Dogs Don't Lie (12 page)
“I’m here about your cat.” It was not quite eight when I rang the doorbell, but the short, sharp-looking woman who answered the door already had her coat over her arm. I’d called on Saturday, and the message waiting for me after the funeral had asked me to come “as early as possible” on Monday. For most people, that means nine-ish, so I’d walked the bichon and made more coffee before swinging by the new development known as “Overlook Ridge.” I was glad I hadn’t waited any longer. The woman at the door looked like I’d caught her on her way out, dressed in a smart grey suit. The skirt ended just above her knees, and the shoes were the kind that out here we call “city.” She must have been forty-five, if a day, but her legs were up to it, and I got the sense that she knew they were her best feature. There wasn’t anything wrong with the rest of her either. Underneath a helmet of sleek, black hair she had skin like ivory, so smooth I knew it couldn’t all be natural, with only a slight puffiness under her dark eyes to give the game away. She knew how to play it though. Her face was made up, down to the lip liner, but not overdone, and her expression was blank as she blinked at me.
“You’re Eleanor Shrift, right?” I was waiting for her to register me as human, and the wait was putting an edge in my voice. “You have a black Persian with Doc Sharp?”
She nodded, not a hair moving out of place.
“I’m a behaviorist. I work with animals that come into the county shelter.” I held out a hand. She glanced down at it. “My name’s Pru, Pru Marlowe.”
“A behaviorist? But why?” We were still standing at her front door. I was beginning to feel like a Bible salesman.
“You do have a black Persian, right?” I’d be damned if I said “owned.” “A beautiful cat with some behavior problems? I mean, if he’s not your cat—” I started to turn away.
“No, no. That’s my cat. I just, well. I thought the vet could give him some Prozac or something. I mean, he has this
wound.”
She fluttered dark lacquered nails at her own cheek, and I nodded, mainly to get her to stop. “It’s disgusting, that’s why I brought him in.”
“He’s in distress.” I heard the edge in my own voice. This wasn’t an issue of aesthetics. “That’s why I’m here.”
“But he’s doing it to himself!” I opened my mouth and paused. I’m much better at communicating with animals. Always was, even before. But she didn’t give me a chance to form the words. “If this is some kind of new service, I’m all for it. Not now, though. I’ve got an eleven a.m. flight.”
I bit my lip. She’d been the one who’d said Monday morning, and then neglected to set a time. Truth was, the cat was better off in the shelter. But I don’t like to give an inch to types like this. “When will you be back?” I made the effort to keep my voice steady. “Because as soon as possible, I need to talk with you, to see the living situation and try to figure out what is making that poor animal so unhappy.”
“Unhappy?” I saw a flicker of something behind the mascara. For a moment, even with the Botox, Ms. Shrift looked human. “I didn’t think—”
I waited. This was getting interesting. And possibly useful as well; this wouldn’t be the first time an unhappy person had inflicted pain in some way on a pet. She must have sensed my interest because she stopped talking.
“No, most people don’t.” I was beyond politeness. “Look, when can I come back? We need to talk.”
“Tomorrow, I’ll be back tomorrow.” She turned to close the door, but I had my foot in it. Her former poise was gone, something had shaken her. It made my job easier.
“Wanna set a time this time?” She was signaling fear or some kind of distress, her breath coming short and fast between those dark red lips. “We’ll need about an hour.”
“I’ll be getting in around midday.” Her eyes were darting around like caged sparrows. “Come by anytime in the afternoon. We can have drinks!” From the upward lilt of her voice, it sounded like drinks were often the highpoint of the day. This would be a business call for me, and I was in no mood to chill out with an animal abuser. I grunted something that sounded like assent and backed off, letting her slam her door shut.
I sat in my car for a few minutes, just for my own curiosity. Sure enough, within five, she was out the door, her purse banging against her hip and one of those rolling carry-ons bumping along behind her. Wherever she was going, I hoped she’d have a chance to pull herself together. The flawless ice queen who’d first greeted me had been cracked.
***
Since I was doing so well with people today, I decided to head on over to the pound. By the time I’d get there, it would be nearly ten. Even if Albert wasn’t in, someone should have opened the office by then.
