Fear on Four Paws

by Clea Simon

  Chapter Six

  If I were a dog, I’d have smelled something off. If I were a cat, I might have been more attuned to the posture of the clerk and the two deputies in Beauville’s sole police station when I walked in. Maybe it was the old memories. In my teens, I’d been dragged in here more than once. Not for anything too serious—joy riding in someone’s “borrowed” car or smoking a joint behind the high school. That was all they’d caught me at, anyway. And since I’d been a minor, the cops back then had been willing to release me to my mother, who would come in with a face like thunder to take me home.

  That’s the best reason I can think of for why I didn’t question the downcast eyes and averted faces of Chuck and Harry, Creighton’s two deputies, or the flat affect with which Kayla sent me back to his office. We’d gotten past the smirks and jokes by then. I knew Chuck Carroll from high school, and even Harry Staines—older than us both by a year or five—had stopped grinning like a hyena when I came by for Jim.

  As soon as Kayla buzzed me in, however, I felt the hair on the back of my neck start to rise. Maybe it was the nod, in place of a greeting, or that my own friendly “hey” was, by default, addressed to her neat French braids. But while I walked down the corridor to Creighton’s office, I found myself once again thinking of my youthful scrapes—and the icy terms in which my mother would evoke my absent dad on the ride home.

  I should have known another factor was at play. Growler would have, for sure. Pitiful human that I am, I had to wait until Creighton glanced up from the paper he held before him to see that something was indeed very wrong. I couldn’t read whatever it was—he knows me well enough so that he turned the page over as I took the room’s one spare chair. That was par for the course with Jim. No, it was from the flat, dead expression in his cool blue eyes that I could surmise that whatever it was, he thought I might be involved.

  “Good morning to you too, Jim.” I worked to keep my voice level. Like any sensible animal, I wasn’t going to let the stone-faced man before me see that I was rattled.

  “Sit.” I did. He knew how to use the command voice as well as I did. “Tell me again about yesterday.”

  I opened my mouth, but the smart-aleck comeback stopped in my throat. The man sitting on the other side of the metal desk was not my lover at this moment. Not the wry, funny man I’d grown quite fond of bedding. This was a cop, plain and simple. I knew what he was asking about, to some extent, and so I answered as truthfully as I could.

  “I was in the office—Albert’s office—when I got a call about a fishing license. I forget who called. Some real—” I caught myself—“tool,” I completed the thought. “Walz or Walls or something like that. One of those summer people who think we exist for their pleasure.”

  Creighton’s brow furrowed in impatience.

  “Anyway, I wrote it down and I can find it for you. I started giving him the spiel about applying online, but he stopped me to say that he’d already filed out the forms and sent everything into Albert. He wanted to know where his license was, and he wanted it now. So, yeah, I started rifling through the mess on Albert’s desk, because, well, I am covering for him. I didn’t find the application, but I did uncover a bunch of other stuff, including our state registration forms and the authorization for my latest invoices. It was a nice day, and so I figured he’d be out at that camp where he and Paul and Ronnie hang out. I mean, it’s on state land but it’s kind of an open secret.”

  I paused, and Creighton nodded. “Anyway, when I got out there, I found Albert—and that bear. I called Greg, and you know the rest.” I stopped to take in the man across from me. “I never did get back to Walls, or whatever his name is.

  “Why?” I figured I deserved some kind of explanation. I didn’t think it was about the bear.

  “You arrived when?” I didn’t think he would answer with another query.

  “Around three, I think.” I stopped to calibrate. “Yeah, that’s about right. Greg was there within the hour.”

  “And during that hour?” His voice had a chill I didn’t recognize.

  “I sat in my car and read.” My curiosity was really piqued now, but so was my sense of danger. I eyed the report to see if I could make out anything, even facedown. Creighton’s hand moved over it protectively. “If Albert says anything different, he’s lying. He was dead asleep. And, yes, before you say it, I could have woken him while I waited. I didn’t want his company, though. I wasn’t going to try to free that bear alone—I’m not a fool—but if he’d started to come to, I’d have roused Albert and gotten him into my car. I pulled up close to him, just in case.”

