3 Panthers Play for Keeps (6 page)

Chapter Twelve

If Creighton had wanted to shut us up, and I wouldn’t put it past him, he couldn’t have done much better. Mariela Gomez. No wonder she’d looked familiar. When last I’d seen her, she was wearing a gray uniform that did what it could to play down some significant attributes. Mariela had been the pretty maid, the one who’d been working so hard to bring the Scotch, get more ice, where’s the water, even as her boss sat there, all chummy with his buddy, acting as if his legs were going, along with his eyes.

At the time, I’d felt bad for her. Felt bad for the wife, too, but Mariela was getting a lot less for her services. I’d wondered about the buddy, too. The one who seemed ready to take care of all of Richard Haigen’s rich-man problems. In retrospect, I had to wonder if those problems might have included the wife. Dierdre might not have had much more clout in that household than Mariela the maid, but she had the ring—and some kinds of women are not made to be alone. Mariela was younger than Dierdre. Mariela seemed to be trying harder. Now Mariela was dead.

So was the room. Even Spot seemed to look up with what passed for surprise, though given his sharp nose, surely the quiet canine had surmised the source of those wounds long before.

For me, Creighton’s bombshell was interesting, but only a starting point. I had my questions about the relationships in the Haigen household, but I wasn’t ready to start accusing anyone of homicidal jealousy. Glass houses, and all that. Besides, I was here in a professional capacity.

“Are you sure about the wounds?” I broke the silence first, focusing in on the one area I have some expertise with. “I mean, as the cause of death? Because animals, even large predators, will scavenge. If something found her and was hungry…” With my eyes on Jim, I felt, rather than saw, Laurel cringe. I didn’t even take a moment to gloat: this was too serious.

“You want the whole rigmarole, Pru?” Creighton shook his head. “Coronary failure due to blood loss? Yeah, the wounds we saw were the cause of death. The coroner sent some slides over to Tufts,” Creighton said. “He wanted a vet to look at them. Teeth. Teeth and claws is what we’ve heard. Consistent with a moderate-size wild cat.”

“Did the vet say what kind?” I was wondering how much DNA would be left in those wounds. Maybe we had a migrant. That Connecticut cougar had been traced back to the Dakotas.

“She didn’t.” I sat back at that. At least the so-called expert wasn’t jumping to conclusions. Creighton waited a moment, then seemed to make a decision. “We’ll get more in a few days,” he said. “But the vet confirmed what you said, Pru: There’ve been no verified reports of any large wild cats in the state. Not in years. And there’s still the question of how she got there, so we’re still looking at human involvement.”

“Maybe…” Laurel sounded tentative. “Maybe someone was trying to rescue her? To get her away from…something?”

Creighton shook his head.

“But why would someone move her?” Laurel’s voice had gone breathy, and not in a good way. I wondered if this talk of death and killing was too much for her. It was a happy thought. “I mean…after?”

“Sometimes predators will drag their prey.” I tried to sound nonchalant. “They’ll take a body to a safe location, a cache of some sort. To keep it safe from other animals.”

I heard her swallow. “Even some of the smaller omnivores will gnaw at a body.” I was trying to think of examples, just for the fun of it, when Creighton broke in.

“She wasn’t dragged. She was moved—by a person.” His eyes narrowed, just a bit. He must have seen that I was considering the situation. I was being put on notice.

“And that was definitely postmortem?” To my right, Laurel gagged, just a little. Who could blame me if I smiled? To cover, I turned toward her. “You can tell, because after death, wounds won’t bleed.”

“I am aware of basic physiology.” To her credit, she kept her voice level. Her skin had gone sallow, however. I picked up a mild distress whine from Spot. He was worried. A good dog, with a better soul than me.

“You both probably want to know why I’m telling you this.” Creighton broke in, but that whine had increased. Spot was more than concerned, he was distressed.