Albert was getting out of his own car as I turned into the small lot. The junker had been a muscle car at some point, but it had as much wear on it as the animal control officer himself. Today, he’d topped the customary flannel—a red plaid—with a tan down vest. A splotch of duct tape showed where the nylon shell had been ripped.
“Hey, Albert,” I called as I pulled up to a space.
“Oh, hey, Pru.” He was juggling a large coffee and a grease-spotted bag. More donuts, I guessed. Or maybe some roadkill he’d picked up on his way in and planned on reheating for lunch. “Go on in.”
I nodded, but waited by my car as he opened the trunk and rummaged around, balancing the coffee mug on the fender. I didn’t think it likely that he’d keep his pet in the back, no matter how spacious it was, but I still felt a sharp stab of disappointment when he straightened up with only a bunch of papers in his fist. As he struggled to close the trunk, I raced over to grab the bag and he jerked back, nearly spilling his coffee.
“Relax, Albert. It just looked like you needed a hand.”
“I’ve got it under control,” said Albert, as best I could tell. He was holding the bag in his teeth and had the papers pressed against his body, the mug in his hand, as he reached up for the heavy trunk lid. “There.”
“Suit yourself.” The idea of handling the bag after it had been in his mouth went too far, even for charity, and I followed the big man through the glass doors. He dropped the bag on his desk and shoved the papers into the lower drawer. I peered over the desk top, hoping to see a familiar masked face. “No Fr— Bandit today?” It didn’t seem likely, but the possibility did exist that Albert had been in early and simply gone out for donuts.
“Why’re you so interested in my ferret, Pru?” He beamed and I smiled back, letting him enjoy his little obscene allusion for a moment.
“I’m always drawn to the most intelligent male in the room.”
“Ha. Ha.” His face deflated. He then put his feet up and took a long draw of his coffee. Clearly, I was being punished.
I wasn’t going to ask. Instead, I strolled over to the ledger over and started looking through it. No further sign of Delia Cochrane, but neither, I realized, were there many other visitors.
“Business slow, these days?” I flipped back another page. Only three people had come by on a Saturday?
“What?” Albert pretended to be absorbed in whatever he was reading, but the desire to appear important was too strong. “No way, we were packed all day. Those new people, they don’t know how to winterize, and they come to me when they get squirrels in their attics.”
I made a sympathetic noise, ignoring the chance to point out that nuisance animal removal was, in fact, part of his job. So not everyone who came by signed in. Considering all I knew about Albert, I shouldn’t have been surprised. Why had Delia signed in, then? And who might have just walked by the open log?
“So, uh, do you want to see the keychain thing?” In my preoccupation, I’d outwaited Albert.
“Sure thing, Al.” I smiled up at him. “Bring it on.”
I was curious about those papers, but he shoved them back in the drawer, and I told myself that they might actually be related to his job. At any rate, they were out of my reach. I watched as he took a key out of the top drawer and opened the locked bottom file of the tall file cabinet, pulling out a metal box, the kind people keep their important papers in.
“I wanted to keep it safe,” said Albert, as he dusted off the little box and placed it on his desk. If it weren’t for the cleanliness issue, I realized, Albert really would resemble his ferret.
I pulled up the guest chair and waited as Albert opened the box and began poking through its contents. “Lots of stuff in there?” I tried to keep my voice neutral.
“It’s not just Bandit,” he sounded a bit defensive. “People leave stuff all the time.” He took out an envelope that had been folded twice to fit, and I wondered what letter had never been posted. “Ah, here it is.”
Licking his finger, he reached in and pulled out a small, grey oblong, about the size of an eraser. Even as he held it, I could see the broken silver ring that must have once held the drive onto a keychain. I held out my hand, and with an audible sigh, Albert relinquished his treasure.
“Thanks, Al. This looks like mine.” I wasn’t lying; I had a portable drive just like it with all my class notes. “So, um, you didn’t take a peek at the files?”
Albert smiled. “Got your diary on it, do you?” His voice had taken on the tone of that smile, and I resisted the urge to cut him dead. “Wonder who I’d find in there, Pru. Your old boss?”
