Dogs Don't Lie (14 page)

Bitsy had given me a lot to think about, too. So Delia was pregnant? She seemed awfully calm for a potential single mother, especially if she wasn’t inheriting from Charles. There might be something else—something she wasn’t talking about, like insurance—but I had to wonder if she’d already lined up another potential mate. That could lead to motive, too. If she had been seeing Chris while Charles was alive, he might have found out. Maybe—I mulled this over as I waited at one of our town’s two traffic lights—maybe Chris was the father, and Charles had learned the truth. As I started up the mountainside to my house, I played that scenario over in my head. Perhaps she’d planned on deceiving Charles, getting a moneyed husband for herself, a better father for her baby, and he’d dumped her. A pregnant woman, hormones running mad…could she have torn his throat open like that? Stabbed him repeatedly with something sharp and lethal? What if she’d sprung the news on him—and then found out that he was having money problems?

Along the same lines, Chris Moore might have a motive for killing Charles, especially if paternity or custody of a child-to-be were involved. He seemed like an old-fashioned type, the kind of mug who might get involved in something dirty if he thought his honor or his woman’s was involved. Or, if my mind was running along these lines, was there a third man in Delia’s life? I’d seen the stir she caused. It was possible.

I pulled into my driveway, thinking that all bets were off. “Wallis, I’m home!” I called. I needed some support here, someone to figure out my options with. But the only answer was a small peep. The orange kitten came bounding down the stairs to twine around my ankles.

“Hey, kitten, what’s up?” I lifted the kitten and felt a purr starting as I looked around for my adult feline companion. “Wallis?”

Nothing, but as I carried the kitten into the kitchen, I got a flash of thought.
“The big one doesn’t like me.”

“Wallis? That’s not true,” I lied and put the kitten down. Reaching for the can opener, piercing a can of imported tuna in olive oil. No matter how nonchalant the tabby liked to seem, she rarely missed a meal, and the fish was fragrant. I raised my voice, “Wallis!”

Still no response, so I fed three-dollar tuna to the kitten and went into my office. The laptop sat there, accusingly. I’d not gone back to the information on the keychain drive since the fight. Playing with it seemed preferable to worrying about the cops, so I opened it up again and poked about some more. Maybe the adrenaline had sharpened my wits. On second viewing, I located two spreadsheets, and both seemed pretty clear. These were definitely someone’s budgets—Charles’ most likely, given that my invoices showed up with regularity on the smaller of the two. What I didn’t see were deposits—on either of them—and both accounts were running low. Of course, Mack had said that the company was near launch. At this point, it was probably running off its startup capital. No wonder it looked like the bottom lines were sinking. So, was the company viable? In this economy, any kind of funding had to be tight. Still, a good idea, low overhead…what was Charles’ great idea, anyway?

I didn’t have anywhere near enough info, and I really didn’t want to spend another night lurking at Happy’s. A bit of poking about and I turned up a phone number for one Malcolm Danton.

“Mack, it’s Pru. Can we talk?” A part of me wanted more than information, not the least because I’d been warned—repeatedly—about the dark-eyed stranger’s bad-boy ways. But I’m not the girly type, never been good at flirting. And I did have questions I wanted answered. I left my number and figured he’d call me back. He hadn’t given me the impression that he wanted to avoid me.

Wallis, however, was another matter. After she didn’t show for lunch, I started poking around what I’d thought were her usual hiding places. Back of the closets, under the bed. I knew the old tabby could hold a grudge, but this was getting ridiculous.

“Wallis? Are you around?” I called from the top of the stairs. “Look, I’m sorry! Come on, let’s make up, can we?”

Nothing. I checked the kitchen clock and saw that I’d managed to waste a good chunk of the day. And so after a few more minutes of fruitless searching, I grabbed my coat and headed out once more.

***

“Oh, it’s you.”

This wasn’t my day to make friends and influence people, but still I’d expected something a little better than a dead-eyed stare and that toneless greeting. Eleanor Shrift had run to the door quickly enough. I’d heard her call as she fumbled with the lock and had a flash of a smile as the door came open. As soon as she’d seen who it was, her face had fallen, and she’d turned and walked back into the neat split level.

“Ms. Shrift,” I raised my voice as I walked in behind her. “I don’t mean to intrude on your valuable time.” I wasn’t doing a very good job of hiding my sarcasm. But then, she wasn’t being particularly polite either. “You’ve got a beautiful cat wasting away at the shelter, and I’m here to find out why.”

She turned toward me, cigarette in hand, and muttered something as she lit it.

