Dogs Don't Lie (15 page)

“Hey, I understand. Cats and me.” He held up his hands in mock surrender.

“It’s not what you think.” I was laughing now, almost sorry that he didn’t ask to come along. But he didn’t, and I found myself thinking better of him as I drove, very carefully, home.

***

Thoughts of another type crowded out Mack as I pulled into my own gravel drive and parked my old car. It was late, close to midnight. I hadn’t seen Wallis since the night before. Should I have come home earlier? Persisted in looking for her? As much as I’d wanted to respect her privacy—we were more roommates than owner-pet at this point—the concerns I’d voiced to Mack began to resonate, loudly, in my head. Wallis was an elderly tabby. Round and out of shape. She’d grown up in the city, where the main dangers came from humans, in the form of cars and crazies. I’d stopped monitoring her movements since we’d transitioned into our current relationship, but had I also abdicated responsibility? She seemed so wise, but did she know about coyotes? Hawks? Wolves or whatever wildlife prowled these Berkshire woods? More than the drink was making my hand unsteady as I fumbled for the key.

“Wallis?” I finally managed to get the door open and called for her even before I hit the light. “It’s me. Are you home? Are you there?”

I reached for the light, but as I stepped into the dark, I felt something beneath my feet. I froze, trying to make sense of my space. Trying to listen, to see in the dark. Nothing, and I shifted, taking a slow step. Whatever was underfoot crunched like gravel, and I heard an answering movement. “Wallis?” My voice cracked, as much as a whisper can crack.

Nothing. I held my breath and with a movement as slow and quiet as I could manage, I reached over for the wall and flipped on the light.

“Took you long enough.” Wallis was sitting on the back of my sofa, black-tipped tail wrapped around her white front feet. All around me on the floor shattered glass glittered like sand.

“What happened?” Now that I saw her, alive and evidently unharmed, I found myself getting angry. “Why didn’t you say anything.”

She jumped down from the sofa back and made her way toward me, stepping daintily between the fragments. “I forgot you couldn’t see that well,” she said, not even trying to hide the smug tone of her voice. She stopped about five feet away and looked at the glittering mess between us. “So much for your so-called humanity.”

I sighed. She had reason to be pissed, but I was tired. “Look, Wallis, I’m sorry. I said I was sorry last night and I am. But I’ve had a long day. If you can tell me anything about what’s happened here, I’d appreciate it.”

She began washing her front paw, an obvious stalling tactic, and so I went to get the broom and dustpan from the mud room. As I swept, she continued to groom, jumping back a little ostentatiously as I swept up the nearest glass fragments. By then, I’d noticed the small window by the front door was shattered, a chill breeze chasing after the path of a large rock, which had skidded under the sofa.

I retrieved it with the broom and looked it over. It was a rock, which is to say, nondescript. “Seriously, Wallis. Do you know anything about this?”

She looked up. I waited, but it’s nearly impossible to outwait a cat. “Please?” I added. The scare, the night, and now this. I was exhausted.

“I was upstairs when that came in.” She looked at the rock and I held it out for her to sniff. “A car drove away, and the night birds sounded nervous so I suspect it was driving too quickly. Interesting.” She sniffed at it again, then recoiled.

“What? Are you getting anything?” I didn’t like that someone had thrown a rock through my window and then driven off. That sounded personal.

“Only that godawful alcohol.” Her ears flicked backward.

“I’m sorry.” I didn’t want to rekindle our fight. “I needed to ask someone some questions.”

She sniffed again, this time moving her wet leather nose more to my fingertips. “I can see that.” Her whiskers angled forward in concentration, and I felt a wave of self-consciousness. How much of what happened would be revealed by my pheromones, my sweat?

“Well, you’re always after me to begin dating again.”

“
Dating
.” She sat back and licked her chops. “So that’s what you call it.”

Wallis went back to grooming. I lowered the hand with the rock and waited. “Well, maybe not ‘dating,’ per se,” I said finally. I was too tired for this.

“Clearly.” She started on her ears, working that same paw roughly over the black-tipped velvet. “And I know this is a small town, Pru, but still couldn’t you find a different man? That perfume.” She shuddered and set to work on her white bib. “I don’t know if you’ll ever be rid of it. And I wouldn’t have thought you’d want a man who smelled so much like her.”