“What is it?” I was on my knees by his blanket. “The dog is upset,” I explained over my shoulder. “He’s probably reacting to the stress in your voice.” I didn’t know if that was true. He was quite capable of picking up some of Creighton’s narrative from my mind. Maybe from his, too. Although I’m pretty sure I’m the only one in town who can hear animals, I’ve never quite determined how much they can get from even the most deaf of us. And I can’t blame them for not wanting me to know, either.

“Spot?” I knew I looked a little crazy. Creighton has had his suspicions about me, as well, having seen some of my interactions with Wallis. But this dog was upset, and I was at least partially to blame. I’d wanted to rile Laurel and hadn’t thought of who else was listening. Besides, he and I had been through something today—and he’d done what he could to protect me. In the guise of petting him, I lifted that big, triangular head and stared into those dark eyes.

“What is it?”
I silently willed my question to him, then rephrased it as a command.
“Show me
.”

“Cat
.”
I saw the bush again, the dead leaves rustling with movement.
“Big cat. Scared
.”

“Poor boy,” I said aloud. To Laurel and Jim it would sound like I was responding to the whine, which had been growing in intensity.
“You’re safe here. We all are,
” I tried to comfort him with that thought. Pictured the room, the walls. Our twenty-minute drive from the wooded preserve.

“No!”
He jerked his head back from my hand with a bark. I’d done something. Startled him. What had been in my mind? This house? Was he not safe here?

“Is the dog all right?” Creighton was asking, which I thought was odd. After all, Laurel was his foster mom.

“Yes, he’s fine.” I reached again for his head, trying to convey that message.

“He had nightmares last night,” Laurel chimed in. “Whining and kicking, like he was chasing something.”

“Chasing?”
That was a new thought, and I rephrased the question in my thoughts. After all, what might appear to be a bad dream to a human could be something very different.
“No need to hunt,
”
his response was immediate.
“Not her
.”

“No need to hunt…Mariela?”
Was this grief? Was Spot mourning the damage we had witnessed? Yes, her death had been needless.

The big brown eyes that looked up into mine were blank, and they brought me back. Of course, animals don’t think that way. Death has no moral or emotional weight in their world. It simply is. Need, however, comes in many forms. Spot wasn’t saying Mariela’s death was pointless. He was telling me that whoever killed her did not do so out of necessity.

“Who, Spot?”
I didn’t ask out loud. I didn’t dare.
“Who didn’t have to hunt?”
He’d been responding to me, sure, but also to what Laurel was saying.

Could he mean…
“Laurel? The food lady?”
Nothing.
“Blondie?”

Only now did I realize I had little idea of how Spot saw the people in his life. It was an easy oversight—Spot was so focused on his training that I’d taken it for all he knew. It was also stupid. I rephrased the question:
“Is Laurel hunting?”

I glanced up at Creighton. I couldn’t help it. Men always see themselves as the aggressors. Stupid of them. But a wave of thought—the silent equivalent of a bark—drew me back. Spot was calling me back, calling me to attention. I’d missed something.

“Scared,
” the dog repeated.

“Laurel? Is she scared?”
I glanced at her, taking in her warm blonde hair, that creamy sweater. I tried to focus on what Spot would notice: her hands, with their long, tapered fingers and manicured nails. The clean stiffness of her ironed jeans. I got nothing. Either Spot wasn’t talking about Laurel, and his silence was the canine equivalent of a denial, or he was tuning me out. It had happened before, and it always chilled me.

As much as I dislike the responsibilities that come with this gift, I’ve come to rely on it. It was more than an advantage. It was, at times, my only real connection to the rest of the world.

Spot wasn’t playing along, and with a sigh, rested his head on the carpet. I responded by taking his muzzle between both my hands. I confess I was getting a bit desperate. Not only was I not getting anything, my edge on Laurel was proving useless. But as I raised his wide, dark head and stared into his eyes, something happened. Something I wasn’t expecting from such a straightforward animal. I got a sense of frustration, as if he was reflecting my emotion back at me. Was he showing me what he was seeing in me?