“Excuse me?” We were in some kind of entrance hallway. The living room, to our left, had a fake fireplace and an abundance of overstuffed furniture, all in shades of cream and white. I wondered if the cat were ever allowed on any of the chairs.

She took a long draw, and I waited while she let the smoke out. “I said,” she looked up at her own smoke as she spoke, “‘you’ve got him now. You deal with it.’”

“Yeah, well,” I looked around and walked toward a snow-white sofa. “That’s why I’m here.”

I sat and waited. She didn’t shoo me off, which was a good sign. Instead, with a deep, theatrical sigh, she picked up an ashtray and joined me, settling herself into a matching armchair. “So?” she asked.

“Your cat’s problems aren’t physical. They’re emotional.” She rolled her eyes. I kept on talking. “Something in his home environment is upsetting him. That’s why I’m here. For starters, can you tell me how long you’ve had him?”

“He was a gift.” Another drag. “From a friend.”

I noted the emphasis. We don’t usually get gifts from our enemies.

“I’d just moved in. I guess it was, what? June?” Another drag and suddenly Eleanor Shrift was grinding the butt out as if she wanted to kill it. “You want a drink?”

“Sure.” Something was going on, and I followed her into a pristine kitchen. No sign of a pet here. No sign of any kind of life. “Do you travel much?”

“What?” She cracked an ice tray open into a shaker and reached for a bottle of vodka. “Oh, yeah. Travel. I cover the East Coast, sometimes Cleveland. I’m a detail woman. Pharmaceuticals?”

I caught myself before I declined that offer but took the proffered martini. “Have you been traveling more recently, or been away longer?” The black Persian’s excessive grooming could be a stress reaction.

She looked thoughtful. “No, not really.” She took a sip, a big one, and gestured me back into the living room. I noticed that she took along the shaker.

We sat. Properly medicated, Eleanor Shrift looked almost relaxed, her porcelain face less strained. I took a chance. “Look, Ms. Shrift. It’s simple. Something changed for the cat. Maybe something you’re aware of, maybe not. But something set him off. Can you think of what that might have been?”

“Something set
him
off?” That tight look was back and I noticed how her makeup sank into the lines around her mouth.

“I’m sorry, did I say something wrong?” I wasn’t sure why this woman was so edgy, but for the Persian’s sake, I’d find out.

“It’s nothing.” She shook her head and then looked at me, hard, as if seeing me for the first time. “Maybe you didn’t know.”

I waited, always a good strategy with animals.

“You’re too young.” She refilled her own glass without offering me any. Just as well, I put my glass down on an end table and let the silence build.

“You still—” She stopped. A few more sips, another minute of silence, and then those black lashes fluttered and the steely voice cracked. “He called it off, okay? My ‘friend.’ We had a perfect arrangement. No strings, no expectations. He said there wasn’t anyone else, but I’m not a fool. A man like that…” She glowered at me as if I were responsible. “You probably think I was too old for him.”

“Hey,” I raised my hands in surrender. “I’m just here about the cat.” It wasn’t three o’clock yet but I’d begun to have the feeling that this wasn’t her first shaker of martinis. I needed to bring her down. “I don’t know the guy.”

“Oh, really? And everyone so interested in
you
?”

“It’s not what you think.” I didn’t know what she’d heard, but I didn’t want to get into this. “Look, I can sympathize.” I thought of Leo, the chef. We’d said “no strings,” too, and it worked for a while. Until he started trying to keep tabs on me. But I was willing to talk if it would help. I was just about ready to start reminiscing about Leo, with his scarred hands and his wild laugh, when she gave a little sniff. For half a moment I was afraid she’d start crying. I needed to cut into this and fast.

“Your guy, did he have a lot of interaction with the cat?

“With the
cat?
” She was angry now. In a way, that was easier. “Yes, he had a lot of interaction with the
cat
. Smoke was my pet, but he was always the one petting him. Always the one picking him up and carrying him onto the furniture. Even into bed. The
cat
.”

“Well, that explains it.” She looked up at me and blinked, and it occurred to me that Eleanor Shrift had no idea what she’d said. “Your cat, that gorgeous black Persian. What did you call him? Smoke? He misses your friend, and since you travel a fair amount, you probably haven’t taken up the slack. He’s over grooming himself because he’s lonely. Smoke wants comfort.”

“My
cat
wants comfort. Great.” Eleanor Shrift stalked off into the kitchen. Usually, at this point, I’d start talking to the pet owner about alleviating the problem, trying to find ways to get the human to modify her behavior, at least temporarily. Once you name an animal, you start thinking of it differently. And the animals themselves are extraordinarily adaptable. I suspected that with just a modicum of affection, the Persian would return to normal—and be thrilled to be back in familiar surroundings. But right now Eleanor Shrift was hurting and angry. She seemed about to jump down my throat for being younger, and she wasn’t about to forgive her cat—whom she barely acknowledged—for getting more attention in her grief.

