eastern cougar? They were considered extinct. And, yes, there have been some sightings, but nobody seriously believes they’re back. Most of those were probably frightened hikers. City folk who saw a bobcat or—who knows?—a coyote in the wrong light. The last confirmed case, where there was a carcass, turned out to be an adventurer. DNA showed it had come all the way from South Dakota, only to be hit by an SUV in Connecticut. Which means, realistically, that we’re a lot more dangerous to them than they are to us. At least, our cars are.”

  That was more than he wanted, and I knew it. But if he was getting pressure to join Albert and his buddies on their wild-cat chase, I wanted him to know the whole story.

  “So there are cougars here?” He was looking at me funny. “In the woods, here?”

  “No, Jim.” Something was going on I didn’t understand. “There were, like, a hundred years ago. Probably our own subspecies. These days, sometimes a Western cougar might show up here. But it’s a really long way for a cat to walk on its own
.”

  “I don’t care if it’s a native or if someone flew them in from Wisconsin.” Creighton was getting heated now. “There very well could be some kind of wild animal loose out there that we know nothing about. That we—”

  “Hang on, Jim.” His mounting anger was distracting me. Something he had said…a memory…“Just—hold on.”

  “What? So you can tell me that we’re invading its space? That we should let people get killed. That we…”

  He broke off and turned away, shaking his head.

  “Jim?” I couldn’t help it. I’d never seen him so vulnerable, and I went over to him. He was staring at the window, but I doubted he was seeing anything, and the way his jaw was working, I could have sworn he was trying not to cry.

  This was wreaking havoc on my plans. Despite my best intentions, I reached for him. When he didn’t move—didn’t even acknowledge—my hand on his arm, I stepped closer and wrapped one arm around him as I looked up at the side of his face. “What is it, Jim? You can tell me.”

  He swallowed. The line of his jaw kept moving. Whatever it was, it was sticking in his craw. “Jim?” I reached up to his face, to turn him toward me.

  He jerked away and turned toward me, his eyes dry. “This is serious, Pru.”

  Whatever emotion had threatened to overcome him was gone now, replaced by cold steel.

  “I need to know the full extent of your last conversation with Laurel Kroft.” He had walked around behind his desk, but instead of sitting he leaned forward on it, the muscles in his arms standing out with the tension. “If you told her you’d meet her someplace, if you told her to go someplace, get it out now. I am not going to accept any more excuses.”

  “What? I told you. She left a message…” I stopped. What had she said? Something not very specific. “She said she had an idea about what had happened. That it had all been some kind of horrible accident. I thought…” I stopped. I wasn’t sure what I could say.