  He nodded, and I gathered that my story fit with the facts as he’d seen them. I didn’t add that I was more concerned for the ferret who was Albert’s constant companion than the portly animal control officer.

  “You didn’t go into the shed—their ‘camp’?”

  I recoiled at the thought. “No! I don’t even want to guess…” I stopped. “Wait, I do. A still? Drugs?” Albert might be a town officer, but I wouldn’t put it past him. And some of his friends…

  Creighton only stared.

  “No, Jim,” I repeated, letting my own query slide. I searched my memory for what he could be getting at. “It was locked, I think. I must have seen the padlock on the door, because when Albert told me he lost his keys, I would’ve told him to go look in there, otherwise. And, no, before you ask, I didn’t see Albert’s keys either. You think I would’ve driven him back to town if I didn’t have to?”

  “I don’t know, Pru. That’s what I’m trying to figure out here.” A note of sadness had crept into his voice, and I leaned forward. I’m not the affectionate sort. Some would say I’m rather like a cat in that way. But there was something in his falling tone, something around his eyes, that almost made me want to reach out to him, even as the hackles along the back of my neck rose in alarm.

  “Jim?” I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. “What happened, Jim? What did you find?”

  “Pru, you know I can’t…” He looked down at the paper beneath his hand, and I knew then it was bad. “It’s police business.”

  “If it involves you, then it involves me.” I kept my voice low. The man had been pushing for more of a connection, but as I spoke, I also knew it was the truth. “And it sounds like I’m in there, too.”

  A sigh released the last of the stiffness in his posture, leaving my boy scout sweetheart visibly deflated.

  “We found a body, Pru.” He met my gaze then, his eyes filled with pain. “Someone died out there, locked inside the shed.”

  Chapter Seven

  The rest was pretty easy to piece together. The trapping of the bear was illegal. Albert was playing dumb—not that much of a stretch, for him—and still claimed not to have found his keys. But a search of the shed was an obvious first step in the hunt for whatever drugs or apparatus had been used to subdue the beautiful wild beast. And when Creighton cut the lock he’d found more than he’d bargained for. That was why he hadn’t come by last night—this last was confirmed by a tip of his buzz cut as I figured it out aloud.

  “How’d he die?” Creighton’s eyebrows shot up at my words. If he thought I’d be squeamish, he should know me better by now. “I mean, if you wanted me to know who it was, you’d have told me, right?”

  “Pru, really…”

  “A gunshot would’ve woken Albert.” I paused, considering the amount of drink that had probably been consumed. “Probably. Stabbing? A fight?”

  “Pru—” A little louder.

  “Do you think I’m too girly to take it?” I’d seen the violence one human could inflict on another. “Do you think I’m one of those city people who see Beauville as some kind of paradise?” Despite his partial thaw, this was too far.

  “I think you’re a civilian. No,” he corrected himself, “I think you’re a possible person of interest in a suspicious death. So, no, I’m
not going to share information with you.”

  I couldn’t help it. A smile tweaked the corner of my mouth. He must have seen the twitch of my lips, because he frowned. “Not more than I have, anyway. Pru, this isn’t a local matter anymore. I’ve got to get the staties involved, but I wanted to be the one to ask you those questions. I really hope that will be all that’s necessary.”

  The rest of what he’d said—“suspicious death,” and, more to the point for me, “person of interest”—began to kick in. I opted for a clinical approach, so cool, Wallis would be proud. If I was being looked at, it definitely wasn’t a gun death. I don’t own a gun. I do, however, own a knife—a small, sharp blade that accompanies me everywhere. “A stabbing?”

  His stare was as cold as my reasoning, but his silence answered me. He hadn’t asked for my knife. “I get it.” I did. He was protecting me, as much as he could. He was gallant in that way. I stood, and lingered for a moment. “You know, if you need to unwind...”