Attention, that was key, I thought as I got up to leave. I might sympathize more with the Persian, but there was a lesson in his behavior that applied to his person. Eleanor Shrift might not be capable of love, but she wanted attention. She was hurting in part because her affair hadn’t been acknowledged. She’d been someone’s secret, and she’d still been thrown over. The Persian had found a way to make his sorrow public, and she envied that. Well, I’d discovered the source of the black Persian’s problems. But finding a remedy for the situation when the owner saw herself as competing with her cat was going to be a bit more difficult. Especially when the cat was still in his prime.

Chapter Fifteen

Wallis didn’t show for dinner either, so maybe I sounded a bit eager when Mack called me a bit after eight. I mean, I like attention, too.

“Hey, doll.” There was a warmth in his voice that I didn’t quite trust. “Good to hear from you.”

I could have kicked myself. Wallis would have made some cutting remark, if she’d been there. But as I looked around, all I saw were the kitten’s guileless eyes.

“You still there?” Was that a chuckle?

“Yeah, Mack.” I took a breath. “I’ve got a few questions I was hoping you could help me with?”

“Aw, gee. Is that all?” The tone of mock disappointment wasn’t as endearing as he thought, and I grunted in response. He got the hint. “Okay, happy to be of service then.” He wasn’t giving up entirely. “Can we do this over dinner?”

I was glad then for the meatball sub I’d wolfed down, alone. Dinner sounded too much like a date. But some questions were best asked in person. Mack was smooth enough without the distance of a phone line. “I’ve eaten. What say we meet at Happy’s?”

His short, sharp laugh—traces of Leo—sounded so relieved I was sure he read me wrong. At that point I didn’t care, and we agreed to meet at the bar. I gave the house one last scouring, even checking under the old lawn furniture on the enclosed back porch. Nothing. I called out a greeting to my missing tabby and took off. At least if Creighton came looking for me, I’d be out, too.

Happy’s looked like Happy’s, and if the bartender nodded when I walked in, that only made me feel like I’d rediscovered a little bit of home. Mack was sitting in one of the back booths when I got there, nursing the kind of whiskey I’d grown fond of. I hesitated a moment before joining him in such an intimate setting, then realized the privacy would serve my needs as well.

“Jameson’s,” I called over to the barkeep. I couldn’t bring myself to call him Happy, but if this kept up, he was going to have to give me a name. As it was, I nodded back and left a five before taking my drink to Mack’s booth and sliding into the bench opposite.

“I hear you’re becoming a regular around here.” Mack leaned forward so I got a good look at his dark eyes.

“It’s not like there’s much else in this town.” I took a healthy swallow and thought about how to start this conversation. “I wanted to ask you a few questions.” Direct seemed best.

“You and the cops.” He must have seen my interest, because he laughed again, more softly this time. “Thought that would get you.”

“Hey, they’ve been asking about me as well.” I stopped myself as I reached for my glass. The night had gotten chilly, and it would be too easy to throw the whiskey down. I needed to keep my focus. “Probably questioning everyone in Charles’ life.”

His eyes narrowed at that. “And what have you been telling them?”

Now it was my turn to smile. I’d wanted to disarm him, but I wasn’t going to be grilled. “Everyone in town knows that I found him. But I found some other stuff, too, that you might want to know about.”

He leaned back against the wooden booth, and I found myself examining him. With his pale skin and dark hair, he was my kind of handsome. Not as muscular as Chris Moore, or put together like Jim Creighton, but a good-looking man, broad in the chest. His arms, where he’d pushed back his sweater sleeves, were covered with thick, dark hair, and I fought the urge to trace them with my fingers. Mack Danton wasn’t a pretty boy. Wasn’t a gentleman, either. So why had my offer of information set him back?

“Of course, I don’t have to tell you.” I ran my finger around the rim of my glass instead. An old move, but an effective one.

“But you want to.” He was leaning forward again, those bare forearms edging close across the table.

“What I want,” I paused for effect, “is to know more about your startup.”

Mack made a face. “Could have fooled me, Pru. But since you asked, it is—it was—language recognition software, and we stood to make a bundle.”

“
Language
recognition?” I’d heard of voice-recognition software, the kind of device that turned speech into typed words, but Mack was shaking his head.