Or was I getting a clearer picture of what he felt? Of…yes, exasperation. A…well…dogged sense of trying and trying and not getting through. Of wanting to give up, despite the necessity, the urgency of trying one more time.

“What?” I risked speaking aloud, my face so close to his I could feel his doggy breath on me. “What am I not getting?”

“Pru?” It was Creighton. I was making him uncomfortable. I didn’t care.

“Detective, would you like a beverage?” Laurel Kroft wasn’t letting the moment go to waste.

Disappointment—gone so quickly that I could have thought I’d imagined it. If only…
“What?”
I knew from Wallis how annoying we can be to the animals around us. How dense. Clearly, I had missed something—something big.

“Scared
.”
There it was again—that word. Echoing the human word, but carrying with it a sense of stomach-tingling edginess. Not panic, but a sense of being on the alert. Alarmed. Ready to run.

“Scared
.”
Only the image I was seeing wasn’t of the house anymore. Or even the preservation land, where Mariela lay under the trees. It was the underbrush where Spot and I had been frozen for those long, tense minutes. Only those dull, dun leaves were up close, reversed. I was seeing the brush from the inside. And what I was looking at was us, Spot and me, and as we came closer, the alarm turned to fear.

Chapter Thirteen

It wasn’t anything I could explain, and I had already spent enough time on the floor. With a quick pet to Spot, as a silent expression of thanks, I got back up and turned to face my two human companions.

“Everything copacetic?” Creighton looked amused. Laurel didn’t. I could see why. She thought I was hogging the stage, so to speak. Showcasing my expertise in front of the man we both felt some animal attraction for. I have to admit, I enjoyed her discomfort. It took the edge off that strange vision, and I was smiling broadly as I settled back on the sofa beside her. The fact that Creighton had ignored her offer of a beverage helped, too.

It wasn’t necessarily a contest, but I was in the lead.

“If we may continue…” Creighton had been leaning on the fireplace mantel. Now he stood to his full six-two. Since both of us females were seated, we both had to look up at him. I almost expected him to start preening. “I am here, I’m afraid to say, in an official capacity.”

Maybe he was, I thought. Then I realized I should perhaps listen to what he was saying.

“We’re trying to establish a time line,” he was saying. I looked up at him. Creighton gets a certain set to his jaw. There’s something about his eyes, too. It means he’s telling the truth, but through his official cop filter. Which means it’s not the whole truth, or not unvarnished, anyway. I glanced at Laurel and wondered how much of this she was picking up. She didn’t know him as well as I did. At least, I didn’t think she did. She didn’t have my training as a behaviorist either. But she was a shrink. I took in how she was staring up at him, eyes wide. I didn’t trust that look either. That much adoration? She was trying to wash me out of the room.

“…pinpoint the time of death.”

I cursed silently. Letting myself get distracted was an amateur’s mistake. Never watch just the tail when you’re trying to read the dog.

“Excuse me?” I smiled as I said it, though I resisted the urge to bat my lashes. Not that Creighton is immune to that kind of signifying, but he does know me well enough that he might have gotten suspicious. “I was thinking of Spot, here. What were you saying?”

I’d broken his flow, and he looked peeved. Maybe I should have tried the eyelashes.

“Both you and Dr. Kroft were acquainted with the victim. What I am hoping is that between the two of you, you might be able to shed some light on who she was, and that information might be useful to us in our investigation.”

He was lying. I couldn’t pinpoint exactly why, but I knew it was so. Maybe his voice was a little too even, too restrained. Maybe it was the way he held my eyes, like he was forcing himself not to blink. Whatever. If I could keep him from being able to tell that I knew his secret, then I had an edge.

“What would you like to know?” I heard the slight lilt in my voice. Flirting comes easy around Creighton. And if I could put him off guard, it could give me a further advantage. “Anything specific?” Besides, it was fun to piss off Laurel.

“When did you last see Mariela Gomez? Day and approximate time, please.”