  “Pru, please.” He stood too—to make sure I was leaving. “We’ll be in touch.”

  We’ll be in touch. I pondered those words as I walked back down the corridor. That was a new one, and I didn’t think it was simply the involvement of the state police that had my golden boy holding me at arm’s length. Yes, a man had died, and Creighton was trying to shield me. But those weren’t words of comfort, by any stretch.

  Maybe they meant nothing, but my instincts with men had been honed by considerable experience. Wallis would have a field day with it, I knew, as soon as I got home. She’d pounce on my mood like an errant rodent, not only scoffing but stressing that with a simple dismissal my boy scout beau he’d actually freed us. We could move back the city now, she’d say, wrapping herself around my ankles as if to replace his caresses with her own. She might have a point. I could get a good price for the old house now, while the summer people were here and shopping. So why didn’t I? Maybe I was getting old. Or maybe I just didn’t like the idea of giving up my territory to new money. Having my house taken over by the kind of folks who automatically assumed any native was a country bumpkin lacking in the smarts to make it anyplace else.

  Speaking of such, I shouldn’t have been surprised to see Albert waiting by Kayla’s desk. It was early for Albert and I doubted he’d stopped drinking once I’d dropped him off yesterday. Without a ride, he’d likely bunked down in the office, with poor Frank in tow. He certainly stank as if he hadn’t showered, and I didn’t think the ferret was to blame. Chuck had made himself scarce—or, okay, maybe he was out on a call—but poor Kayla was stuck, and I saw her wince as the slovenly man leaned forward and breathed on her.

  Albert was in no shape to be out, but Creighton must have put the fear in him. Because after Kayla sent him back to the benches, he simply stood there, shifting from foot to foot, as wide-eyed with terror as an oversized hamster in a cat shelter.

  “Hey, Albert.” I nodded and made to pass.

  “Pru, wait.” He reached out to me, but one glare and his hand dropped back by his side. “Can you—”

  I was already shaking my head. As much as I’d tried to brush off the reality, a man had died, and Albert had been at the scene. I wasn’t going to speak up for him to Creighton. Jim would be as fair to Albert as he deserved, and I had no pull if the state police were getting involved. Nor was I going to give the bearded hulk before me a heads-up about what the cops wanted to know. I might not like being blindsided by Creighton’s line of inquiry, but I respected his technique. A man had died, and he was going to get to the bottom of it.

  “It’s Frank.” Albert cut off my wordless rejection. “I’m worried.”

  “Is he all right?” I kicked myself. Creighton had his responsibilities, but I had mine too. Albert and his pet had been out in the woods for an extended period, and I knew the little mustelid had been frightened. With everything else going on, I hadn’t pursued the matter further.

  “What? Yeah, yeah. He’s fine.” Relieved that my instincts weren’t entirely shot, I turned to leave. “But Pru, if I—you know—if they lock me away, will you look after him?”

  I paused to size him up. Considering his bulk, that took a moment. “Albert, what did you do?”

  “Nothing much,” he said, with a shrug that bounced the belly beneath his beard. “Only, you know, sometimes things happen.”

  “Things happen?” I knew Albert liked to drink. He’d never been violent, though—at least not with me. Then again, he was afraid of me. Of most women, I believe, but of me, for sure. And then I remembered—he’d blamed Paul for making off with his keys.

  “Albert, what were you and Paul doing out there anyway?” A horrible idea began taking shape in my mind. I knew what Lanouette was capable of—and framing a drinking buddy was the least of it. “Besides drinking and trapping some innocent animal?”

  “Nothing.” He scuffed his sneaker on the ground like a little boy. “It’s just, you know, Paul doesn’t have a job. And I do.”

  “Uh huh,” I said aloud, as my dread grew.

  “He thinks, you know, that he’s smarter than me.” Another scuff, even as he peeked up to see if I was listening. “Like he can boss me around.”