“Like an automatic translator, but a good one.” He rubbed one large hand over his face. “Or it would have been. Like I’ve said, Charles was the brain. I’d seen enough so that he convinced me it had solid applications, real-time business translation. Shit like that. Now…” He shrugged and lifted his whiskey.

I took a hit off my own drink to buy time to think.

“So if the idea was so good, what did he need a money guy for?” The idea had thrown me, close as it was to my own strange gift. But there was something I wasn’t seeing.

Mack shook his head and put down his drink. “You think you come up with a good idea and that’s it? No, not Charles.” He turned to get the barkeep’s attention. “You see, he was sort of an idealist. An idealist or a loner. You want another?”

I nodded and when the bartender came over he free-poured a healthy shot into my glass as well. I might be recognizable, but Mack was definitely a regular.

“You see, a software developer who works solo will usually sell his work to one of the big firms. But Chuck wanted to keep it private, license it himself.”

“He wanted to maintain control.” I could see the appeal.

Mack threw back most of his new drink before answering. “In his dreams, yeah. Low overhead, no corporate connections. Dip into the nest egg to pay the bills. That was the theory, anyway. But even if he didn’t mind living on nothing, he has his mother to take care of. And, of course, every stray animal that comes his way.”

“Just Lily—I mean, the pit bull.” I still hadn’t found a way to explain that kitten. “But if the idea is so hot, why was he having money problems?”

That big grin came back. “You heard that, too? Let’s just say Charles needed me around. He was thinking small, but I had some ideas of what he could do. For a genius, the man had no more money sense than, well, a kitten.”

I swallowed. Maybe he did know something. But the best defense is a good offense. “So what were you doing for him?”

“Setting up investors, trying to come up with a reasonable budget for development and marketing. A realistic budget. Trying to keep Charles from nickel-and-diming himself into the ground. He would’ve, you know.” For a moment, Mack’s large features took on the bemused expression most of the world gets when confronted by a dreamer. “No sense at all of reality.”

“I’d say he got a good dose of it, at the end.” The more I learned about my former client, the more I liked him. And no matter what Mack said, the files I’d seen showed that Charles was very well aware of his expenses. He wasn’t a bookkeeper, but he’d kept track of every cent. “So, did you have any big investors yet?”

“Anyone screaming for his money back, you mean?” Mack focused in again. He knew I was fishing. “Anyone besides you?”

“I’m small potatoes.” Now it was my turn to lean back. “But maybe somebody didn’t like his business plan.”

“Ah, like Miss Delia Cochrane?”

We were thinking along the same lines. “Well, that is an interesting situation, is it not? Everyone’s idea of the perfect couple.” I watched his eyes. Did he know about her pregnancy?

“He was devoted to her,” he said at last, sadness coloring his words. “And Delia? Well, Charles didn’t owe her any money, that’s for sure. And even for our golden girl, he was a better bet alive, don’t you think?”

I waited, but he was done.

“I don’t know what she thought—or who she owed.” He stared into his glass. “And frankly I don’t care.”

I couldn’t read anything in those dark eyes except fatigue and the warmth of whiskey. But waiting worked. “I don’t think he owed anyone really,” he finally admitted. “Except you, Miss Small Potatoes. And me. I mean, I’m the one who had the plans. I’d set everything up. And, no, I don’t benefit. I’ve heard it’s all going to his mother. Not that there’s much of the business. Everything was still in Charles’ head. And now…” he threw up his hands. “Pfft. It’s gone.”

“Well, Delia is still around.”

“You think?” He laughed, that short dry bark of a laugh again. “Like I’d trade a going business concern for a blonde?” He leaned in. “I’ve got no interest in green girls.”

I smiled, as I knew I was supposed to. From a man like Mack, that was a compliment, supposed to make me turn all fluttery. It didn’t work, but it did give me pause. From what I’d seen, Delia might be younger than I was, but she seemed to know how to twist everyone to her whistle. Was Mack one of her victims, maybe protesting too much after the fact? I eyed the dark-eyed charmer and tried to play it out in my head. It was possible. As I sipped my whiskey, another thought hit me. Maybe Mack wasn’t comparing Delia to me at all. Maybe he really did like his women older, not to mention more solvent. And Eleanor Shrift had spent her summer with some young stud. Maybe I didn’t fit into the picture at all. There had to be a way to find out.

“Somehow, I wouldn’t imagine that there’s a huge selection out here.” Let him think I was flirting, if it got him to talk.

“In beautiful Beauville? Don’t underestimate yourself.” That smile turned conspiratorial as he leaned across the table. He saw me raise my eyebrows and wisely drew back. “Besides, I’m not talking specifics. I’m too much of a gentleman. Just, generally.”