The questions came with the sound of a trap slamming shut. I’d been wondering about Dierdre, about Richard. Creighton was talking to me and Laurel. Were we both suspects? Was I? I had to think fast.

“Last week, but only in passing.” I thought back. The younger woman had been in and out during my visit. Quiet, efficient, if her boss hadn’t barked at her, I might not have noticed her. Then again, maybe that had been the point. “As you seem aware, I’m working with her boss—Richard Haigen. He’s going to need a service dog, and he certainly can maintain one.” That family had more money than Trump. “And we have a unique opportunity with him. Usually, you don’t get to work with a client before he loses his sight.”

“And the victim? Did she work with you, too?” The way he emphasized the verb worried me.

“No, not at all.” I was as clear and direct as I’d be with Growler. “She was strictly support staff for the humans. Haigen, his wife. This friend of theirs—Nick something.” I tried to picture her, but the image of her as I’d last seen her kept interfering. “I think she was wearing some kind of apron. Some kind of uniform.”

That blouse: the one she’d died in. It didn’t fit with who she seemed to be. I hesitated, trying to figure out if this was important. But I paused too long.

“Pru…” There was a growl in his voice. A warning note. Creighton wanted in.

“There was—I thought there was tension in the household.” I was trying to figure out what I thought. Trying, too, to figure out what I wanted to share. “Haigen kept barking at her, though as far as I could tell she was doing her job. He yelled at his wife, too, so maybe that was just his way of communicating.” That shirt. Maybe it would mean something to him. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure it out. “For what it’s worth, that shirt, the one she was wearing when we found her?” He nodded, just enough to keep me talking. “It was nice. Silk, I bet. It wasn’t like anything I’d ever seen her in. Not at that house.”

He pursed his lips. “Interesting. Ms. Kroft, can you tell us when you last saw the victim?”

“Probably the same day. Thursday, was it?” Her voice was a little tight. She was hiding something. “I came by after the session.”

This was news to me. I raised my eyebrows, so Creighton would notice.

“Were you part of the training?” He had, but he was being very careful.

“Oh, no.” So was she. “But, you see, I’ve grown so fond of Spot that I felt like I wanted to see where he was going. I wanted to see if maybe I could maintain some kind of connection with him, once he went on to his new life.”

No, this was wrong. Service dogs don’t have friends. They have a job, that’s it. That job means that all their focus, all their waking hours, belong to one person—the client. If they can’t do that, then they flunk out of the program. For Laurel to try to do that was akin to sabotage.

It was possible. Simple, selfish, but possible. If Laurel Kroft really did want to keep Spot as a pet, one way to make sure he stayed would be to invalidate him for the service program. The tiny stipend she’d been receiving for his food and care would dry up, but I had a pretty good idea she was well enough off to care for one full-grown dog.

Or it could be that she was playing at something else. I tilted my head, willing Creighton to follow up on this line of reasoning.

“And are you friends with the Haigens?” He was. I could have given him a treat. Hell, I would, given the chance. “Besides your connection through the dog?”

“Well, I
know
them.” That was it, she was flustered. Sitting next to her, I felt her shift slightly on the sofa. The color that had drained out of her at the mention of the body had come back, just a little too fast. “I know his wife, that is.”

“Really.” In Creighton’s hands, the one-word statement was a question. It was one I wanted to hear the answer to, too. “Not Mr. Haigen?”

This would be something—if she were having an affair with the wealthy, soon-to-be-blind client. I thought of his bullying and his bulk, and what such an alliance might mean. Maybe we could kill multiple birds with one stone, so to speak.

“Well, in passing…” She was floundering. I was enjoying it. “I mean, of course, I
know
Mr. Haigen. Richard.” She actually licked her lips. “I would have to because of our dog, of course. But not well.”

I didn’t have to look at Creighton. We were both seeing the same thing. Besides, I didn’t want to be obvious. Because I knew one thing for sure—once we were done here and Creighton was satisfied with letting me go my own way, I was hightailing it to the Haigens. There was something going on here, and it wasn’t all about the dog.