Chapter Sixteen

I cleaned up the mess, taping a sheet of cardboard over my busted window, as Wallis explained. She confirmed that, yes, according to her sensitive nose, Mack had spent some time with Delia Cochrane, who had, in turn, passed her scent onto the kitten. Whatever was going on between them, she couldn’t tell. But it was strong enough to put my discerning tabby’s ears back.

What that meant to me could be very little. He’d been her fiancé’s business partner. They probably had a lot of loose ends to tie up. Hell, it was a small town. He could have been carrying her groceries or fixing her pickup truck. He could have been catsitting the kitten. But I doubted it. Denials aside, I’d pegged Mack Danton for a womanizer, and Delia was as tempting as an August peach. Whether he’d also been involved with Eleanor Shrift was anybody’s guess. The older woman believed that her lover had left her for another woman, so it could have been Delia—or even me, I realized with a laugh. Mack had been making, or planning, his moves for a while now. Or it could simply have been boredom that led her backdoor Romeo to abandon his somewhat overripe Juliet.

I placed the stone on a bookshelf with the vague idea that I’d think about it again in the morning. The glass I dumped in the trash before finally dragging myself upstairs. My bed beckoned, but I detoured to the bathroom. With its deep, claw-footed tub, it was possibly my favorite place in the house, and as I filled it with an intemperate amount of hot, hot water, I silently thanked my mother for never wasting the money on renovations.

Wallis joined me, keeping the running tap at a distrustful distance, and once I sank carefully into the steaming water, she caught me up on the kitten’s antics. If I didn’t know better, I’d have said the older cat had been amused by the marmalade baby’s battle with a late season moth. I didn’t dare voice such thoughts aloud, however, and instead told Wallis about the bichon’s jaw dropper. As I’d unwound, she’d settled down on the closed toilet seat, her front paws tucked under, and appeared to mull that over. “Pregnant.” She closed her eyes. “Yes.”

I didn’t know if Delia’s hormones could really be carried, third hand, along with her perfume, but I was learning better than to question my housemate. “So maybe Charles was the father. Or maybe Mack. Or, hell,” I stood and reached for a towel, “maybe Chris. That seems to be who she’s spending the most time with these days. The question is, would one of them have a reason to kill Charles?”

I stepped from the tub, dripping, careful not to stand too close to Wallis.

“No.” She jumped down and led me from the bathroom, tail up. We were back on good terms then. “The question is, would Charles—would any of those males—have cared?”

I was mulling that one over as I toweled off my hair and pulled an old T-shirt on. “Most guys would,” I said, as much to myself as to the stout tabby, who had jumped up to the foot of the bed. The kitten was already asleep on the other corner. Warm, clean, and still buzzed, I longed to join them, and was having trouble even combing out my wet hair. Three swipes later, I gave up, laying my towel-wrapped head on a pillow as a stray thought coursed through my mind. “Of course, some guys are just dogs.”

“That reminds me,” Wallis kneaded the comforter. “You got a phone call. Something about that dog.”

***

With an effort, I pulled myself out of bed and down the stairs to where my old answering machine sat blinking. What with all the fuss and broken glass, I hadn’t thought to check it.

“Pru, it’s Albert.” Great. I longed to hit the sofa as he rambled on, but I doubted I’d be able to make it back up the stairs if I did. “The coroner’s report came back. Cause of death was ‘inconsistent with canine attack,’ it says, and I passed the rabies thingy along, too. So, I guess the dog is free to go. That is, if anyone wants it. Otherwise.” He made a noise that was either supposed to be a knife sliding through flesh or a wad of spit. Albert was always a classy guy. “And, hey, Bandit says hello. Maybe you and me and him and your cat can double date sometime. Heh, heh.”

I was glad I didn’t have to respond and hit erase. At least Lily had been cleared of Charles’ death. Maybe I could find a rescue group, I thought as I climbed back up the stairs, ready to fall into bed. It was not to be. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I saw the kitten curled up, back toward me, on one pillow. Wallis stretched out on the other, eyes half closed, and smiled up at me.

I managed to get under the blankets and between the two felines before passing out. Sometime during the night, Wallis jumped down for her usual nocturnal rambles, and I reclaimed the pillow, point taken. She ruled, and I was to respect her dignity.

By the time I came down for breakfast, late for me, she was already in the window, supervising the birds in the yard.