“Charles was a client.” I turned the drive over in my hands. The USB port seemed intact, and I couldn’t wait to leave. But before I did, I had a few more questions that needed answering.
“What about Mack then?” he asked.
I did my best to impale Albert with an icy glare. Small town gossip needs to be plucked out by its roots, like a tick. “What about Mack?”
“You two seemed to be having a little tiff yesterday. Lovers’ quarrel? Did you expect our Mack to change his ways for you?”
“Change his ways?” From Albert’s broadening grin, I knew I’d said the wrong thing, and waved him down. “Never mind. No. We’re not an item. Never were. We were talking money.” I was improvising now, but I knew that if I didn’t give the gossip gods a different story this one would dog me. “He was Charles’ business partner, and I’m owed for my services.” I caught myself. “For my dog training. He was telling me I had to get in line behind other creditors. Once we find out who inherits.”
“Lots of luck with that.” Albert was positively grinning now. What didn’t I know? I’d brought up my unpaid bills as a distraction, but in truth, I could use the dough. The question was, how could I find anything out without giving anything away?
“Well, that’s the problem.” I was stalling, trying to think of a way to use the little I did know as bait. “I knew they were getting close to launch, and Charles was always going on about how successful they were.”
“From what I heard, Charles was the
last
person to talk about money.”
I waited, but he didn’t say more. “Well, we each have our own sources.”
“Yes, we do.” Well, that was intriguing.
“Speaking of, I was hoping to get in touch with Delia.” I nodded toward the open logbook. “Has she been back?”
“Nuh-uh,” Albert shook his head, forlorn. Her visit must have been the high point of his day. “I don’t think she likes me much.”
What a surprise. “Who knew? But I was sure she’d been in the other day.”
“Yeah, but I had to send her to the shelter.” He was poking through the box now. “Her cat wasn’t here.”
That made me sit up. “Her cat?”
“Yeah, she lost a kitten. I told her the coyotes probably got it.”
“A little orange and white thing?” Poor woman. Her boyfriend and now her pet. I felt sorry for her, but I had to be sure. Albert nodded, and I was. Now I had a new problem: how to explain that I had her kitten—and that I had broken through police tape to find her. “I’ll keep my eyes open. Where did she lose it?”
“She didn’t say, but I’ll tell you, she was looking daggers at that dog. I’m wondering if she and Chuck had a falling out, and he fed it to that animal.”
“Not likely.” I’d have to think of a way out of this, sooner rather than later. My heart went out to anyone who thinks she’s lost a pet, even someone like Delia. And that kitten was now evidence. What kind of evidence, I wasn’t yet sure of. But Albert had also given me my opening. “So how is Charles’ dog?” I should have dropped by over the weekend. Man, I was growing soft.
“It’s calmed down some. Let me guess, you want to visit.” He opened the drawer to replace the box, sparking me out of my pity party.
“Yeah, I do. But first, Albert, you said something about an earring?”
He looked a little peeved—maybe he was more magpie than ferret—but reopened the box and dug around.
“Here it is. One’s not much use, though. Unless you have someplace special pierced.” He leered, and I scowled in return. But even as I reached for the hanging sparkler, I gasped. As he held up the long earring—easily two inches of glitter—it caught the light. It might as well have caught fire. Gingerly, I laid it flat on my fingers and held it up close to examine the multi-pronged setting. This earring was no cheap rhinestone doodad. The delicate setting, the artful safety catch, the cut—these all signaled the good stuff, or at least a killer copy. If this was the real thing, then what I held in my hand was worth most of what I owned, my mother’s house included. Someone would be missing this.
If only the rest of my day turned up more treasure, but I couldn’t count on such luck. And as much as I wanted to examine that flash drive, after a short visit with Lily, I stuck it in my pocket and drove over to the county shelter. I was probably on a fool’s errand, and I knew it. Plus, I was putting more miles on my little Toyota than I’d done all summer. But I was running short of paying clients, and nobody was racing to pay my overdue bills. Besides, now that I’d met Eleanor Shrift, I felt even more for her beautiful mess of a cat.