  “Albert, did you—?” I stopped myself. I didn’t want to hear another lie, and I had something I needed to say. “Look, Albert, I know you’re a Beauville official. I know you’re smart.” That one hurt, but I needed him to listen. “But you don’t have to prove that to anyone. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone. So if Detective Creighton or any other officer asks you anything, you tell him—you tell any of them—that you want a lawyer.”

  “A lawyer?” If he wasn’t scared before, he was now. He stared up at me, wide-eyed with terror. But before I could say any more, Kayla interrupted.

  “Albert? Detective Creighton is waiting for you.”

  “I’ll look after Frank,” I promised, as the clerk led the speechless brute away.

  I wasn’t being paid to take care of Albert. That didn’t stop me from worrying about him as I crossed the foyer to the office he had just vacated. I didn’t think he’d killed anyone. Then again, anything was possible—and if the staties were involved, I couldn’t be sure that Albert would get a fair shake. To me, he might be a big, dumb lout. To them, he might be a bird in the hand. A fat, hairy bird that didn’t have the sense to protect itself.

  I couldn’t help but worry over this as I crossed over to the lout’s office and opened the door. The rustle of paper alerted me to the desk’s other regular occupant, who had apparently just dived for cover.

  “It’s me, Frank.” I went to refill my travel mug, then thought better of it. I had no idea what Albert brewed in that pot, but it wasn’t coffee by any of my definitions. “You okay?”

  “Cat, dog…Albert?” A triangular head popped up from the open desk drawer, the whiskered snout busy cataloguing all the scents I had brought in with me.

  “Yeah, I saw him.” I nodded toward the door. “Next door.”

  “Next door.” The ferret climbed onto the desk blotter. I might have been projecting, but he appeared dejected. “Box,” he said.

  I caught my breath, stopping myself before I could respond. I’d had a vision, along with that communication, of four close walls and a low ceiling—an animal’s idea of hell. “Box” meant “cage,” I figured. Yes, Albert was at the station next door. He’d gone in voluntarily, just as I had, to answer questions, but I could not in good faith promise that one interview would be the extent of it.

  I didn’t want to lie. Frank is an intelligent animal, smaller beasts have to be, and this little predator had survived on his wits more than once. Not only that, but he and I had a connection. In large part, I suspected, that was because he knew the respect I had for him. In some measure, it was also because we both had to deal with Albert. Frank had to because the human was his support and provider, by some accident of fate, despite the
disparity in intellect and character that by rights should have had that relationship reversed. And me, well, you could say the same factors came into play for me too. Albert’s laziness and ineptitude made it easier for me to earn a living, without any close scrutiny either. A more astute observer might have noticed the attention I paid to animals, rather than their humans. Albert was not that. Was there something deeper, as well, at least between the sleek animal now looking up at me and his unkempt person? I didn’t know.

  What I did know was that Frank was telling me something about himself, rather than reading my mood. The fact that he came out to greet me, that he now sat up, his long body stretched at attention, let me know that he was trying to communicate.

  “You don’t have to be nervous,” I replied. That one word—“box”—echoed in my head. “If—something happens, I’ll make sure you have a home.” I’d take him in, if it came to that. What Wallis would say, would be another matter.

  That was poor comfort, and the animal knew it. Ferrets are high-energy creatures, usually scurrying and sniffing like mad. But Frank appeared despondent—snuffling at Albert’s desktop like he already missed the man.

  “He doesn’t know,” he said, at least in his fashion. What I was getting was a deep sense of uncertainty and, for lack of a better word, displacement. “He can’t know…” Disappointment. Well, I’d be disappointed too if I were paired permanently with Albert. “He doesn’t know,” I heard again, almost as if the poor animal felt responsible for his person’s imprisonment, if not his ineptitude. No self-respecting ferret would let himself be grabbed up. Then again, no ferret would have gotten involved in such a…well, hare-brained scheme.

  “You’re not responsible.” I longed to reach out to the ferret. Not only was his fur eminently inviting to stroke, but physical contact can amplify my connection. Frank was one of the more intelligent and discerning males in Beauville. It hurt to see him in any psychic pain.