“Hey, Wallis.” I measured out coffee beans on automatic pilot and set the water to boil. “I meant to ask you, can you keep an eye on the kitten today?”

She didn’t turn, only lashed her tail.

“It’s just that I should have someone come by and fix that window, and I don’t want her to get out.” Another lash. “I mean, she’s not the brightest bulb.”

That got her. “We’ll manage.” She twitched an ear. “But at some point, Pru, we’re going to have to talk about long-term plans for that child.”

“I know, Wallis.” I stared at the kettle, willing it to boil. I was late. “But don’t worry, I know who she belongs to— with, I mean.” It wouldn’t do to antagonize the tabby now, but she turned back to her window and I was able to pour the steaming water over the ground beans without any more apologies.

“Her ‘mama’?” I carried my mug over to the window in time to catch Wallis’ question.

“Well, I don’t know about that, but that scent you picked up? Delia Cochrane did lose an orange kitten.”

Wallis flicked an ear. “You’re having a territorial dispute with that female, aren’t you?” There was a note of amusement in her voice that I had no patience for.

“That’s not going to happen.” The strong, hot brew was waking me up. “I gave shelter to her kitten, that’s all. And I don’t want her man.”

Not anymore. The thought came so quickly, I didn’t know which one of us it originated with. For now, I was happy to let it go and join Wallis in staring out at the front yard. “So, you didn’t see anything last night?”

“Just because I have excellent night vision, doesn’t mean I’m always watching for intruders.” From the edge in her voice, I wondered if Wallis had been frightened by the attack. “I heard a car. A nice one, not too loud.”

“Thanks, Wallis. That may be useful.” I finished my coffee and went back upstairs to dress. I didn’t know why someone had broken my window or what it meant, but at least I could check out what people drove. First, however, I had dogs to take care of and a living to make.

***

As soon as I saw the smile on Tracy Horlick’s face, I knew I was in for trouble. Twenty minutes late to walk Bitsy, she shouldn’t be smiling so, unless there was hot gossip warming her insides.

“Good morning, Pru.” She greeted me with a syrupy tone at odds with the cold glint in her eye. “And how are you this morning?”

“Fine, thanks. Sorry to be running late.” I tried to walk past her to grab the bichon’s leash but she blocked me. I bit my tongue. This was going too far. I didn’t want to be her source on anything. To top it off, her poor dog was already bouncing up and down, too well trained to take advantage of the door her person held open. “Mrs. Horlick? The leash?”

She stepped aside, but as I reached for the lead she laid a conspiratorial hand on my arm. “I’m not surprised you were running late. I heard you were out last night.”

I looked from the little dog to his owner. Her heavy lipstick was already cracked over her dry lips. The cigarettes didn’t help, but as I watched her tongue darted out to lick those lips I’d be damned if I were breakfast. Mack and I might have been seen drinking together by anyone at Happy’s last night, but only the other couple, the ones who had come crashing out the back door, could say for sure we’d been locking lips. If I’d learned anything from Wallis, it was how to keep a straight face.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, Mrs. H.” I leaned over to snap the leash on the poor bichon’s collar. “Maybe you should get out more yourself.”

Her mouth was gaping open like a goldfish’s as I clucked to the dog and we trotted down the steps.

***

“So, Bitsy, I’ve been meaning to ask.” I’d waited until the small dog had relieved himself and we were out of sight of his house. “What do you know about Delia’s pregnancy?”

The small dog sniffed a tree, whizzed and sniffed again, aiming high on the riddled bark. I’d been talking out loud and tried rephrasing my question as a clear thought.

“Sammy. Tiger. Wolf.”
It took me a moment to realize the animated pompom was cataloging urine scents. Out of curiosity, I walked him over to a white birch that I knew Lily had favored. He sniffed without comment, then moved onto a hydrant.
“Gerald! That kidney trouble again?”

“Bitsy?” I resisted the urge to tug on the leash, even gently. My new insight might help in some ways, but it certainly went against my former training. I tried to think of the small dog as I would Wallis, as ridiculous as that seemed. “Please?”

“You don’t listen, do you?”
I got a flash of Tracy Horlick’s sharp voice and stale, ashy smell. He’d warned me about her. Then it was back to that German shepherd and—what?—some kind of hound. The small dog’s wet nose was still busy moving around the tree.
“And if you please, it’s Growler.”