I could have saved myself the trip. The black Persian didn’t know I was there. Didn’t know he was there, either, I suspected. That hard-looking Eleanor Shrift must have gotten through to Doc Sharp, or else the vet was desperate to stop the cat from hurting himself further. He was so loopy on some combination of antidepressants or tranquilizers that I couldn’t get any sense out of his smooth black head.
“Here, here, here,
” he kept repeating, his third eyelid half closed, masking unfocused eyes.
“Here.
”
“Where, kitty? What are you trying to say?” I took the inert body into my arms, trying to listen in on what was happening. All I picked up on was an urge to groom—a sense of sleek fur and of the comfort of a regular pattern—and so I stroked that midnight head until he fell into a deeper sleep, with dreams too subtle for me to read.
I sat with him a few more minutes, just enjoying the gentle bulk of him. Ever since Wallis and I had started communicating, I’d felt a little odd about holding her. It seemed at once too intimate and vaguely disrespectful. You might hug a friend in greeting, but did you heft her onto your lap? No.
The third time the vet tech came into check on me, I put the Persian back. The good news was that Pammy had other animals for me to look at, requests from Doc Sharp. With Charles out of the picture, I needed all the referrals I could get. And so the rest of my afternoon was filled with routine. A bored spaniel who had taken it out on her person’s sofa. A mixed-breed puppy who loved the shrieks and squeals when he bit. As always, the people, not the animals, needed their behavior modified, although I’d learned how to pose the problem as an issue of training.
“Don’t yelp. Don’t hit. Just walk away.” How often had I told some clueless human that? “What he wants is the attention. He thinks you’re playing. If you simply leave him alone at the first sign of aggression, he’ll stop doing it.” I’d be seeing them again within the month, if that puppy didn’t get put up for adoption first.
“Be good.” I whispered to the tiny creature as I put him back in his carrier. How much did he understand? I wasn’t optimistic. In puppy terms, he
was
being good. He was playing; he was learning to hunt. That was his role, and he was perfect for the world he knew. If only these stupid humans would quit messing him up.
All of which brought me back to Eleanor Shrift and her suffering cat. Under the influence of the drugs, the open sore was scabbing up. With luck, the fur would grow back, too. But the underlying problem was driving me as nutty as that cat. What had that woman done? I peeked in on the sleeping cat one more time, getting nothing for my troubles but the image of a hand stroking him, and drove home with more questions than I’d gotten answers for. That black Persian was a puzzle, but I’d get to the bottom of that. Eleanor Shrift might look tough, but as soon as she returned she was going to have me to deal with, not some sad cat. More urgent, at least in my mind, were the questions of the kitten, the flash drive, and the earring. How could I tell Delia that I had her cat, when the cops had seen me during what was supposed to be my last visit to Charles’ house? Could I pretend I’d found it outside? What excuse would I give her for being outside her boyfriend’s house? And why had she brought that little creature to Charles’ house anyway?
And what about that earring? As soon as I realized the potential value of that sparkler, I’d wanted to claim it. Albert had been too smart for me. He’d seen the shock on my face and slipped it from my hand before I could tuck it away. “Bring the other and its yours,” he’d said. Too smart, or too covetous. I wouldn’t be surprised if that earring ended up in an Albany pawn shop, sold for the value of the stones. How could someone lose a jewel like that and not be looking for it high and low? I thought of the yelling that the kitten had overheard. Sounded like Delia and Charles had a lot to fight about.
***
What with the kitten, the Persian, and that drive, I was afraid I’d given Lily short shrift. Albert was right, she had calmed down. But although my cursory visit showed me that, yes, the poor dog had stopped hurling herself against the bars of her cage—and, in all fairness, her enclosure did seem to be cleaner—I couldn’t stop thinking about her as I drove back to Beauville. Lily was suffering, and her environment wasn’t helping. I’d spent a few quiet minutes with her after my chat with Albert, but I didn’t know that it did any good. Even when I took her out back for a quick walk and a pet, she barely acknowledged me, only stopping to do the necessary and paw halfheartedly at the ground. All I got were images of Charles, and I had the feeling that these were fading fast. I’d bought her a reprieve, finding that certificate, but she wasn’t as tough as she appeared and incarceration was taking its toll. As I looked into her eyes, trying to make some kind of contact, I knew it was up to me to come up with a way out.