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.” Happy—as I was beginning to think of his current incarnation—had come over again with the bottle. He refilled Mack’s glass and looked over at me. I raised mine and nodded. I have a good head for liquor, and besides, I needed to keep Mack talking. “I’ve got a client, a very fine looking lady, who is recently single.”

“Oh?” Mack was humoring me, I could tell by his tone. “Do tell.”

“Professional woman, dresses to the nines.” I toyed with my glass, looking into the amber liquid, and put it back down. I’ve got a high tolerance, but not that high. “Might be in your target demographic, too.”

He lowered his voice and leaned in. “You sound like you’re trying to sell me something.”

“Just thinking out loud.” I raised my glass and looked across it, trying to hide the fact that I was watching Mack’s face. “Eleanor’s a good-looking woman.”

“Eleanor Shrift? You think that’s my ‘target demographic’?” He was laughing. I was trying to figure out if the laugh was real or a cover. One thing was certain, he knew who I was talking about. In response, I simply shrugged—and rewarded myself with a sip of whiskey.

“Sheesh, so you’re trying to play matchmaker now.” With that, Mack leaned back against the side panel of the booth, putting both feet up on the bench beside him. He looked comfortable, so I did the same. But if I was hoping for more info, I was to be disappointed. Dodging any further questions about Delia or Eleanor—or his business—he started grilling me about mine.

“So, what do you do with a dog that bites?” He’d politely avoided any questions about Lily—or any further queries about the police. Instead, he’d moved on from nervous barking to more serious crimes of the canine kind. His voice had gotten a little sloppy by this point, his gestures a bit broad. But I wasn’t thinking that clearly either. I wasn’t drunk, far from it, but I couldn’t work out how to turn the conversation around.

“You try to find out
why
he bites.” Then it hit me. “So, Mack, why won’t you answer my questions?”

“Maybe I like to take the lead.” That smile had only gotten broader, and it hit me that perhaps I had drunk too much.

“Okay, I think it’s time to call it a night.” I stood up and grabbed the edge of the table. I was not going to let him see me stagger. “Happy?”

“I’ve got it.” Before I knew what was happening, Mack had pulled out his wallet and weighted down a couple of bills with his empty glass. Then he was helping me into my coat. “Maybe I should give you a ride home.”

“I’m fine.” I was. I just needed some air.

“Uh huh.” He donned his own jacket, and walked with me to the back door, turning to wave off the bartender. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

“Oh come on!” I’d been having a good time. Mack was a charming man, but this was too much. I grabbed the door as he reached for it and pulled it open to storm out to the back lot. “You’re not my father.”

“No, I’m not.” He was up against me, then, pushing me back against the rough brick wall. His mouth tasted of whiskey, hot and inviting, and I felt myself melting into the kiss.

“Mack.” I pulled back, but he had me pressed against the wall. The night air had gotten frosty, and I found myself very aware of the warmth of his body. “This isn’t what I meant.”

“Why not?” Eyes closed, he leaned in, and I felt myself responding. That laugh had made me lonely for Leo. For Stevie. Lonely for any man with a smart mouth and knowledgeable hands. Why not indeed? I’d done worse, and in this parking lot, too. I ran my hands up his back, inside his jacket, and felt him tense up in response. He looked lean, but I felt muscle.

“This is how you like it, isn’t it,” he said.

“Shut up,” I said, and kissed him again. Just then, the back door pushed open and two more laughing revelers passed by, caught up in their own booze-fueled drama. Mack was saying something. “My place,” was all I heard.

And that’s when it hit me. “No,” I said, my voice lost in his mouth. “I can’t.” I pulled back and put my hand up to his mouth to stop him. “I’ve got to go home.”

His eyes focused then, and I stammered for a moment trying to find the words.

Wallis, that was why not. As much as I thought of her as a friend, our fight had reminded me that she was in fact a cat. A cat I hadn’t seen in close to twenty-four hours. A small domestic animal. Taking a deep breath to sober up, I made myself see the reality of the situation. Wallis might see herself as my caretaker, but in reality I was hers.

“I’ve got to get home. You see, I have a cat.” How to explain the situation with Wallis?

“A cat, a kitty cat.” He leaned in to kiss me again, but this time I pulled away for real. My hands were between us now, and I was pushing him back. “I see.” He dragged the word out, a clear sign that he didn’t.

“No, really. She went missing yesterday. I think, well, something upset her.” No way could I say more. “I’ve had her for years. She’s elderly. Older, anyway and I’m worried. So, I should go home and look for her.”