***

I had to bite my tongue from saying anything to Tracy Horlick when we returned. From the way she fussed over “Bitsy,” I felt I understood the small dog’s insistence on his masculinity and male associations. At least the fussing kept her from lobbing any more innuendoes my way, and I was able to slip away relatively quickly.

Driving over to the pound, I found myself thinking of gender and identification. Poor Growler. Just because we neuter our animals, doesn’t mean we deprive them of their identity. Just because a dog looks like a plush toy doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel as butch as a bulldog. Then again, we do the same thing to people, don’t we? I couldn’t help thinking about Delia—and about Mack. Both were used to a certain kind of attention. I was guilty of reacting with my hormones, that’s for sure. But where did they really stand in all this?

And how, I pulled my thoughts around as the brick building came into view, would any of this help me place the animals in my care? I still wasn’t sure what to do for the Persian, but as I made my way up to Albert’s desk, I had some very clear ideas for Lily.

“Hey, Albert, I’m here for the pit bull.”

Granted, I’d sort of stormed in. Still, the face that looked up at me was more distracted than usual. I looked over the desk and saw two sharp dark eyes. “Hey, Frank.”

“It’s Bandit. Uh, you got my message?”

“Yeah.” I sat and held out my hand. The ferret jumped up on Albert’s desk and ran to sniff it. I didn’t care about the man, but it seemed only polite to greet the ferret.

“
Cat, cats plural. Interesting chow, dry though. Not moving…”

I turned my attention back to the human. “So, if the investigation has moved on, I can take the dog.”

“Well, not exactly.” Albert straightened his jeans, tucking today’s flannel into a loose waistband, and I wondered what exactly he’d been planning for the ferret. “The dog is still in my custody.”

“Yeah, but you don’t want her. And you don’t need to keep her away from the public anymore.” As if he had to before. I was pushing it, but I was impatient. Lily had been victimized by fools like this one long enough.

“Well, there’s still the question of ownership. I mean, I can’t just be giving dogs away.”

I’d thought this one through. “Actually, she belongs to Nora Harris. She’s part of Charles’ estate. I thought I’d bring her over there, get the two of them acquainted.”

“You think she’ll want it?” He grimaced.

“She has a house and a garden. Perfect for a dog. And the dog didn’t do anything.”

“Well, nothing that can be proved.”

I opened my mouth to respond when it hit me once again. Lily hadn’t killed Charles, and the cops knew that now. But someone had worked hard to make it look that way. Charles hadn’t been stabbed or shot. His throat had been torn out. Who could have done that? What would have made such vicious wounds?

“Claws.
”
I looked over at Frank. His nose was twitching as he answered my silent question.
“When I dig, I tear away at the earth, rich sweet dirt. Sometimes, I rip into my dinner before I can swallow it. That’s not good.”

I nodded an acknowledgment. I didn’t think any other animal had clawed Charles to death. I was looking for a human perpetrator, but the small ferret had been trying to be helpful.

“Still, that’s a big dog. What if she doesn’t want it?” Albert reached into his pocket again and pulled out a peanut. Frank stood up, but Albert popped the nut into his own mouth.

I felt Frank’s frustration. “We’ll deal with that if it happens.”

***

Lily still seemed too out of it to register much as I freed her from her cage and attached a leash to her collar. I got a flash of Charles’ hands on her, doing much the same, and a wave of sadness.
Home?
That was it. I’d been thinking of taking her out the back, but remembered, just in time, the questions I had for Frank.

“What are you doing?” As I followed the muscular white dog into the front room, Albert panicked, shoving his chair back into the wall and jumping up in fear. “Get that thing out of here!”

“We’re on our way.” Frank was standing and sniffing the air with a look of concentration. I tried to focus on his small, intense mind and was rewarded with a wave of images, all dog related. Blood. Dirt.
Home?
I forced myself to address Albert. “I wanted to say ’bye to your ferret.”

He sputtered, and I knew I’d have to work fast. I turned toward the small animal, trying to fix my eyes on his.

“Where did you get that earring from?”
I framed the question silently, staring into the ferret’s black button eyes.
“The diamond earring?”
Nothing. I changed my tack:
“Shiny, sparkly, dangling…”
I was running out of associations.