“I hear they’re looking for the killer finally,” I had whispered to her, rubbing my thumbs against the velvet base of her ears. “We’ll get him.” The eyes that looked up in response were huge and sad and lost.
Home?
The whine was barely audible.
Home?
I shook my head. “I’m sorry, puppy.”
I did my best to shut out thoughts of that poor beast as I pulled up to my own home. Wallis would never be sympathetic to a dog, and I had other work to do that I might need her feedback on. Fingering the keychain drive in my pocket, I unlocked my front door to find the stout tabby waiting.
“Finally.” She gave me the unnerving, unblinking stare cats use so well. “You owe me.”
“Oh?” I walked by her toward the laptop I keep in what had been my mother’s formal living room. Nice thing about walking by an angry cat. She has to trot to keep up, and it cuts into her dignity.
“That kitten.” I stopped dead in my tracks and looked down at Wallis. She paid me back by proceeding to wash her face. I knew this game. I waited. Finally she put both paws back down on the hardwood floor. “I don’t know what you unleashed, but she’s been crying all day. Something about a fight. No, don’t get all excited.” I didn’t know if she’d read my mind or my face, but I shut my mouth, swallowing the questions that were forming. “Nothing specific. Just that there were loud voices—that’s voices, plural—and that it scared her. If I hear, ‘I didn’t do anything wrong’ one more time, I will not be held responsible.”
“Thanks, Wallis.” I turned her report over in my head. “And I’m sorry.” There wasn’t much new here, but the fact that two people had been arguing confirmed some of my suspicions. The raised voice hadn’t been on the phone, the fight was in the house. Delia must have brought her over to Charles’ house and then forgotten her after the fight.
“ ‘Salright.” Wallis shifted a little on the hardwood, a precursor to kneading. She was in a good mood, and I was glad for the company.
“Do you want to look at this with me?” I didn’t expect much, but flattery works, and she leaped to the desk top with an un-feline enthusiasm. I plugged the keychain drive in, and we both watched the screen, eager in anticipation. “I’m not sure what we’ll find here,” I warned as the laptop whirred.
“Is that it?” An icon had shown up on my screen, and Wallis’ quick eyes, attuned to small movements, spotted it first. I clicked on it and breathed a sigh of relief to find it wasn’t password protected. As I opened the first file, Wallis came closer, her soft fur brushing against my hand.
“What’s that?” She stared at the screen, and I enlarged the image with a few keystrokes. Wallis is slightly myopic, as much as she denies it.
“A spreadsheet,” I murmured in response. “God, I hate spreadsheets.” We both leaned in, and I felt the tickle of whiskers on my cheek. “I don’t really understand, but it seems someone was doing accounting online.” Wallis said nothing, but I felt her warmth next to me as I opened one form and scrolled down columns of numbers. “This could be anything. A budget, a mortgage statement…”
“Mouse tracks.” Wallis’ voice was low, but I could tell by the angle of her ears and her whiskers that she was concentrating. “It seems like…mouse tracks. Or maybe the dirt after the sparrows have had their dust baths.”
I looked over at the tabby. “You’re kidding, right? I mean, I don’t know what they’re for, but…”
She turned, her green-gold eyes alert, and then she blinked. “Well,
you
said you didn’t understand those markings. I thought I’d give it a try.”
“Wallis, I meant I didn’t know what the numbers signified.” She blinked again. “You do know they’re numbers, right? Symbols for money or something that’s been measured.” Another blink, and I sighed. “You don’t, do you?”
I should’ve been more careful. I should have noticed that in the last few seconds Wallis’ black-tipped ears had tilted back, that her paws had stopped kneading. That, in fact, her claws were already partly distended. If I’d been working with her, as a client, I’d have been more alert, but the truth was, I’d forgotten to think of Wallis as a cat and had just started to think of her as a friend—a human friend.
“I’m sorry, Wallis, I forgot—” As I spoke, I reached up to pet her, hoping to smooth her ruffled fur. But she was too fast for me, and I’d gone too far. With a hiss, she swiped at me, her eyes staring and wild. “Wallis!” I pulled my hand back and sucked at the scratch, a red line in the meaty base of my thumb.
“Stupid numbers. Stupid
human
s
.”
Her ears were still back, but she had settled down, and was grumbling to herself on my desk. “Why don’t you ask a
dog
to read those scribbles? Why don’t you get that
kitten
to make sense of it? Am I the only nonhuman sensible creature you know around here?”
“Okay, I’m leaving now.” I knew better than to mess with a pissed-off cat. I reached, gingerly, for my laptop as Wallis turned her back, allowing me to retreat. Setting the computer on the kitchen table, I found myself staring at it without really seeing. My relationship with Wallis felt so tentative, and I realized, sitting there and watching the shadows reach across the table, how much I relied on her. I’d wanted company, sure. I’d also wanted a second opinion, unsure of what I would find. Was I asking too much of a cat? Had this blowup been in the works?
I shook my head to clear it. Worrying about such things was a luxury I couldn’t afford. What I needed to do was find out what had been going on—with Charles, with Delia. With Mack, for sure. And, yeah, maybe with that cop Creighton, too.
If Lily had indeed been cleared of Charles’ death, my relationship with Creighton could relax a little. I could think about passing along the few things I had learned. I’d have to come up with some kind of explanation, but I’d find a way, some way, to let him know about the yelling downstairs, about the strange, sweet scent. Delia’s kitten might be some kind of proof, and Lily’s memory of that morning, the sight of something horrible happening just outside her crate. That had to be worth something. They’d be searching for a person now—
With a shiver, I felt the other shoe drop. If Creighton and his colleagues were now looking for a human killer, they might just be looking at me. Creighton had implied as much, but at the time, I’d not taken him seriously. Now, though, I’d have to. At the very least, how would I ever be able to explain why I had Delia’s kitten?
I was in a mess, and this time Wallis wouldn’t—probably couldn’t—help me. I fixed my eyes on the screen, the weight of my situation sinking in, and watched the numbers roll down. The movement was hypnotic. Soothing, until something caught me eye and woke me from my musings. There: a date, 9/21, and a number, 210. I scrolled back to 9/01 and saw it again, and then back some more. It didn’t mean anything; these were numbers, not signatures. But the dates matched up to the ones on my invoices, and the amounts were my city rate. I was perusing Charles’ budget, or some part of it, and my little bills were by far the smallest amount entered by a power of ten.
***
As soon as seemed reasonable, I headed back to Happy’s. It wasn’t that I needed companionship, though Wallis was still not talking to me and had, pointedly, sent the kitten to ask for their dinner cans when I started putting together my own meal. Nor was it the warm buzz of alcohol I craved, though I did perk up at the thought of a good stiff drink. No, what I needed were answers, the kind that only other humans could give me. And while the telephone is a lovely instrument, I somehow suspected that catching people unawares, and possibly under the influence, would give me the best chance of uncovering the information I needed. Besides, the phone works both ways. If Creighton had more questions for me, he could come looking, too.
Just my luck, then, that neither Delia nor Chris nor Mack were visible as I entered the dark bar. Yes, it was a Monday, but that didn’t seem like any reason for this trio not to drink. I had no idea what Chris did for a living, but Mack seemed to be a private investor—and out of a job. And Delia should still be grieving. I took up a post at the far end of the curved wood bar, where I had a clear view of the front door and close enough to the back to hear if anyone was stepping in. I indulged myself in a Jameson’s, neat, and settled in to wait.
Two drinks later, I was getting sick of the bartender’s taste in music. I’d pushed myself off my stool to feed some quarters into the jukebox and was just deciding between Tom Jones and Lou Reed—Happy’s was nothing if not eclectic—when I heard the back door swing open. I turned, too, realizing belatedly that the third whiskey had probably been a mistake.
“Hey, Pru. You all right?” It was Albert, and he was coming toward me with his arms outstretched.
